Things You Do Not Know
Writing, journaling and just sitting with myself and my thoughts have saved me time-and-time again. I am so grateful for them.
My cousin Jason gave the Eulogy for my dad’s funeral yesterday. He said a few words of his own, and then shared my words.
Below you’ll find his exact words that I wrote for Dad. I want them here because they will be important for when I am able to write my dream book, “A Thyme for Milk and Honey.”
So many things are coming full circle, what Ecclesiastes 3:11 is all about. I’m doing my very best to find peace and comfort in that. Today it still feels hard.
In any case, here were the words from yesterday….
Things You Do Not Know
It’s fairly easy for me to write and blog out my life and journey; the good, awesome, bad, and ugly. I leave myself as a very open book — which is so vastly different from my dad. Don’t misunderstand that as I am so vastly different from my dad — I’m not, at all. I got his work ethic, impatience, stubbornness, and yes, even his nose.
But today, I knew I wouldn’t be in the place for standing up here to share all of this — the day I say a final Earthly good-bye to Dad.
And yet still, I have something to share. It’s something that is so indicative of who my dad was.
Before I share the story, I’ll fast-forward to an entry I wrote to him on August 8, 2019 — not long before he passed.
Dear Dad –
It’s 6:15pm now. I’m in my chair. Sitting across from you.
By the way, remember that blanket you covered me up with when you first got sick? I slept with it last night. I’ve still never told anyone the story — not even Ryan — actually, not even you — you don’t even know I knew. But I will share it because I feel it’s one of the best representations of your life — how you lived and loved — silent, quiet, and yet intensely large. I might even try to ask Mom if I can have the blanket once you’re gone. I feel like I need it for the rest of my life to help me keep moving forward while keeping so many of your traits and memories close by.
I want to share this back-story today — the story of that blanket.
We were living in California when my dad was diagnosed with Cancer. It was mid-November, and so I made sure I went home that Thanksgiving. When I got to Minnesota he was still in the hospital, but he came home on Friday, November 24th. I was staying through the weekend still, so I had plenty of time to just be at Mom and Dad’s house with them, alone.
All along, from the moment he got diagnosed with Cancer, I had been journaling. Here was my entry from Sunday, November 26, 2017 — I actually titled it, “Things You Do Not Know:”
I woke up super early this morning — 4:30 am. I went to the bathroom, but then decided to sleep on the couch instead of staying awake or going back to bed. So I grabbed Dad’s blanket, covered up, and meant to fall asleep. Not too long after, I heard Dad get up to come do the same on the couch. Before he could make it to the living room, I quickly threw off his blanket, set it on his side so he’d have it immediately. I closed my eyes, but was still awake. Dad grabbed his water, set it by his side of the couch. I then heard him go into our other living room. When he came back, he had another blanket.
He took the blanket I had thrown off myself, placed it over me, then tucked it in down by my legs — to make sure I was fully covered.
He walked to his side of the couch, covered himself up with the blanket from the other room, and I think we both fell asleep.
Dad had no idea I was awake the entire time. He also had no idea that a lump filled my throat and heart. His actions, as always, continue to be selfless. There would never be another man I adore in the ways I have adored my father.
The truth is that the story was never supposed to be a secret. In fact, right when I got back to California, I attempted to tell Ryan. I just never could share it in that way because every single time I thought about it, the lump in my throat returned.
Here’s the real deal about my dad — he was the real deal. Rarely would he speak, but if he did, you listened. He couldn’t care less about a material thing — they meant nothing to him. Simple was engraved in his life. His smile was incredible. If he never made you a bird house, did you even know him?! He was humble, brave, and strong.
And what I know about my dad for sure that I must share with you all is that he loved his family and friends unconditionally — even if he never told you.
Mom — he was always wanting us to do nice things for you, even if it meant all those last-minute gifts. During these past few weeks, whenever you were not in the room, he’d ask me, “Where did Mom go?” Like his sign says in the garage, I believe you were the trophy of his life.
JJ — even during the depths of his sickness, he was asking me if you were catching fish up North, when you would be coming down again, and of course, he told you codes, tips, tricks, and secrets that not even Mom knew. During his final days, you told him how proud of him you were — if he could have expressed it, he fully would have told you the same.
There will never be another Christmas morning quite the same with our Margaritas and scratch offs, but I have to believe with my whole heart that my dad will be with me, with us, the rest of our lives putting, as my daughter Samarah says it, “the magic touch” everywhere. And because I refuse to believe anything less than that, I need you to know, Dad……we will be okay, we will make sure Mom is okay, your yard will survive someway, somehow, I will always try to give more than I take, and I love you more than you ever knew.
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Xox, SKH
