Dad's Writings

Some of the hardest moments since my dad died happened this weekend. Nearly every moment I expected him to walk around the corner or up to camp or crawl out of a tent.  My uncles look so much like him it was difficult.  So many times I would look at one of them and see my dad.  I would hear one of them laugh and turn around thinking it was my dad.  Just listening to them talk was amazingly difficult.  They talk like him, laugh like him and use his mannerisms.  Of course they do, they are his brothers.  I don't know why I wasn't expecting it or even thinking that it would be hard, but I wasn't and it was. 

I don't feel bitter about my dad's passing.  I'm not angry with him or with God. I just miss him. I miss his hugs and his half smile.  I miss my PPI's and having him in my life.  I miss knowing I could call him, anytime anywhere and he would come for me.  I miss having him call and ask about my car and my life.  I just miss him. 

I have a folder of my dad's writings from his mission.  They are sacred to me and I read them to feel close to him.  I never knew he wrote poems until after he passed away.  It is also incredibly sad to me to read of his unrealized hopes and dreams.  He so wanted to build and run a boys camp for scouts and for young men struggling in general.  They are, in some ways, so similar to my own longings. I have a special ability/bond with the youth.  I look at so many homeless and struggling youth and want to provide a place for them to get some traction and learn who they are. This is one of my dad's poems.  I love to know that he wrote as much as I did.  That what he couldn't express in words, he wrote out.  I love writing as well. 

Wilderness

At night I dream
Of a time when I walked the high country,
The place where man belongs but is a stranger.
I long to be roaming the trails again,
Free from all bond and debt,
Free from the shackles of conventional society,
free to drink my fill from a crisp spring,
free to rest above natures bed of needles
and gaze at the stars close but so far.
Free to feel the pain of aching muscles
and the joy of reaching a distant peak
to see the sun setting into the sea.
I long for the smell of burning pine
and the smell of trout on the griddle
Or the scent of a green grassy meadow
But more than longing for the roaming days
I praise my Maker for his playground of creation
That I call wilderness
And realize that the moment of service
I render in His name
Can never repay Him the joy He has provided me.

Love you dad.