This past weekend someone told me that they enjoyed my art of storytelling. Something about this compliment pierced my heart. One of the things that I remember most clearly about my father was his inclination for telling the best stories. You could have listened to the same one 100 times, but there was always a fresh, new detail, or a new point to the retelling. It made my heart glad to hear that something I remember so vividly about my father is something that lives on within me.
There’s something about my father’s legacy that makes me pine for Heaven even more. My father had this joy that couldn’t be shaken. Even through the considerable years of pain and struggle with renal failure, my father was always a joyful man. It wasn’t that he was always necessarily happy, per say, but that there was some hope deep within him that couldn’t be stolen from him. His laughter made you feel like you’d just heard the most rich and profound joke. His smile was so contagious that even the grumpiest of moods dissipated in its presence.
My father, though life was escaping him, always seemed to be so alive.
All of this missing my father made me realize that I’m not home yet. In Heaven, there’s no sadness. There isn’t any sorrow. All my tears will be wiped away. Death will be no longer. Tragedies like the tornadoes in Oklahoma will no longer rip families apart. There will be no more divorce. No more children will be left without parents. No more death to widow the loveliest of brides.
Every tear that I’ve shed, reminds me. I’m not home yet.