Ten.

Ten years. Can it be ten years already? It seems like just the other day we were having conversations on theology, architecture, politics and the nature of the universe out in the garage while you worked on some project and I “assisted” mostly by wandering around the shop where I could never find a single thing. I looked for old videos tonight, just to hear your voice again because it’s been so long. I wish I would have taken more video. I have pictures, but very few videos. Imagine if we had phones back in the day and I had a bazillion recordings of all the adventures… but you weren’t really into phones so much. Although you did like those iPod shuffles. I still think it is funny that Sara made your playlists. They were certainly diverse! I remember thinking one time, how does my Dad even know who Modest Mouse is?

Do you remember the time you came to Winona and we walked in the woods and you hugged that tree and then had me do it? I still do that from time to time, you know. Just lean into a big tree in the woods and look up and breathe. I go to the woods a lot too, by myself, like you did. Matt hikes the mountains of Hawaii, and Sara the high peaks of NY. I think we all understand why. Communion with the Divine, peace, reflection, the challenge of the walk, the experience of nature… it’s all there, in the quiet solitude. I have a picture on the wall in the hallway of you standing on a bridge in the woods in the ADKs — just looking down, being still. Like you always said when we were walking in the woods — you would stop us and say “Be still. Just listen.” And it would all get quiet except for the sound of the birds, the rustling leaves, gurgles of a mountain stream…. and all would be at peace.

For me, fishing, nope. Still not a fan, but you would appreciate all the fish that Sara catches with Jake. I wish you could have really known Jake. He’s a great guy who really loves your daughter. It’s cool that Matt is taking his son to the water the way you took us up to the lake. I remember swimming down to try and touch those logs that rested on the bottom of the lake left over from the loggers so many years ago. Learning how to build fires and all those treks in the woods where Matt and I had no idea where we were going… you always seemed to know exactly where you were and how to get back. A few years ago I got lost in the woods and I thought, geez, Dad would have my head for not being better prepared and at least using a compass to get back.

I wrote a post about the bus ministry last year. Those were some head shaking times, weren’t they. There was a lot of laughter, and I always loved the camaraderie you had with the drivers. You had a great laugh and I miss hearing it. I learned a lot by watching you — how you treated people, how you served them, how you loved them. Some of these people never had experienced love, or someone who cared, yet you so frequently extended your hands of mercy and giving, even though so often you didn’t even have much to give. It’s like St. Peter said, “I don’t have silver or gold, but what I do have I will gladly give…” and that gift was love. The impact you made, not only on so many people over the years, but on your family — Mom, Christine, Matt, Sara and I, Abrianna, Alessandra, Rafaele, Ryan, Kayli, Rhea … Alan, Lisa, your parents, and all the uncles and cousins and beyond. We tell the stories, and remember. I guarantee Uncle Tom will share that one picture of you and him — it’s one of his favorite memories.

I’m trying to write some of them down as they come to mind – from the wood stove to the barrel, we truly had an interesting life. I was telling someone the other day how Benny used to disappear for a month and run with the wild dogs, and how you would always go looking for him, but he always came back to you. I remember the day he died, I think you buried him 20’ deep that day with the backhoe. But I’m glad you found Tanner, because not only was he the most empathetic dog, but he was your buddy. I found a letter you wrote when you were taking grammar classes at church and I cracked up reading it. It was this ridiculous story about someone in driving school, and it reminded me of all those stories you would make up and tell us before bed. They always had spiritual meaning, even the funny ones … and now I wish I had them written down. Sara might remember some of them though. That joke you always used to tell with Bob Ashley about Peg, your wife with the wooden leg, I still chuckle about that one. And the Italian ditch diggers — hit my hand with your shovel. Haha!

Well, anyway, it’s almost midnight, and I have rambled on here for a bit of reminiscing. Hope all is well over there on the other side — the white shores and beyond… Pray for us here as we have had a heckuva year. We are going to make it, but hey, if you think of it, drop us a wink or a whistle and let us know you’re watching over the balcony. Love you always, Dad. Miss you much.