Losing Dad

Before you read this blog, listen to a song. Then come back and let me tell you a story about the love of my Father.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqybaIesbuA

Two years ago,  I couldn’t write this. How ironic that the event that kindled my desire to blog was the one that I didn’t even want to think about- much less write about for friends and family to read.   But before I tell you my story, let me tell you a little about him. 

Al Ash was an amazing father to me- not perfect- but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved me with all of his heart. I was a daddy’s girl as long as I can remember, and that didn’t change even when I got married and had kids of my own.  He spoiled me all of my life. 

He loved us with a love that I have never seen from any other person on the face of the earth.  He was happiest when he was surrounded by his family. His face lit up when his sisters and nieces came to visit, when my brother and his family came to town, when the grandkids spent the night, or any other time his family was around him. 

He also loved to cook and was good at it. He used food to bring the people he loved close to him. Nothing made him happier than being in the kitchen working on a meal as a table full of friends and family sat around laughing and talking, anxiously awaiting a plate of his food. 

He was pessimistic about many things in the world, but he had the most tender heart. He cried like a baby at Hallmark movies and sappy commercials.  During the holidays, mom and I always bet whose card would make the tears flow. Usually, I won.  He would help anybody who came to him in need, and I watched him countless times give to others. 

He was my financial advisor. He was my therapist. He helped me with recipes for dinner- that is, if he hadn’t already cooked mine and delivered to the house. He offered advice on parenting. He talked me through homeowner issues. He guided me in all areas of my life. He was the first person I called when life threw me a proverbial curveball.  Dad was so much more than a father to me.

Now the hard part. Thursday, January 8, 2015, after being sick a few days, Dad finally gave in to mom’s request to get checked out. She called me that evening to let me know they were headed to the ER at West Florida Hospital. I had school the next day, so I hadn’t made plans to meet them at the hospital.  We just assumed it was his gallbladder or something of that nature, so I told mom to keep me posted, and I went to bed not knowing that my world was about to be turned upside down. 

Around midnight, the phone rang. It was Mom. The doctors had advised her to call in his family. He was already in a coma when I arrived. I can’t write about the next 24 hours as we sat at the hospital praying for a miracle because even now the pain is immense. So I will fast forward a bit to Saturday, January 10th. In the dark hours of the morning, Dad died. He was one of 17 people ever diagnosed with a rare bacterial infection, and only one of those 17 survived it. The doctors never determined where he contracted it- maybe from oysters, maybe from the soil at his farm- we will never know. 

Did you listen to the song? It was a Wednesday night at church a week or so after the funeral that I first heard it. I remember getting out of my car wanting to be anywhere but in God's house. I was angry with Him, but I was going to go through the motions and do what I knew was right. And then the worship team sang that song. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

“You're a good, good father...

and I'm loved by you.”

I had a good, good earthly father, and he was ripped from my life too soon. I couldn't stand that song and I told myself I would never worship to it. It would only remind me of losing the most important man in my life.

And Romans 8:28. If I heard that one more time! Nothing. Good. Could. Come. From. This!!!!

So February came and went- as did March and April and May.  And they kept playing that song. It seemed to be almost every week that we sang it in one of our services. Then it started playing on the radio. I still hated it, and I still refused to worship when it played. I only cried because it was a reminder of what I had lost. 

Then the beautiful part of this story began. 

Life continued. Engines blew up. Vehicles needed purchasing. A/C’s needed maintenance. Dinners needed to be cooked. Kids acted like fools. No, it really does get beautiful....hang on.  All the things I needed to call dad for continued to happen, but he wasn’t there. Over the last few months, I had done a lot of whining and complaining to God, so I decided to try something new. I asked Him for the help I needed from my dad. I remember what I said when I finally turned to Him for help: “You say you will be the Father to fatherless. That's me now, so where are you? I don't have my dad to call, so I am now calling on you." I am pretty sure my tone didn't make him happy, but He listened nonetheless.

And one problem after another, God met me exactly where I needed him to. He met my needs, He comforted me, and He even blessed me beyond what I deserved.  He did everything my dad would have done and then some.  

Every time I recognized his work in my life when I needed it, he whispered little things into my spirit:

“Come to me when you have troubles.”

“Let me guide and help you.”

“I can do abundantly more than your earthly father.”

And He did.

And then I finally realized something.

I was relying on my dad when I should have been relying on God.  Before I prayed about an issue, I called Al.  I loved God, but I had Him in a box. He was my Lord and Savior, but I had not given him any other role in my life because Dad was doing such a good job at them already. And so, I finally allowed God to be all that He had always wanted to be in my life: my advisor, my confidant, my protector, my father. 

So it was through the loss of Dad that my relationship with God totally changed.  If you had asked me in 2015 what good could come from the death of my dad, I would have told you absolutely nothing. However, today, that answer is very different. 

And that song. I still hear it- at church and on the radio.  I still cry too, but I am no longer crying because it reminds me of what I lost.  I cry as I worship because I am in awe of the love I feel from my Heavenly Father. 

Hunting Fireflies

by Lisa


Earlier in the week, my students were working with an excerpt from the short story “The Firefly Hunt.”  The imagery took me back to summer nights chasing fireflies, mason jar in hand, in my own backyard. Then it occurred to me that I haven’t seen a firefly in a very long time. That thought made me question whether or not my own children have experienced a firefly hunt, so I asked Olivia, and she responded with “I have only seen them in the movie The Princess and the Frog.”  That saddened me. 

My favorite novel is To Kill a Mockingbird. The English teacher in me appreciates it as a literary work- a simple plot with rich lessons. It is a sobering reminder of a dark period in our nation’s history, both racially and economically, but it also depicts acts of love and human kindness. It brings thoughtful discussions into the classroom, and students remember it long after they leave high school. However, I love it more for the personal connection. Every time I read it, I am transported back to the sweet days of my adolescence- back to the days of firefly hunts. 

Although I was born about 40 years after Scout roamed the streets of Maycomb, the setting and characters remind me of my hometown and its inhabitants. Like Scout, I grew up in a sleepy little town in the South that didn’t have much more than a post office, a country store, and a caution light. I, too, had an older brother who seemed put out when I tagged along with him but was forced by my parents to endure me. Boo Radley’s suspected indiscretions had nothing on the colorful characters in our community that scared us children to death.  So many other elements of the book make me nostalgic for the long, hot summer days in Holt. 

The world has changed so much since that time that seems so long ago now. Unfortunately, so many of my fond memories are things my children will never experience.

They will never jump on their bikes after breakfast and stay gone until dark.

They will never ride to the river on the tailgate of a pickup, dragging their bare feet across the red dirt road.

They will never make a pallet in the floorboard of the car to sleep during road trips to visit family out of state—- or lie in the back window and make faces at the drivers of the cars behind them.  

They will never walk into a convenience store and put an ice cream cone or a bag of chips and a soda on their parents’ tab.

They will never go outside to adjust the antenna so that Mom can get a clearer picture of Dallas or Knot’s Landing. 

They will never know the awkwardness of picking up the land line to hear someone in the neighborhood already in a conversation on the party line they share.

They will never know the frustration of finding a scratch on their favorite record or in having to twist the tape back into a cassette.  

They will never know the excitement of waiting for the bookmobile to arrive so that they can check out a book.

They may never know what it feels like to sleep on the pews of the church every night during a week-long revival.

They will never know what it feels like to sleep all night with the doors unlocked and the windows open.

Yes, things are so very different now! The world is safer yet scarier, more advanced yet less connected. So I know there is much from my childhood that my kids will never get to experience. But the fireflies! I will make sure that they get to chase fireflies.