90 years

 

My dad.

Born 90 years ago today,

December 23, 1924

in Hardy, Arkansas.

 

Thank you, Lord,

for giving me a loving father for 58 years.

He wasn't perfect and I didn't always understand him.

But he loved me and believed in me

and for that I know I was blessed.

 

Dad showed me that being a good dad, or mom,

is so very important ... and you only get one shot at it.

 

Love you, Dad.

 

 

 

 



the beauty in dying

Did you read the story of Brittany Maynard, the 29-year-old with brain cancer in Oregon? She plans to legally end her life on November 1. When I read her story and watched her heart-rending video this week, I was saddened and horrified, especially by the support and encouragement she is receiving regarding her decision.

But then, I'm not dying of cancer. I didn't know how to express my sense of how Brittany's decision seems so wrong. I couldn't lend credibility until I read a post on Ann Voskamp's blog, A Holy Experience. Ann's friend Kara Tippetts, a 38-year-old mother of four, also has stage 4 cancer. Kara opens her heart to Brittany, imploring her in love to reconsider her decision that looms less than a month away. It is tender, affirming and loving in every way. Please read and decide for yourself:

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2014/10/dear-brittany-why-we-dont-have-to-be-so-afraid-of-dying-suffering-that-we-choose-suicide/

"In our dying, He meets us with His beautiful grace," says Kara. How I came to know this truth on my four years of trips to Nashville to be with my dying father. I hated those trips. But I loved them, too. In that last year, as painful as it was to witness Dad's agonizing decline into dementia and death, I emerged on the other side realizing that beautiful grace.

God granted me the beauty of getting to know my father: a man who managed to hide his real self. God showed me how to stretch beyond my comfort and pain-free life to hold the hand and heart of my dying father. He comforted me on every drive home from Nashville as tears fell. God drew me ever closer through music and scripture, speaking to my heart that He had me, and He had my dad.

If this wasn't grace in dying, please tell me what is. Grace. It's a gift, an unmerited gift. My father's death was a gift of grace and powerful love for us both as we drew ever closer.

Had my father been able to take a pill to end his life, well, the gifts and grace and intense beauty would have been stolen. And his life would have ended before God had planned. God creates life and it is He who takes it away.

My times are in your hands ...

Psalm 31:15

As for God, his way is perfect ...

Psalm 18:30

one year later: choosing joy

My brother Pat called one year ago this morning. "He's gone," he choked out.

We knew it was coming, we actually prayed for Dad's release from his prison of dementia. Still, it was a hard, hard day.

An emotional week followed: getting to Nashville, all our kids and my siblings and their kids, the service in Nashville and burial in Memphis, and an 11-hour drive straight back to Ohio. The comfort of my stepmother Sally and her family was wonderful.

In the past year I got a new job. Made trips to see grandchildren. Moved Katie to Florida and was stunned by the sudden death of dear friend Pat. We made three trips to our cabin (for sale) in northern Michigan. Bill's still dealing with significant back pain. His mom, Elizabeth, is almost 98 and growing more frail.

Life goes on and there seemed to be more challenges over the past year. But God is faithful and I choose joy: joy in seeing my children strong and independent. Joy in a loving and supportive husband. Joy in the truth that God is always good, his ways and timing perfect. Joy in the memories of having had two parents on this earth whose presence is missed but whose teachings I hold close.

Life isn't always what we want or hope, nor can I demand to always be "happy." But I can choose joy, seek peace and practice contentment.

... I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.

Philippians 4:11

love holds fast

I stepped into his room a year ago. Looking small and frail in his bed, my father opened his eyes as I leaned over and took his hand. Not the hands I once knew, but tiny and white waxy.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked. In the screaming, silent moment, my throat tightened. This time he might not know me.

"You're my daughter," he answered finally.

I spent that day at his bedside and knew for certain it would be

my last with him on earth.

The last day I would print off a name tag at the front entrance to Richland Place.

The last time chuckling as I tried to punch the right code for the elevator,

a procedure to prevent confused patients from leaving their floor.

The last time "going to dinner" meant heading down to the resident dining room to eat cabbage rolls and drink sweet "tay" with Dad. 

And the last time he'd say, "let's get some breakfast" at three in the afternoon.

And we did.

The last time I would sit, thinking of something to say to pull him

into reality and as he dozed off, shift my gaze to golf on TV. 

The last time I'd sympathize about the "bugs on the ceiling" or the prospect

of Dad "having a meeting about buying this hotel."

I can accept death. It's the journey of dying, my father's slow and painful slide to the end that haunts me still. His loss of personality, physical strength, and life quality brought me to tears each time I left him to drive home from Nashville.

Though I wanted to run, I held his frail hand and sat beside him for ten hours on our last day together, June 10, 2013. He slept most of the day and I thought of leaving.

 It wasn't my will that held me there nor even a perceived obligation.

It was love that held me fast.

One of the last things I said to him was, "Dad, do you love Jesus?" And at that moment his eyes focused on me. "I do, I love Him a lot." And my heart was comforted.

I arrived home the next day, exhausted. Bill, Katie and I ate dinner on the porch. All I could say was, "I hope you never have to watch someone as I have watched Dad."

God created us for eternal life with him. I rest in that.

But holding fast to the dying: hard to take.

Then again, it was love that held Christ, too.

Love held Him fast to the cross.

 

... everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.

John 3:15

February 2013

top ten posts: the long goodbye

This post drew perhaps more readers than any other, ever: 286. And since today my dad would have turned 89, I am sharing this post, published on February 26. His four-year journey with dementia seemed long at times,

but now it seems we had him for a short time.

 



 

My sister and I spent the weekend with our dad in Nashville.

He lives at Richland Place, with excellent caregivers.

Since we all live out of state, my three siblings and I take turns visiting Dad

so that he sees one of us regularly.

Dad is strengthened by the genes of longevity.

His father lived into his 80's, and his mother died at 91.

Though he is physically frail, Dad's main challenge is dementia.

In over three years of visits, I have seen his mental acuity slowly ebb away.

While he recognizes us and his caregivers,

he is conversing less and less.

He doesn't ask about my children or my life.

His dementia is like a strengthening monster that consumes

Dad's ability to engage with reality.

A conversation will suddenly turn to

comments about "snakes in this area" or a blank stare when I ask a simple question. By 3:30 each afternoon, Dad asked about breakfast.

"Let's go get some breakfast," he said. 

Dad's life was characterized by a sharp and witty mind.

He was a planner, a worker, methodical and creative.

He was an artist, a woodworker, a businessman and provider.

But these days, Dad sits. He watches a little TV, sleeps a lot

and must rely on others for his most basic needs.

At the beginning of this journey, we had many conversations.

I learned about Dad's childhood in rural Arkansas,

where his house had no plumbing and mail was delivered on horseback.

But Dad's world is shrinking.

An "outing" this weekend was pushing him outside and

up and down the halls

of Richland Place.

Visits with Dad are deeply emotional for me, and sadly sweet. 

I know the promise of heaven awaits

for those who know God, and he does.

So why is this so hard?

I remember August mornings on the coast of Maine.

A heavy fog rolls in. There is no escaping it.

That's how it is with Dad.

I think of questions; things to say to pull him back.

But it's futile.

 It seems I am trying to outrun an enveloping mental fog that

 obscures his ability to comprehend.

It's a long good-bye, really.

A very long good-bye.



crossing paths

Dad, September 2011

My dad was the person who knew me longest in life, nearly 59 years: more than twice as long as my mother. While I'm not sure he knew me the best of anyone, it's possible he did, more than I realize. Even when years and distance separate you from your child, don't you know him well? I know what will make my children laugh, what touches them, what they like to do, and how they might answer a question.

But as dementia claimed Dad's mind like an enveloping fog, I was incredibly saddened that he became more and more distant. Dementia is cruelly possessive, it claims a victim as its own. In the last year of his life Dad didn't ask about my family; not my husband, children or grandchildren. He slipped from us bit by bit. The many photos we sent filled his bulletin board and on occasion would catch his attention. But in the last month he asked Lisa, his attendant, to take them down. "I'm going to Memphis," he told her. Memphis is where he was buried.

Ethan Henry, 2 months old

I believe God's declaration, you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb (Psalm 139:13) and I wonder if and how the souls of babies awaiting birth are hanging around heaven. When I first met my grandson Ethan, it fascinated me that he loved to put his head way back and stare straight up. Jill and I took the children on a short walk and Ethan gazed up at the sky the whole time, as if looking for something. It made me wonder. Although Ethan was born five days before Dad's death, did they somehow meet? Whose paths cross in heaven, and when?

I do wonder, but God reminds me in the Bible that He has things well in hand. And thankfully, this world isn't all there is.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:18

beginning to end

1955

 

I apologize, friends, if I carry on so about my dad.

But there's no getting over such a loss,

or "moving on" at a prescribed time.

Not for a moment do I wish him back to his pain-filled state,

but I can't get him out of my mind or heart.

While as a Christian I am certain that Dad now has a new,

healthy body in heaven,

my frail human-ness won't let go of memories.

The nearly four years of conversations, laughter and meals together.

(Gosh those shrimp and cheese grits with black-eyed peas were amazing.)

The outings we took when he was still able,

to "shop" for trucks and grab some barbeque at Jim 'n Nicks.

About a year ago I wheeled Dad outside and we sat for a long

time in the sunshine. He watched roofers at work across the street.

I had a heaviness in my spirit that there wouldn't be many more visits.

He told me I was "a ray of sunshine" on one visit.

Funny, I never thought of myself as that, but I will hold it forever.

When I last saw Dad, I was certain it was the last time.

He was weak and tired and eating so little.

His mind couldn't make sense of things.

I gave him permission to go and held his hand all afternoon.

 

Now that I think about it, the distance I had to travel to see Dad

was a blessing because seeing him was all I had to do.

I didn't have to run errands or rush home to cook dinner.

I simply sat with him all day.

 

Through the years he frustrated me plenty: dads do that, I guess.

 But beginning to end, he was an incredibly solid father.

To think I almost missed the chance to sit with him,

to talk about things we never had, to know him as much as he'd allow.

So grateful. 

 

People who die are not buried in a field,

they are buried in the heart.

- Rwandan adage

 

 

Centennial Park, Nashville. September 2011.

empty

I didn't cry at the funeral. I didn't even cry at the graveside. But when I walked into an empty horse barn today at our county fair, I broke down.

It's the end of the fair; we missed it while out of town for Dad's funeral. But Bill and I went anyway. My favorites are the animals: sheep and pigs that the 4-H kids show. Lop-eared rabbits. And sleek, strong horses. They're all back at their farms now, gone from the fair for another year. And when I entered that deserted horse barn, it was an image of my heart right now: empty, quiet.

 

You know the story.

My dad made an agonizingly slow decline

into dementia and,

eventually. other issues brought on by immobility.

It lasted four years and his inability to do much of anything for himself

for the past six months was deeply saddening to watch.

I know he is now whole and healthy, living in God's presence.

But my heart, like these horse stalls, is feeling empty for a time.

Abandoned, in a way. Though I'm blessed by many loving family and friends,

I've decided grieving is a solitary journey.
And so I continue it, because it really began
four years ago when Dad began his decline. 

Thank you all for the many expressions of love and caring.

 

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

so long for now

Fort Riley, Kansas, around 1949

Joe Lanier Matlock
December 23, 1924 - September 13, 2013

My dad died peacefully this morning in Nashville, Tennessee. He spent 88 years on earth, with a long and brave struggle at the end. Now he will spend eternity with Christ. For that we are grateful.

 "I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again." John 3:3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



love life, little Ethan!

Ethan Henry Haller
on his first day on earth

Dear Ethan,

We didn't know your name until your dad told us on the phone last night,

30 minutes after your birth. Ethan is a Hebrew name meaning

strong and sure. I am sure you shall be just that!

 

Your mama is a get-it-done gal and she didn't waste much time

having you. Start to finish at the hospital was 5 hours!

You were born at 10:46 p.m. on Sunday, September 8, 2013,

weighing 7 pounds, 6 ounces and 21" long.

Since we're not there with you in person,

tonight we got to see you on our iPad as Daddy nestled

you in his arms. Daddy and Mommy looked a little tired

and you snoozed away, you beautiful boy!

 

Ethan, your birth brings a special sweetness for me.
Though you won't understand this for many years,
my dad is coming to the end of his time on earth.
Joe Lanier Matlock, your great-grandfather, is 88 and very sick.
It is very hard to lose someone you love, so your birth is making this time much easier to bear. Then again, this world is
only one part of life. When we leave it, God has prepared
a beautiful place called heaven for those who love Him.

Ethan, it is my greatest prayer that you not only love life,
but also love and serve God all your life so that
when your time on earth is done, you'll spend eternity with Him ...
the One who made you and brought you to us last night. Wow!

I know that would make your great-granddaddy very happy.
And me, too.
Welcome to this world, Ethan. I love you and can't wait
to be ...
your Baba

There is a time for everything ... a time to be born and a time to die.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

 

 

 



bookends

Today is the due date for our fifth grandchild,

a boy, Lily's little brother.

Jill saw the doctor yesterday and thankfully,

everything is fine with the baby and with Jill. Just no labor yet.

Lily came just 3 hours past her due date!

 

with Lily last November


And so we wait for the exciting news of labor and joyous arrival of a new life.

The news from Nashville is that my dad continues to hang in there,
but there is overall decline.
In this window, this specific time, I feel I am between bookends.
One is the beginning of life.
My new grandsons are being born into loving families and
before them lie the hopes and dreams of what God has ordained.

The other bookend is Dad, winding down a full life.
He'll leave this world to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren,
a world far different from the one he entered nearly 89 years ago.

Though I accept that Dad's time is nearly over,
my heart is burdened and my mind feels overwhelmed with what lies ahead.
The new baby and my dad are each 400 miles from me,
bookends 800 miles apart!
 
Things have a way of working out and I believe God is in the details.
He's also wooing me to lean fully on Him
and trust Him as I welcome one new life and await the inevitable loss of another.
Are any of us good at waiting?
Oh, how God is teaching me to trust and wait.  

 

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition,

with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.

Philippians 4:6



a divine purpose

My dad, around 1949. Fort Riley, Kansas.
 

A few years ago I flew to Nashville to visit Dad and Sally.

Dad picked me up at the airport, but instead of heading home,
we ended up in an abandoned parking lot and had to flag down a guy in a pick-up
 to lift the gate for us to exit.

At the time I thought little of it; Dad just took a wrong turn.

But now I see clearly. Dad's mind was falling prey to dementia.

It was the beginning of a long, slow journey.
 

Ten years after this photo was taken, Dad was rolling on the floor

with my brothers and me, wrestling and laughing.  

A little girl with a strong, healthy, capable daddy can't know that time is fleeting.

That some day he won't be cutting the grass on Saturdays (how I loved that smell) 

or taking me to Sears to roam the hardware department.

That he wouldn't tend his tomatoes or build Mom a flower garden. 

One day he'd no longer grill out on Saturday nights or make sausage and biscuits on Sundays.

That even my teen years, when he didn't really know how to talk with me
and I was incredibly frustrated by him, would quickly fade away.  

That life stands still for no one.

 

Dad is still alive, but he's not living. I pray he doesn't grasp how much care he needs,
how his once-witty and intelligent mind has been scrambled and robbed.

I last visited him in June. So emotional was the visit
 that it's taken me two months to write these words.

His fluctuating condition weighs on my heart,

the sight of him bed-ridden replays in my mind nearly every hour of every day.

 

I felt I was staring down death. 

Dad's eyes were vacant and as I gazed into his face,

he barely realized I had tears streaming down mine.

It was a short visit, a detour home from Charlotte.

 On that full day I spent with him, June 10, he was awake maybe two out of the

 ten hours I sat beside him. It felt awkward, but I held his frail, white hand as he slept.

 I wanted to, for I was certain this would be my last day with him on earth.

I wanted him to feel my love and the peace that I prayed over him.

Late in the afternoon he opened his eyes and I said what I most wanted to say.

"Dad, do you love Jesus?" He brightened a bit, focused briefly and answered,
 "I do, I love Jesus a whole lot."

Some question the purpose of a life like this. Or God's timing. Or if God is even there.

We cannot know God's ways, so much higher than ours.

In His creation lie the mysteries of His love, justice, compassion and mercy.

We catch glimpses, but cannot fully know what God knows.
We aren't supposed to. We are not God.

Dad's lengthy illness has also brought gifts. 

Over these nearly four years, we've had conversations I never imagined;

 a glimpse into the heart of a man I never knew.
Up until about a year ago, he answered many of my questions about
his childhood. About his parents, and theirs.
How the mail was delivered on horseback to their Arkansas farm
and how his father offered to send Dad to Yale.

I forged a deep, sweet relationship with my step-sister Anne,
renewed the relationship with my sister (also Anne) and

had lovely visits with my step-mother Sally.
And Dad's caregiver Lisa is an angel on earth.
 

I've spent hours alone, driving to and from Nashville, talking things over with God.

I wrestle with things before God; I do not wrestle with God,
as Oswald Chambers so beautifully reminds me.

(My Utmost for His Highest, December 16)
He also explains how God's permissive will is used
"to accomplish His divine purpose for our lives."

 

Perhaps the best gift of all is, I hope my own children

have seen vulnerabilities and a faithfulness in me.

It's been an emotionally exhausting  journey,
but also one of the sweetest.
In this I am content and thankful.
Perhaps my discovery of these gifts on this hard journey
is God's divine purpose for me.

 



Go safely, Dad. God will hold you as you once held me, safe and sure.

I'll see you someday. You know I love you.

 

As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways

and my thoughts than your thoughts.        Isaiah 55:9

little girl gardening

I'm in Charlotte, getting to know Noah

and lending a hand.

The newborn days ... how quickly I forget

a mother's extreme fatigue and adjustments,

a father being spread so thin,

the babe's constant needs to eat and sleep,

plus two toddlers in the mix.

When I arrived yesterday, three-year-old Ari

was proud and pleased to show me their garden.

I rather like these photos of her ...  



Plenty of pea-harvesting.

I love how she is already adept at this!

Yes, she was in her swimsuit.

A three-year-old is much too busy to

change clothes as she goes to a new activity.

I suppose most grandmothers take photographs of

their grandchildren's faces.

But I have a thing for the tops of their heads.

So soft and sweet and irresistible.

Ashlyn, nearly two.

And the newest head of all,
Noah Daniel, 5 days old.
Oh my goodness look at that hair.
I'm in love.

My dad, who lives in Nashville,

is declining bit by bit. I'm trying to focus completely

on my grandchildren, but a portion of my heart is with my dad.

It is very hard to feel pulled, physically and emotionally,

in several directions.

Today, Lord. Give me strength only for today. 



happy birthday, little sis!

I say this every year, but how I still remember my excitement

over a baby sister when I was six.

And today is her birthday ... happy birthday, Anne!

The journey we're on with our dad (Tuesday's post) has actually revived our

relationship, which we had neglected over the years.

About twice a year, Anne and I meet in Nashville for a couple of days.

Although most of our time is spent with Dad,

we also have time to talk, laugh and catch up.

We share a room with twin beds at our step-sister's house
(a lovely lady, like a sister to us and also named Anne)

and giggle until late at night.

So, even though Dad's decline is extremely hard,

it's given us a reason to be together again as sisters,

and how we cherish our time together.

September 2011, Centennial Park, Nashville

When our mother died 34 years ago, it seems the fabric of our family

began to fray. The four of us were young adults building our lives.

We were talking over the weekend how the mother in a family

seems to be the one to hold it together, relationally.

But it's useless to mourn over those years.

We trust God's hand, and we celebrate our renewed relationship.

Happy birthday, dear Anne. I love you!

December 2011 - Dad's 87th birthday ... we have two brothers, too,
Pat and Mark!



the long good-bye

My sister and I spent the weekend with our dad in Nashville.

He lives at Richland Place, with excellent caregivers.

Since we all live out of state, my three siblings and I take turns visiting Dad

so that he sees one of us regularly.

Dad is strengthened by the genes of longevity.

His father lived into his 80's, and his mother died at 91.

Though he is physically frail, Dad's main challenge is dementia.

In over three years of visits, I have seen his mental acuity slowly ebb away.

While he recognizes us and his caregivers,

he is conversing less and less.

He doesn't ask about my children or my life.

His dementia is like a strengthening monster that consumes

Dad's ability to engage with reality.

A conversation will suddenly turn to

comments about "snakes in this area" or a blank stare when I ask a simple question. By 3:30 each afternoon, Dad asked about breakfast.

"Let's go get some breakfast," he said. 

Dad's life was characterized by a sharp and witty mind.

He was a planner, a worker, methodical and creative.

He was an artist, a woodworker, a businessman and provider.

But these days, Dad sits. He watches a little TV, sleeps a lot

and must rely on others for his most basic needs.

At the beginning of this journey, we had many conversations.

I learned about Dad's childhood in rural Arkansas,

where his house had no plumbing and mail was delivered on horseback.

But Dad's world is shrinking.

An "outing" this weekend was pushing him outside and

up and down the halls

of Richland Place.

Visits with Dad are deeply emotional for me, and sadly sweet. 

I know the promise of heaven awaits

for those who know God, and he does.

So why is this so hard?

I remember August mornings on the coast of Maine.

A heavy fog rolls in. There is no escaping it.

That's how it is with Dad.

I think of questions; things to say to pull him back.

But it's futile.

 It seems I am trying to outrun an enveloping mental fog that

 obscures his ability to comprehend.

It's a long good-bye, really.

A very long good-bye.



Dad

Just over a week ago, my sister Anne and I met in Nashville to visit our dad.
(You might remember this post.)

He's officially under Hospice care, though we've come to learn this can mean many things.

It can mean that our goodbye won't happen for some time.

Dad still knows us, and he's a favorite among the nurses and attendants.

Though requiring a high level of care, Dad is still witty and conversational.

However, dementia is causing his mind to take detours.

It's at times funny, but also sad.

It can be mentally and emotionally exhausting to carry on a conversation

that has no logical conclusion.

My step-mom Sally visits Dad daily and shares a meal.

After many years of a fulfilling life together, this can't be easy for Sally.

One of his attendants, a special lady named Lisa,

takes Dad on strolls and out for fresh air.

She gives him extra companionship and attention.

We're so thankful for Sally and Lisa.

Regretfully, I don't think I spent enough time with Dad in recent years.

If you still have your parents, love them. Spend time together. Honor them.

Because someday everything could change. 

Where's happy? I'll take joy

My dad has been  placed under Hospice care. They believe he's bleeding internally, and if that would stop on its own, Dad could possibly come off of Hospice. There are many criteria needed for Hospice to be recommended and I don't understand them all.

What I do know is that I feel a large cloud enveloping my heart. Dad is 87 and his health is deteriorating. While none of us knows the future, it's evident that he's declining.

When such a cloud rolls in, I usually get busy. I garden. And work on an article that's due. I plan meals and grocery shop. I cuddle my granddaughter Lily and marvel at new life while an aging one is slipping away. My father's life. I go about my life, but the dread of Dad's condition jerks me back. It certainly doesn't allow for happiness.

The good news is, happiness is so temporal and external.

It's what we can see, touch, taste and experience.

In the long run, despite what the world may say,

happiness really doesn't amount to much.

But joy! Joy is ever-present. 

Joy comes in the deep peace of knowing God is in control.

He works all things for good for those who love and  trust him. (Romans 8:28)  

He uses challenges for his higher purpose of molding me to be more like him and to serve him.

He doesn't leave us, ignore us, or stop caring about us. (Hebrews 13:5) Ever.

We see but a footprint of God here on earth; in heaven we'll realize all of who he is.

(1 Corinthians 13:12)

Wow. 

And so, though I don't like this road, it's one we all must walk.

Sometimes the goodbye is short or long or non-existent.

This one is long and hard, but not without joy.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Hebrews 11:1

Dad's birthday

As I wrote earlier this week, I met my three siblings in Nashville last weekend and we celebrated our dad's birthday and Christmas. Dad turns 87 today. He continues to be a caring father, reassuring us that everything will turn out fine. 

Dad can't quit thinking about a new truck. Bless my brother's heart,

we went by a Toyota lot - again - so Dad could look around.

Mark has taken Dad to look at trucks countless times.

Dad, I'd love to give you a truck for your birthday.

Happy birthday, with love.

weekend with dad

Our dad celebrating his 87th birthday with, left to right: Pat, Anne, me and Mark.

My dad has lived in assisted living for two years. Although my siblings and I have made a number of visits to see him in Nashville, Tennessee, it had been 12 years since all 5 of us were together: crazy, huh?

Dad's birthday is this week, so we decided to celebrate him all together. I think we wore Dad out! We laughed a lot, ate fattening southern food, went to Dad's huge church, and even took him to the mall. (Dad insisted he "needs a suit.")

This photo will serve to remind my siblings and me of the weekend we finally all gathered to visit our dad.

Make time for your loved ones!
                                                                   

a little celebration

Though I wrote this post on Friday, today I'm headed home from Nashville after a weekend visiting my dad. This time, thanks to my younger brother Mark's suggestion, all four of us siblings are visiting Dad together. This hasn't happened in 12 years!

Dad's birthday is December 23, so this weekend was to celebrate both his birthday and Christmas. I hope Dad enjoys our time together. I have a feeling we'll be very glad the four of us made the trip to Nashville.