I miss my daddy. I’m not afraid to say that at 54. Born on October 27, 1941, he grew up in Greenville, SC. It was a much different time. There were stories that he shared with me, and stories that he only shared with my boys. He was my rock when I needed him to be.
He passed away in 2016, just eight years and a few days after my mother. I know he was ready. He’d been waiting for some time.
The events of that time period still haunt me, because it was the first time that I really understood that there was life after death.
How do I know?
The first Sunday after his death, my children and I were all standing in the middle of the living room for the same reason. We heard him. Each Sunday, he would get up, make himself some coffee, get ready for church, and announce loudly, “Wake up! It’s time to go to church!”
That morning after his death, we heard him loud and clear as we were all asleep until that moment. It was a reminder that he would still be with us after his passing, even though we don’t hear him nearly as clear as we used to.
These days, we invoke his voice through stories. Stories he shared, and stories we remember about him. Those stories help us to hold onto his memory and keep him with us. Always.
Happy Birthday in Heaven, Daddy! We miss you!