Happy Birthday, Dad.
Last night I picked up pizzas for our two teenage boys because my husband Jeff wanted to have an adult dinner somewhere, just the two of us. If the pizza place had a drive-thru window I would have used it, as I really didn’t want to be out in public at that moment. My appearance was kind of a mess except for one item that anchored me all day: my necklace.
Around a chain I have mounted the first arrowhead I ever found, my “gateway point,” if you will, for I am addicted to finding ancient artifacts. (There are worse things.) I found it as a young child while with my dad, as he was teaching me how to “hunt” for them. He passed to me all his secret tricks! And they work!
I wore my arrowhead necklace yesterday because my dad’s birthday is today, Dec. 3. I wanted to call him in, remember him, have him with me. And wow, did he answer that call. RIGHT AWAY. Just like he used to.
Without fail, my dad would pick up his phone on the first ring (!!!), which was always jarring to experience in real time. But now — especially yesterday — I am so grateful for how fast he would take action. How fast he does take action, even now.
At the pizza pickup station, I ran into a friend from my 20s (lifetimes ago, truly), whom I last crossed paths with (also at a pizza place!) about five years ago. Let’s call him B.
I immediately asked B about his dad, as he had an especially insidious type of dementia. I have often wondered about his wellbeing over the past five years.
“He died in August,” B answered.
Gulp. So he’s free now, too. The dads are free.
We talked about B’s dad and family. And I got to tell B about my dad.
I got to tell B the general arc of my family story over the past five years, which plays directly into my dad’s dying and death story. I got to tell B how Dad came home to die with me and my sister. (The anniversary of his passing is in two days; no coincidence there, either.) And I got to tell B how my dad’s death empowered me to help others navigate dying and death.
I got to tell B that I would pray for his dad and their family. And I meant it. With all my heart.
I got to tell B that the dads are working hard for us from their dimension, maybe even harder and more effectively than they could work for us in this dimension. And I meant it. With all my heart.
At that carry-out stand, for about 15 minutes, I got to live in that liminal space where the living and the dead mingle. And there’s nothing more powerful than that space and all the lessons it holds.
Twenty five years of time — lifetimes of time, really — wrapped all around me like a warm blanket.
The dads. They did that.
Thank you, Dad. Thank you, B’s dad.
Thank you B, for recognizing me, for talking to me, for sharing your stories. Thank you for listening to mine. Is there any greater privilege? What a gift.
On the eve of my Dad’s birthday, I got the present.
I walked out of the restaurant clutching pizzas, yes, but rambling prayers of gratitude, with my arrowhead necklace thump-thump-thumping against my sternum — over my heart — with every step I took.
Thank you thank you thank you, I muttered over and over and over again in my mind. In my heart.
I don’t remember the drive home because during it, I just remembered Dad. And B. And B’s dad. And all the love.
I remember all the love.
I was too grateful for words. Tears were all I could womanifest. And I am thankful for them, too.
The river of life flows unceasingly — out of our hearts and through our eyes — sometimes in the middle of a pizza shop when you least expect it.
I walked into our house, pizzas in hand for the kids, and Jeff tells me that he wants us to go dinner at The Tavern.
The Tavern. We hosted my dad’s 70th birthday party there. What a perfect choice, on the eve of Dad’s birthday. (And trust me, Jeff did not make this connection. He just really wanted their sushi. So did I!) So off to dinner Jeff and I went.
After being seated, I went to the restroom. On a piece of furniture outside of the restroom, a framed portrait caught my eye, stopped me in my tracks, and stopped my heart for a beat, too: It looked EXACTLY like Dad. Tears welled.
It’s a photo from the 60s of a very blonde, very young man in his military uniform. I have seen that same photo of my dad, now lost to time and family strife. I picked it up, wondering, “How did this restaurant get a picture of Dad?” Alas, it wasn’t him, but it could have been. Really though, it was him. I set it down and for the millionth time that day said, “Thank you.”
Thanks, Dad, for showing up. Everywhere. And so fast. For answering my calls on the first ring. Over and over again every time — when you were here and now from wherever you are, which is Everywhere. I will keep celebrating your life and all the best parts of it, all the love. Please keep reminding me to do this.
Happy birthday, Dad. And thanks for all the presents. Thanks for the present.
I often talk about how Death is our wisest teacher. My equally heartbreaking and heartwarming Friday evening perfectly illuminates this fact. I can’t help calling out some of the lessons — listed here for my own good because I always need the reminders. Maybe they will help you, too:
There is no such thing as coincidence or accident. “Random” is a myth, a human construct.
So when you see people out and about, don’t look away. Talk to them. There’s a reason you crossed paths. A million reasons.
When you talk with them, listen with your heart. And your heart needs to talk and needs to be heard, too. So, speak from it. It’s the only voice that matters. This work is why we exist on this planet.
What happened in the past is the past. The present moment — it’s all that matters. So, let go of the rest. Forgive yourself of the mistakes, the regrets, the pain you too have caused others. Release the guilt, the shame, the suffering. It does not serve you or anyone else. It is not for you any more. All that’s being asked of you is to bring your heart to the present moment and live it. That’s all any of us can do at any time ever about any thing. So just do that.
Be kind.
Pray.
Say thank you. Over and over and over again.
Thank you.