christmas blues. or pink.

(disclaimer: it's another long one. sorry.)

I say Christmas blues because it never fails. Thanksgiving and Christmas inevitably make me miss my family that has passed. And I say pink because I'm thankful for the pink rose colored glasses that God gave me soon after my dad died.

For the life of my blogging, for as long as I shall blog, you'll probably get to read about my dad. And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm rehashing the same emotions over and over, but I've come to learn that the process of grief isn't just in the passing weeks after we lose someone. Sometimes it takes a lifetime.

I have three people that I plan on holding onto as tight as God will let me, as soon as I enter heaven. One is my grandmother. My mom's mom. I was only six when she died. But I still can't talk about her without crying. Isn't that weird? Maybe. But I remember specific things about her. I remember how her arms felt - sort of flabby, actually. But her skin was like velvet. And I remember her hands. I would hold her hand and press on the veins on the top of her hands - I loved how they felt. Her hands were soft, too. I remember her hugs - she pulled me in tight and squeezed good. Not one of those pat-you-on-the-back kind of hugs. And most importantly, I remember how she smelled. And somehow I managed to get her after bath powder that she used - it had this big puff thing and I kept it safely in a drawer. Every now and then I would open the box and lift the puff thing just to smell the powder. To smell her. She was a heavenly woman.

And I miss my grandad (my mom's dad). Oh my goodness how I miss him. It wasn't until my grandmother passed, his wife, that his edges softened. He was a Col. in the army and was rigged and stern from his career. But after grandmom died, he didn't have a choice - well I suppose he did - but he chose to let us hug him and love him. Somewhere in the midst of college exams, boy troubles, job interviews and buying my first house, I realized that my grandad was morphing more into a dad and a friend and less into this grandfatherly figure who I used to place in a glass box and only get out for special occassions. I found myself calling for advice - or calling just because I needed to hear his voice. And when he found out that he had cancer, I sat in the parking lot of a Chili's restaurant and cried my heart until I couldn't catch my breath. Surely at 92, one's time must be running out. But it still didn't seem fair. He was the healthiest man I knew. But alas, his time was near. And even despite his fear and pain, he would call me and ask me if I was ok when a boyfriend broke up with me. And he would tell me that I would get through it. And he would drive over to visit with me. He was a friend of all seasons. I admired that about him. I admired his heart. My most favorite memory is with he and my mom. We sat at our kitchen table one Christmas and played a game of scrabble. To this day, I crave that game of scrabble. I don't think the three of us have laughed so hard, together, ever. Grandad's face was a deep shade of pink and he kept stomping his feet as he laughed and gasped to grab some air to at least breathe a second in between giggles. It was the best.
And when I would visit him at his house, I felt like I was home. He lived in a condo. But wherever he was, that's where home was. To be in his presence was to feel like I was home. I think he would be every woman's romeo. That sounds dorky, I'm sure. But he was chivalry at its best. To greet me when I arrived, he would often times walk across his living room with his arms open wide and say, "hello Ashley!" in his loud booming voice. Then he would hug me and kiss me right there on the soft part where you can feel your pulse just above your collar bone. I used to feel like the most beautiful woman in his presence. I just knew, without fail, that I was completely loved by Carl Whitney. He was such a delight. A cheerful giver. A cheerful receiver. A neat freak. Never a hair out of place. Never a shirt unpressed. Never a piece of paper unfiled. A contagious laugh. The best joke teller. The reason I believe I got down and dirty and dug deep and regained my relationship with Christ....well, part of the reason.

The other reason is and was my dad. If you knew my dad, then you probably have your own idea of who he was. And that's either really good or really bad. ;) But even if you did know him, there was a lot he didn't let on. He really struggled. He was abused as a kid and his mom was abused by his dad. And my dad was the oldest boy in the family. A family of 5 kids. And so all of the dysfunction really worked on my dad. Give a man 50 years to let all of that kind of resentment settle in, nest and work its way around and you've got yourself a royal mess. When God says that sin can multiply, he's not kidding. But don't mistake yourself by thinking that your own sin will only affect yourself. It was the sins of his parents that started the unwinding of his heart. As parents we play such a huge role in nurturing the hearts of our babies. But as individuals, we also have a choice. And while the choices were laid out before my dad, it was his choice to deny God for most of his life. I can only imagine the vantage point that God had, all the while, of the race for the finish. Victory was, inevitably, the Lord's but getting there was brutal. I'll not exploit my family by going into the detailed accounts of dad's life but I will say this: times were hard at our house. But they were good, too. And as soon as my dad died, I had a conversation with my brother. And through his sweet tears he told me that all he could think of were memories of my dad that he loved. I wanted to shout a hallelujah praise when he said that. But I held back for fear that I'd ruin his moment. But that was it. Death had lost its sting. Screw you lord of evil, deceiver of our world. When Jesus saves, your power is like the snake that was stepped on. Dead. But what was alive, finally, was life. I know that my brother had tried so hard to forgive my dad for the hurt he had inflicted but it was hard. It was harder for Bryan because he had babies. And he couldn't understand why his own dad was absent in their lives. But finally, those sweet rose colored glasses covered his eyes from the old and the pain was washing away. I don't make excuses for my dad's decisions but I also don't resent him either. It's remarkable, really. And I don't say that to pat myself on the back or to fluff up my pride. I say that because I stand in awe of the grace of the cross in reflection of the forgiveness I was able to receive and give.

When I first met Todd and told him about my dad, all he could see was the pain that I held onto. The resentment I had towards my dad. The entitlement I held onto - my dad owed me something. He owed me every hug he denied me, every night I wanted him to be sober, every Christmas that he was grumpy, every moment that I felt like he had offended me - he owed me an apology. Todd didn't seem to flinch when I told him all of the "stories" that came from living with an alcoholic. Instead he offered me one thing. Well two. The first was for me to call him. Ooooh no. I wasn't ready for that. But the second thing he said was, "have you trie forgiving him?" Isn't that so simple? Forgiveness. What a frickin novel idea. And as much as I loved Jesus and had just been worked in the recent months during my grandfather's final days, I was dumbfounded that he suggested I forgive my dad.

But why?

I was so selfish. Still am in a lot of ways. But really. (stay with me. i know this is long. but i'm getting there).

Jesus tells us that we are to forgive as many times as it takes, daily, hourly, in order to keep our hearts postured for Him and not for anyone else. And as long as I kept hating my dad, I was missing out on two things. Loving my dad and receiving the love of Christ. I was so busy hating my dad and replaying horrible events that I had forgotten who my dad was. And I was so busy thinking that I deserved an apology that I had put up a block between me and Jesus. Why on earth would God continue to rain down a parade of blessings on my life when I wasn't willing to even try to forgive the man that He had ordained to be my earthly father long before my dad was even born. Who was I to deny that kind of forgiveness?

And so I tried. It wasn't easy. But it happened quicker than I imagine. In less than a year, i found myself loving my dad. I found myself replaying old memories that I loved about my dad. And I started consciously telling Satan to hit the road any time an old memory would creap in. To this day I will only reccount old bad memories if only it allows me to witness to another. I refuse to open up that can of pity and sit in it. It denies God of the glorious redemption he offered my dad - it denies God the beautiful life he created through destruction.

And so when Thanksgiving and Christmas come creeping in, I miss my dad. I'm getting a lump in my throat just writing this. I miss rubbing noses with him. Lately Todd has rubbed noses with me and I say, "nope. it doesn't feel like his nose." God I miss him. I miss the thickness of his hands and his short stubby fingers and the callouses on his palms. I miss his hairy legs (please know that this isn't meant to sound creepy and weird -i think it's just things that, as as kid, you know about your parents). I miss his blue eyes. I miss his laugh. I miss his phone voice. I'd know his 'hello' anywhere. Which leads me to say, I miss his voice. I just wish I could hear his voice. I miss his hugs and his smile. I miss watching him rub his beard down and then massage his moustache with his pointer finger. I miss watching him mow the grass. I miss so much about my dad and I ache for the day when we'll be reunited wholey. Holy. I sometimes ask God this, "God, if you have time, would you mind finding my dad today and just hugging him for me? will you please tell him that I can't wait to see him. Kiss him for me and rub noses with him. Please tell him I love him."

I miss waking up Christmas morning, running downstairs to get my brother's and my stockings, running back upstairs to open the presents with my brother in his bed - and then running to my parents' bedroom to jump on them.

Christmas really is precious. Jesus really was born. The Savior of the world really was born to a precious young Mary as her sweet Joseph helped her labor and deliver sweet baby Jesus. And Jesus really did come to save. And he really does still live. He is alive. He's not just a tale or a legend. He is King. The one and only true God.

And somewhere in the time before I was born and the early 1900s, God created a beautiful thing. He made a beautiful woman, Dorcas Sheldon, amidst twelve children. And he made a determined man, Carl Whitney, in a small town outside of Boston. And from them he created a precious girl, Kay Ellen. Who fell in love with an insanely talented and intelligent Bill Fagundus. And from them, he created me. And in my heart he set eternity.

And if I can't be thankful for that well then heaven help me. And don't you know it was only heaven that did.

God, thank you for Christmas. Thank you for showing Mary and Joseph the means to persevere when they were terrified of the outcome of the birth of the Messiah. And thank you for choosing my heritage for me. Thank you for giving me a choice - to forgive. Thank you for showing me how to forgive - for giving us Jesus.

I celebrate You. You are Holy.