Second Anniversary

September 19, 2013

When you remember me, it means you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.
— Frederick Buechner

Today is the second anniversary of Dad’s passing. Considering the last year of his life, I feel his death was more blessing that something to be sad about. And knowing that Dad is with Jesus (and also with Mom) makes it even more blessing.

I remember you, Dad, every day, in small things, and in big. And so it must be that I do indeed carry something of who you are with me. I’d like to believe I carry half the man you were within me.

Scott says he sees it constantly. Like, when we go to a restaurant, I eat my meal, push my plate away, and want to leave. Scott says that’s like Dad.

My brother’s hear turns of phrases that Dad used in my speech patterns. “Well, anyhow,” as a means of ending a conversation (or trying to.)

Or, when I call Nikki but say Ixchel. Or call Ixchel, but say Nikki. Or worse yet, when I speak to Scott but say Nikki AND Ixchel before getting to Scott. “Nikki… uh, Ixh.. SCOTT!”

But I really hope that when people experience me, it isn’t the silly little peripheral similarities that they see. I hope it’s the deep love for my fellow man that you so marvelously modeled for me. Yes, it was stupid for you to pick up all those hitch-hikers, but it was the 70’s and people weren’t as concerned back then. Society was a little more civil. You always bought them lunch. The homeless, too. I remember you leaving your office in Berkeley, walking down the street and inviting some homeless man to lunch with you.

You were… you are… so deeply in love with Mom, and you went out of your way to show it in the small ways, and in the big. I try to model that. I try to model those little expressions of love in how I treat Scott.
And you were so in love with God, Dad. I try to model that. You weren’t showy in your expression, but those of us who knew you know that you lived your life as a love affair with God. I try to do that, too, Dad, but I’m not sure I’m as successful as were you.

Yes, Dad, I think I carry something of who you were with me. I hope you know me when we meet again. Oh, and Dad… I do still see your face, hear your voice, and speak to you in my heart.

I invite anyone reading this to share their memories of Dad, of Louis John Strom, with me via email, or a comment here on the blog, or a Facebook comment. I’ll actually post them over the next few days.

Prayer Intention

Prayer “is the root, the fountain, the mother of a thousand blessings.” Chrysostom

I continue to pray for Direction, and specifically this week for Direction in my spiritual life.