The dust bunnies under the couch are laughing at me. I make a half-hearted attempt to murder them, once a week or so. I don't want to commit to moving furniture around to get to them, so they live to see another day. My husband strows leaves and dried mud all over the house with his workboots. They take up residence in the corners, behind the plants and the piano. I hired a lady to help me. She was sweating and working for hours, but said I definitely needed a second day. Those bunnies wore her out.
On Halloween, Ken always takes me out for dinner and we wait until any possible trick-or-treaters have given up and gone to bed. Our house is left dark and scary, just in case somebody takes a notion to ring the ancient doorbell. But Halloween is my cue this year...yes, it's true...I'm getting all the Christmas decorations out as soon as the last costume is put away. I don't go for fall decor. Too much trouble and then you've got to take it all down. Christmas is bad enough, so I figure just go all out and put it up right after All Hallow's Eve (or Reformation Day, in our family), then you've got two whole months to enjoy it. Check it out...Martin Luther started all that Protestant hoopla on the same day as the devil's high holiday. Makes perfect sense to me. He nailed the 95 Theses to the Wittenburg door on Halloween and bipped Satan in the nose all at the same time.
This year is different. My sweet Victorian is on the 2018 Villa Rica Tour of Homes, so I have to get my game face on. I'm planning on four trees, have already bought extra ornaments, and I'm dreaming heavily about the swag that I'm going to put on the front door. I also have my job to do, grandbabies to keep, Christmas gifts to buy and girlfriends to have coffee with. And then there's always the laundry. I'm booked solid from now to New Year's, so don't come knocking unless you want to clean or paint something. Dust bunnies, be afraid. Be very afraid.
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Monday, October 22, 2018
The October of My Year
The leaves hang, weary and shop-worn, begging to fall. Dog days wear on endlessly, hot and humid, no parties except those found inside a body of water. October came, dragging Summer with it. No one approved of this. Who's in charge here? Finally, the frost flashed across the earth, to a cabin on a ridge. Firesmoke floats on the wind. The spiders beat a hasty retreat from the flue. Sputtering flame, paper, twigs, bits of bark. Finally, the fire awakens, safe in its man-made cocoon. It drives us out. The windows, doors are opened. It centers, we've learned our lessons, the coals glow contentedly.
Time away. Sister and I, connected at the soul from birth. Now so many things in between us. Children, in-laws, grandchildren, life, work, husbands, obligations. The universe expands and contracts. Seedlings, fruit, harvest, death, compost. The forests of us are matted thickly with the leaves of the past. Life springs forth, rich earth borne of the many fallen. A tree topples. The walnut plummets with it, sprouting already. Soft rain, feathers of the woods cover, overwhelm it. It can't be seen, but it will survive. Its greatness will take decades to be felt. There is deep quiet there, amongst the cacophony of the birds. The breath of the valley wisps over the mountain, serenity. The world nearby rushes to and fro, but the muted ground stays warm, wrapped in layers of expired life.
Our hearts cry, laugh. Sweet sleep, then interrupted. Dreaming, thoughts, fragile air. Miles of countryside, far from towns. Crisp sky, promising apples. We were young, we remember it well. We are beginning to see the crest. But wait, we're not ready. There are so many things that could take us now. We know it. It scares us, then not. To march into the future without losing the past. To tread meaningfully without trusting in our own strength. To end well, to remain faithful. These are the tests. Not to the young, not to the mighty, not to the intelligent. It is in the aged, the weak, the downtrodden where we will see God move. Where we are weak, He is strong. The mystery of it, beautiful colors blanketing the earth with their death give rise and nurture to the next season of life. Swing low, sweet chariot.
Time away. Sister and I, connected at the soul from birth. Now so many things in between us. Children, in-laws, grandchildren, life, work, husbands, obligations. The universe expands and contracts. Seedlings, fruit, harvest, death, compost. The forests of us are matted thickly with the leaves of the past. Life springs forth, rich earth borne of the many fallen. A tree topples. The walnut plummets with it, sprouting already. Soft rain, feathers of the woods cover, overwhelm it. It can't be seen, but it will survive. Its greatness will take decades to be felt. There is deep quiet there, amongst the cacophony of the birds. The breath of the valley wisps over the mountain, serenity. The world nearby rushes to and fro, but the muted ground stays warm, wrapped in layers of expired life.
Our hearts cry, laugh. Sweet sleep, then interrupted. Dreaming, thoughts, fragile air. Miles of countryside, far from towns. Crisp sky, promising apples. We were young, we remember it well. We are beginning to see the crest. But wait, we're not ready. There are so many things that could take us now. We know it. It scares us, then not. To march into the future without losing the past. To tread meaningfully without trusting in our own strength. To end well, to remain faithful. These are the tests. Not to the young, not to the mighty, not to the intelligent. It is in the aged, the weak, the downtrodden where we will see God move. Where we are weak, He is strong. The mystery of it, beautiful colors blanketing the earth with their death give rise and nurture to the next season of life. Swing low, sweet chariot.
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
A Wrinkle in Time for the Weekend
There's nothing like a family reunion to stir up the past. I landed Sunday night back at home, feeling like I'd had a trip in a time machine. My husband's family hails from the Lincoln/Washington/Thomson parts of Georgia (near Augusta). Our daughter, the youngest, had not spent time there since she was a little tyke, so Ken used the weekend to show her his history.
First off, Ken's dear Aunt Frances let us stay in what they call "The Townhouse." Since we are from the suburbs and not the outer reaches of rural paradise, "Townhouse" means it's a condominium. In Washington, Georgia, however, that only means that it's a "house, in town." No one actually lives there, but it is simply charming and full of delightful touches. She loves foxes, so at least one rendition can be found in each room. We drove after work and arrived late at night, to little snacks and fluffy beds. We woke to realize that we were, virtually, in town. Then we drove out to their farm where real biscuits, gravy and sausage were served up with love. I have never mastered those elusive biscuit skills. It's amazing that that man still loves me. But even more amazing is the fact that Southern hospitality really does still exist.
After a long, lovely day of visiting with dozens of relatives, Ken insisted on rushing back to the Townhouse for naps. I realized his ruse when he flew into the house and turned on the Georgia game. Liz and I crashed into our separate rooms for a long summer's respite. There was no cell service, the phones stayed silent, the laptop useless. Sheer bliss. Later that night, after another delicious meal with extended family, we pulled back into the Townhouse driveway, noticing how clear the stars were. My 27-year-old daughter and I pulled out our pillows, laid on the driveway and saw four shooting stars, remembered my Daddy (we were honoring one of his favorite pastimes -- driveway star-gazing) and talked a blue streak while seeing the whorls of the Milky Way like you can't see it in suburban Atlanta. Sunday was memory lane, with Ken driving all over Lincolnton and Washington, showing Liz the old family places and reminiscing about his younger days. We visited his grandparents' and his birth mother's grave sites, trolled down country roads, laughed, cried and ate some more. The trip home was quick. Bleary-eyed and sore from riding, we stumbled out of the car.
It was rather like waking from a dream, a sweet lazy one where time stood still and all the precious people that you remember and love are there. Life is an ever-changing kaleidoscope. We bump along in our existence, surviving, living, playing, working...the past constantly mingling with the present. Circles of the decades swirl around us and we wake up wondering where it went. It is here, now. We must lift our eyes past the tyranny of the urgent, to embrace what (and especially who) is in front of us.
First off, Ken's dear Aunt Frances let us stay in what they call "The Townhouse." Since we are from the suburbs and not the outer reaches of rural paradise, "Townhouse" means it's a condominium. In Washington, Georgia, however, that only means that it's a "house, in town." No one actually lives there, but it is simply charming and full of delightful touches. She loves foxes, so at least one rendition can be found in each room. We drove after work and arrived late at night, to little snacks and fluffy beds. We woke to realize that we were, virtually, in town. Then we drove out to their farm where real biscuits, gravy and sausage were served up with love. I have never mastered those elusive biscuit skills. It's amazing that that man still loves me. But even more amazing is the fact that Southern hospitality really does still exist.
After a long, lovely day of visiting with dozens of relatives, Ken insisted on rushing back to the Townhouse for naps. I realized his ruse when he flew into the house and turned on the Georgia game. Liz and I crashed into our separate rooms for a long summer's respite. There was no cell service, the phones stayed silent, the laptop useless. Sheer bliss. Later that night, after another delicious meal with extended family, we pulled back into the Townhouse driveway, noticing how clear the stars were. My 27-year-old daughter and I pulled out our pillows, laid on the driveway and saw four shooting stars, remembered my Daddy (we were honoring one of his favorite pastimes -- driveway star-gazing) and talked a blue streak while seeing the whorls of the Milky Way like you can't see it in suburban Atlanta. Sunday was memory lane, with Ken driving all over Lincolnton and Washington, showing Liz the old family places and reminiscing about his younger days. We visited his grandparents' and his birth mother's grave sites, trolled down country roads, laughed, cried and ate some more. The trip home was quick. Bleary-eyed and sore from riding, we stumbled out of the car.
It was rather like waking from a dream, a sweet lazy one where time stood still and all the precious people that you remember and love are there. Life is an ever-changing kaleidoscope. We bump along in our existence, surviving, living, playing, working...the past constantly mingling with the present. Circles of the decades swirl around us and we wake up wondering where it went. It is here, now. We must lift our eyes past the tyranny of the urgent, to embrace what (and especially who) is in front of us.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Life Beckons After the Wake
My senior year at McEachern High School was a blur of anticipation, fun, lots of sentiment and tears. I loved our school and was sad to leave behind those years of band, sports, classes and wonderful people. But I hit the ground running, away to Tennessee for college and more adventures. Then there was the blur of getting married young, having lots of babies and a hands-full life for all these many years. I haven't had time to be slow, to reminisce much about high school or those I left behind.
Then the train hit last month when my Daddy died. It is interesting how that suddenly, so many things simply weren't that important. I wasn't worrying about nuances of clients' feelings, cranky agents or jumping instantly to the computer to address a situation. Unless it was a three-alarm fire, I wasn't hurdling myself over the sofa to put out a two-alarm one. Early grief feels something like you're floating underneath the surface of the water...the noises and busy-ness of life muted, everything gets fuzzy, the world doesn't matter much. You know you need to address things, there are people that demand answers. But you just don't care. There's a hole in the universe and I've dropped plumb down in it.
What I didn't anticipate was the soothing buzz of quiet love that came from kind people. I have been astonished at folks who remember him going back fourty years, when he cheered them on at our high school games and events. One of my old friends from McEachern has fed our whole family, held my hand, written me cards, called me consistently, visited, taken me to lunch, distracted me with business talk, prayed and spoken authentic wisdom, no platitudes. Another dear friend saw (via technology) that I was up at 3:00 in the morning and called and talked me off the cliff of heartbreak, which she had herself experienced when she lost her own Daddy last year. My husband has held me patiently, curled like a baby, for countless hours while I rained tears. Our children and grandchildren have been a solace, grieving and laughing with us, giving us hope for the future. Our church has been like a cradle, a peaceful place where I am held, loved, understood. The Word of God a well, where I am fed and filled.
There comes a day when you have to move your feet. The fires of life beckon. Honoring my Daddy means that I move into the next things better, deeper, shedding things that don't matter. You never truly get "over" this heartbreak, at least not in this life. If bitterness is not allowed purchase and we constantly reach for gratefulness for what we were given, the message of his godly, rich life becomes a part of the warp-and-woof of our souls. Legacies are not made from money, lands, degrees or awards on a wall. They are found in the wake of love left behind that envelopes itself into the hearts of those touched by such a soul.
Then the train hit last month when my Daddy died. It is interesting how that suddenly, so many things simply weren't that important. I wasn't worrying about nuances of clients' feelings, cranky agents or jumping instantly to the computer to address a situation. Unless it was a three-alarm fire, I wasn't hurdling myself over the sofa to put out a two-alarm one. Early grief feels something like you're floating underneath the surface of the water...the noises and busy-ness of life muted, everything gets fuzzy, the world doesn't matter much. You know you need to address things, there are people that demand answers. But you just don't care. There's a hole in the universe and I've dropped plumb down in it.
What I didn't anticipate was the soothing buzz of quiet love that came from kind people. I have been astonished at folks who remember him going back fourty years, when he cheered them on at our high school games and events. One of my old friends from McEachern has fed our whole family, held my hand, written me cards, called me consistently, visited, taken me to lunch, distracted me with business talk, prayed and spoken authentic wisdom, no platitudes. Another dear friend saw (via technology) that I was up at 3:00 in the morning and called and talked me off the cliff of heartbreak, which she had herself experienced when she lost her own Daddy last year. My husband has held me patiently, curled like a baby, for countless hours while I rained tears. Our children and grandchildren have been a solace, grieving and laughing with us, giving us hope for the future. Our church has been like a cradle, a peaceful place where I am held, loved, understood. The Word of God a well, where I am fed and filled.
There comes a day when you have to move your feet. The fires of life beckon. Honoring my Daddy means that I move into the next things better, deeper, shedding things that don't matter. You never truly get "over" this heartbreak, at least not in this life. If bitterness is not allowed purchase and we constantly reach for gratefulness for what we were given, the message of his godly, rich life becomes a part of the warp-and-woof of our souls. Legacies are not made from money, lands, degrees or awards on a wall. They are found in the wake of love left behind that envelopes itself into the hearts of those touched by such a soul.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
To Pet or Not To Pet
Been pondering some deep subjects lately.... life, death, seasons, love. And gerbils. Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, my children started out with a couple of gerbils. Two. No one told me that they cranked out new baby gerbils every few milliseconds. Before long we were supplying darling pets for friends, relatives, pet stores and strangers on the street.
We were in a very busy time of life -- homeschooling our four children, attempting to preserve the lives of said Norton creatures that had been born with the propensities of wild monkeys. Ken says they were products of fine breeding, and I guess that folks say that about Mustangs on the prairie too. Either way, gerbils were way down on the list of priorities. They were caged up, most days, in an old aquarium with a screen on top. I'll save the escapee stories for another day. But since guilt is my favorite woe, I began to feel sorry for the neglected gerbils. Sure, they were fed and watered. Occasionally I'd clean the bedding out and put new, fluffy cedar chips in there. I felt terrible, because nobody was petting them. I assumed that all creatures, human and otherwise, wanted and needed to be petted.
I'd pull one out of the cage. Adorable little things, with their little twitchy noses and strange, long tails. Since they were always reproducing, we had myriads of color combinations. They were bigger than mice but definitely cuter. I'd try to keep them from jumping out of my hands and almost always ended up getting bitten. One time one of them took a chunk out of my finger, with much bleeding and sorrow. I assumed that they just needed more attention, more petting. I kept trying. And trying.
One day, my wise sister Melanie said, "Rose, did you ever think maybe they don't like to be petted?"
I never considered that.
And that led to another notion. Mel said that there are a lot of PEOPLE that don't want to be petted. This was a novel wrinkle in my space-time-continuum. Was that why the librarian hated me? I so wanted to love her, since she was the purveyor of all the books. And the post office lady...I had been rebuffed so many times, even though I twinkled and offered candy and my sincere devotion. Then there was the disgruntled baroness (well, I think she must have been a baroness) who sat next to me on that committee...did she simply want to be left alone, never to know the joy of a little coiffure-ruffling?
This was a sad day. All those pretty songs say "All You Need Is Love," or "Love Can Build a Bridge," then "Love Will Keep Us Together." Affirming, empowering words to inspire us all. But as I thought about my poor finger, I remembered those other ones: "What About Love?" and "Love Stinks," and of course the apropos "Bleeding Love." Maybe not everyone really wants to be loved. Or petted. Why? I know not. These things go beyond my current brain waves. I really tried hard, with that post office lady. I'm still tempted to squeeze her hand and give her a big hug. That might just put her over the edge, so for now, I let people pass me in line when I see that I'm going to be stuck in her queue. But then again, tomorrow is another day...
We were in a very busy time of life -- homeschooling our four children, attempting to preserve the lives of said Norton creatures that had been born with the propensities of wild monkeys. Ken says they were products of fine breeding, and I guess that folks say that about Mustangs on the prairie too. Either way, gerbils were way down on the list of priorities. They were caged up, most days, in an old aquarium with a screen on top. I'll save the escapee stories for another day. But since guilt is my favorite woe, I began to feel sorry for the neglected gerbils. Sure, they were fed and watered. Occasionally I'd clean the bedding out and put new, fluffy cedar chips in there. I felt terrible, because nobody was petting them. I assumed that all creatures, human and otherwise, wanted and needed to be petted.
I'd pull one out of the cage. Adorable little things, with their little twitchy noses and strange, long tails. Since they were always reproducing, we had myriads of color combinations. They were bigger than mice but definitely cuter. I'd try to keep them from jumping out of my hands and almost always ended up getting bitten. One time one of them took a chunk out of my finger, with much bleeding and sorrow. I assumed that they just needed more attention, more petting. I kept trying. And trying.
One day, my wise sister Melanie said, "Rose, did you ever think maybe they don't like to be petted?"
I never considered that.
And that led to another notion. Mel said that there are a lot of PEOPLE that don't want to be petted. This was a novel wrinkle in my space-time-continuum. Was that why the librarian hated me? I so wanted to love her, since she was the purveyor of all the books. And the post office lady...I had been rebuffed so many times, even though I twinkled and offered candy and my sincere devotion. Then there was the disgruntled baroness (well, I think she must have been a baroness) who sat next to me on that committee...did she simply want to be left alone, never to know the joy of a little coiffure-ruffling?
This was a sad day. All those pretty songs say "All You Need Is Love," or "Love Can Build a Bridge," then "Love Will Keep Us Together." Affirming, empowering words to inspire us all. But as I thought about my poor finger, I remembered those other ones: "What About Love?" and "Love Stinks," and of course the apropos "Bleeding Love." Maybe not everyone really wants to be loved. Or petted. Why? I know not. These things go beyond my current brain waves. I really tried hard, with that post office lady. I'm still tempted to squeeze her hand and give her a big hug. That might just put her over the edge, so for now, I let people pass me in line when I see that I'm going to be stuck in her queue. But then again, tomorrow is another day...
Monday, September 24, 2018
Pond Scum and Other Issues
As I am wont to do, I got a wild hair late Saturday afternoon. I had been suffering. All three of my fountains have been silent for over a year. I miss my Pa and I wanted the sound of water when I sit on my porch. There's a small pond, a concrete fountain and a container with little kids "playing" with water -- all of them moldering and full of strange creatures, spawning clouds of mosquitoes.
I went and bought new pumps for all of them, changed into my paint clothes and started hauling goldfish and frogs out of the pond. Ken likes to plan all activities at least two weeks out but I wasn't having any of that. The outside temperature had dropped to 88 degrees, here in late September where the devil came down to Georgia and it's always Summer, rarely Christmas and never Fall. My Home Depot card needed exercising and I was feeling ambitious.
Ken came around the corner shaking his head, about the time I got down to the sludge at the bottom of the pond. I pitifully asked if he could help me. How could he refuse? I had mud from head to toe, aquatic animals in numerous buckets, and water hyacinths laying all over his lawn. He and my daughter dispatched the rest of the pond problems, hauled the concrete fountain pieces around until they were right, and then fixed the porch fixture. At last, we had water running through all three fountains. Believe it or not, none of the new pumps had to be used, though now I've got to piece those together and take them back. Ken was the hero of the day, with several cheapskate hacks and tricks to get everything going. It's three days later and I still have mud in my pedicure. I was raised a country girl. I think something has happened since then.
Today I took our eight-month-old grandson onto the porch, where he gleefully laughed at the water splashing. I noticed that the pond had drained almost completely dry. Again. At least the goldfish and frogs are still in their containers. That devil's definitely still down here and I'm about to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him.
Sunday, September 16, 2018
A Good Death
Last time I wrote, I penned these thoughts about my aging parents: "I don't say all the things that I need to say. Maybe if I don't say them, they won't leave me." I wrote those words in haste at my Daddy's desk two weeks ago. I was compelled to run to their house that day for some reason. I had not written my article and remembered that it was late...so I hammered it out quickly that morning at their house and then lounged for hours with my folks, talking about everything and nothing, listening to my Daddy pray and read his Bible to Mama at their kitchen table. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would hear his voice, hear him spontaneously laugh, be hugged by him. It was a gift from God.
Only last week, he died in the good way, quickly and with no apparent pain. He had mown his and his neighbor's grass, taken a shower and sat down in his recliner. He had his hand in his popcorn bowl (one of his favorite places) when his heart experienced some sort of arrhythmia and he slipped away, was revived by paramedics who got his heart pumping, but never regained consciousness. Three days we sat by his side, holding his sweet hands, speaking our love, regrets and hopes to him. He was surrounded by his multitude of children and grandchildren, who sang Amazing Grace and cried like there was no tomorrow. I'm sure the ICU staff at Kennestone Hospital was inconvenienced by our huge and loud family, but they treated him and us with so much respect and kindness, I will ever be grateful.
My stomach turned to stone, each swallow like acid spilling down a tube. The devil attacked my thoughts, bringing a thousand questions and demon regrets, lies. I had no idea it was like this. All the weak places in my constitution were fair game, the people around me a fog. I wanted to lie still, still on my bed and never move, my legs leaden and useless. I knew that there were others who needed my help, my compassion, but all thoughts turned inward to the loss of my Daddy hero, a man whose death I always dreaded. He was too alive to be dead. He loved me too much to be gone. He loved life more than anyone I knew. His delightful spirit lit up every room he ever entered. How could he leave? How could he be gone when his hat still smelled like him and his gloves are still on the patio where he left them?
We are still numb from the outpouring of loved ones. Raw from the quickly planned and executed funeral. People from three and four decades back showed up and hugged us, spoke of his character and his love, what he meant to them. The weekend afterward was full of more food, more relatives, more talk, more hugs. But tomorrow the alarm rings and life has to resume. Without him. Survival requires the march, paying no heed to the fallen.
Our eldest son asked me a question, after it was all over. "Mom, are you better off now? Can you see where the places it might be better now that he is gone?" What a seemingly cruel question, until I ponder it deeply. Eternity gaped before me. I searched my soul in ways that I had not for a long time. I reflected on his life, on what was important to him and to me. I thought about how I can honor him better, going forward. And especially, I considered heaven, God, and Daddy's deep and rich love of Christ. He lived as a true Christian, simply and faithfully. Not a hypocrite. Not proud. A light in darkness. He loved all the folk God put in his path. His body is deep in the earth but his spirit has flown to his Savior. Death be not proud; death is swallowed up in victory. I love you Daddy. I'll see you on the other side.
Only last week, he died in the good way, quickly and with no apparent pain. He had mown his and his neighbor's grass, taken a shower and sat down in his recliner. He had his hand in his popcorn bowl (one of his favorite places) when his heart experienced some sort of arrhythmia and he slipped away, was revived by paramedics who got his heart pumping, but never regained consciousness. Three days we sat by his side, holding his sweet hands, speaking our love, regrets and hopes to him. He was surrounded by his multitude of children and grandchildren, who sang Amazing Grace and cried like there was no tomorrow. I'm sure the ICU staff at Kennestone Hospital was inconvenienced by our huge and loud family, but they treated him and us with so much respect and kindness, I will ever be grateful.
My stomach turned to stone, each swallow like acid spilling down a tube. The devil attacked my thoughts, bringing a thousand questions and demon regrets, lies. I had no idea it was like this. All the weak places in my constitution were fair game, the people around me a fog. I wanted to lie still, still on my bed and never move, my legs leaden and useless. I knew that there were others who needed my help, my compassion, but all thoughts turned inward to the loss of my Daddy hero, a man whose death I always dreaded. He was too alive to be dead. He loved me too much to be gone. He loved life more than anyone I knew. His delightful spirit lit up every room he ever entered. How could he leave? How could he be gone when his hat still smelled like him and his gloves are still on the patio where he left them?
We are still numb from the outpouring of loved ones. Raw from the quickly planned and executed funeral. People from three and four decades back showed up and hugged us, spoke of his character and his love, what he meant to them. The weekend afterward was full of more food, more relatives, more talk, more hugs. But tomorrow the alarm rings and life has to resume. Without him. Survival requires the march, paying no heed to the fallen.
Our eldest son asked me a question, after it was all over. "Mom, are you better off now? Can you see where the places it might be better now that he is gone?" What a seemingly cruel question, until I ponder it deeply. Eternity gaped before me. I searched my soul in ways that I had not for a long time. I reflected on his life, on what was important to him and to me. I thought about how I can honor him better, going forward. And especially, I considered heaven, God, and Daddy's deep and rich love of Christ. He lived as a true Christian, simply and faithfully. Not a hypocrite. Not proud. A light in darkness. He loved all the folk God put in his path. His body is deep in the earth but his spirit has flown to his Savior. Death be not proud; death is swallowed up in victory. I love you Daddy. I'll see you on the other side.
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