For the eulogy I never wrote.

One year in to a season of grief, I feel as if I’ve gained a lifetime’s worth of perspective. I am convinced that when you unexpectedly lose a parent, you begin to view your life in the moments that preceded and followed their death. 365 days ago I was hardly in the emotional state to write my dad’s eulogy, let alone sit through it. Even now, my emotions feel almost too raw to reflect on. That being said, I know no better way to celebrate the one year anniversary of his death than with one last commemoration of his life.

I am a woman that was raised by an extraordinary man.

You can’t possibly reflect on my dad’s life without acknowledging his quiet, enduring acts of self-sacrifice. I can hardly recount the number of mornings he was up before dawn, quietly re-arranging our cars in the driveway so he could fill each of them up with a full tank of gas before we started our day. He was the kind of dad that readily volunteered himself to drive my first-grade soccer-playing-self to Dallas every weekend after we moved from Texas to Oklahoma so that I could finish out the season with my team. He spared absolutely no expense for the opportunity to make another persons day, sending ridiculously sappy text messages about how much he loved them on an almost daily basis.

In these ways, and so many others, my dad humbly showed me how to love those around us by putting them freely above ourselves. It didn’t matter how big or small, how stupidly exhausted he was, or how bad of a day it had been — he did it all so quietly and without complaint, living a life with open hands ready for whatever opportunity God would hand him next.

Growing up in a house with three girls, my dad also had enduring patience. He weathered the storms that accompany raising teenage daughters, picking up the pieces following whatever fight we’d managed to get ourselves into by the time he’d gotten home. He never missed an opportunity to come upstairs and quietly knock on my door (after I’d slammed it shut about fifteen times) so that we could talk things through. I remember how gentle and seemingly full of wisdom his words were — the kind that comes from living years full of your own mistakes. Each of these talks was ended with a reminder “not to sweat the small stuff,” followed quickly by a second reminder that it was all small stuff. It was with this attitude that he was able to take on life’s greatest difficulties with relative ease, a quiet demonstration of his faith in a God who held the world under control.

Perhaps most importantly, my dad taught me to be a compassionate and introspective thinker. He was an individual willing to stand strong in his convictions while still leaving an ear open to consider others points of view. He set the tone for our family, often leaving the TV off so that we could just talk to each other. In fact, I grew up in a house where our family motto sounded a little something like, “there’s no subject we won’t talk about” (which, understandably, resulted in a number of uncomfortable conversations around the dining room table over the years…). We talked about the hard stuff — and often. We learned to dissect complex problems, consider multiple points of view, and love others in spite of whether or not their beliefs jived with ours. It was my dads willingness to think and talk about complex problems paired with his constant demonstration of working at those problems tirelessly until they were solved that instilled in me the desire to “do big things.” He taught me that it was important to talk about the hard stuff, even when we’d rather not. That we need more minds that are willing to listen and love. And dad, the world is a better place for it.

Self-Sacrifice. Enduring Patience. Compassionate Thinking.

Such things are not so easily buried…

A few days before he died, my dad sent me this picture along with another one of those sappy text messages in response to winning the Doris Duke Fellowship, “You’re batting 1,000 kiddo!”

While I’d argue my batting average isn’t anywhere near a thousand, this year has certainly shaped me into more of the person I want to be. I hope to carry his example of self-sacrifice, enduring patience, and compassionate thinking with me through the rest of my life. Through his death, I’ve strengthened my resolve to love deeper. To choose courage over fear. To surrender to the fact that every sorrow I face here on this earth is “small stuff” in comparison to God’s greater plan. Our time here really is so short.

Daddy, I will find you in the roads ahead. In the moments that demand to be felt. In an overabundance of joy and sorrow. I hope that somewhere deep down inside, you knew that the world would never be the same because of the abundant life you lived.

Until I see you again.

♥♥♥