More than marshmallows

Yep, I love this man more than marshmallows. Toasted, roasted, dipped in dark chocolate or straight out of the bag.

This man’s presence has changed in recent years. You won’t know it, however, when he prays, jokes, or when his eyes tell you he loves you. He’s told me using words that he loves me twice in my lifetime. Funny what we remember. He’s told me with his eyes and his actions more times than I can count. If I had a choice, I’d choose actions over words, though I hold dear the memory of him telling me.

My dad has dementia. Its not ideal. I’d love to share experiences in the same way we used to. I miss recapping Tiger games with him. I’d also love to hear him preach again. I could make a list of what I know I’ll never have with him again, but realize how fortunate I am to have him at all.

I’m sure some of you know exactly how it feels to have your parents age, and have some of the roles in your relationship reversed. Others would give anything to have the chance. This doesn’t escape me. I’m lucky.

Father’s Day was wonderful. We had a feast with both my parents and many of my dad’s kids and their kids in attendance. Few things give my dad joy these days, but watching his family laugh still does the trick. Pie does too.

Perhaps my readership is wondering if this blog entry is being written by a ghost writer due to its serious tone. No apologies. I’m writing what’s on my heart in a heavy way.

To honor my dad I will share two stories with you that will give you a snapshot of his sense of humor and his competitive spirit.

As an elementary student in the Catskill Mountains, my dad found an interesting game to play with his classmates. A bees’ nest would be found and placed inside a circle drawn in the dirt. Competing students would see who could remain in the circle longest after poking the nest with a stick. My dad always won.

In college, my dad felt convicted to bring one of the guys in his dorm “out of his shell.” I’ll change the classmate’s name to protect the innocent and refer to him as “John Smith.” After making a call to the funeral home (quite certain this wouldn’t work today), a knock was heard at “John’s” door. When John answered the door, the gentleman dressed in a black suit and possessing a long cart, stated in a reverent tone, “We’ve come for the body of John Smith.”

I love this man.