8 months

From May 8, 2013. 

It has been 8 months today. I have never missed anyone or anything so much. My heart continues to dance in limbo between such raw sadness and redeeming grace. 

Oh the sweet, sweet love of Jesus.

I used to give him a quick hug and say "don't die" before he'd go fly. How I wish I could take back those words - at the time, they were a joke. A way to tell him I knew he was a safe pilot and there was no way he'd die. He'd smile and say "I won't." He's only had his pilots license 5 years, but he had a passion for adventure since before I was born. He often told me he felt close to God up there flying, and it brought him such joy. Statistically, it wasn't any more dangerous than driving down a Texas highway. 

I know he wishes he was still here, but I also know he would never trade heaven for this. I am sure he knows more than we know now, for faith is believing in what you cannot see. Hebrews 11:1

When my mom had cancer a few years ago, it was a tough time for my dad. I think he realized we're all at risk of losing what we love most. 

I'm not mad at my dad for flying. I know if someone had told him "you'll die young doing this" he would have never started the engine. But, he lived life fully. My mom loved my dad completely - the quirky habits, the corny jokes, the adventurous spirit. And none of us know how we'll die. So in the meantime, we take deep breaths and we seek things that bring God delight, and bring us joy, too. Flying brought my dad joy, and allowed him to love on people, taking others for joy rides and reminding them there is more to life than the routine. He reminded others life isn't meant to be boring. God wants more for us. It's good to stop and look around, the way Dad did from the air. It's good to get your feet wet. It's good to get your blood pumping, to marvel at a sunset, to relish God's beauty in nature.  

If my mom was the only person on earth and there was nothing or no one else here, I know he'd be by her side. But there's a lot in this life we don't choose. And there's a lot of people in this life who don't experience for one week what they had for 30+ years- true, genuine, knock your socks off love. For that, I am thankful every single day. 

It is hard, the fact that we've had to be "okay" without him. We go back to routines and small things like getting out of bed, and we also do big things, like weddings and rehearsal dinners, without him. Everyday I hate this, and everyday I am loved on and taken care of. It hurts, physically, to hear worship songs. 10,000 reasons for my heart to find. Your love is deep. Light the fire. My dad loved singing, singing praises to God at memorial forest club or on a Colorado mountain with his young life guys. Singing in a pew at Chapelwood w his family. We have been so privileged to travel so much as a family, and dad often was the one to wake us all up and get us to church. In the hill country, the Bahamas, Washington, D.C. 

My parents together prepared us for this, this tragedy for which you could never be fully prepared.

The morning after the crash, I woke up from a deep sleep fighting mad. I went from a deep sleep to so very angry in about 3 seconds. How was this real? I ran out to the garage the morning of September 9, the sun just beginnning to rise I think, and I sat in his car, where we had parked it in the garage the night before. I sat there gripping the steering wheel and sobbing. I wanted to scream. I was just so...angry. Just a few
hours before, around 3 am when we got home from the Carrigan's house, my mom had given verbal permission to the hospital to donate Dad's corneas, and ligaments, and even his skin. Whatever was useful, she gave it away. He had "organ donor" on his license but they hadn't kept him alive from the scene of the crash, so most of the organs she was no longer able to "donate." Mom answered tedious questions with her head down, slumped and exhausted in our living room. But many, many wives would not have had the strength or patience. Many would have accepted defeat and gone to bed. But not this woman - I do not know how, but she answered their questions for over an hour. The nurse asked about overseas travel. "He was in Switzerland two weeks ago...yes, that is in Europe." Her strength was there from our first moments without him. He would have been immensely proud. 

It's funny, I don't love flying. But I never worried about him. I got scared because I personally hate heights, but, I didn't worry for him or those flying with him others. He was a fantastic pilot. He flew across the country twice, once in the blue plane that is now beyond repair. I've never been angry at him. Never thought "why didn't you stay on the ground." We cannot wrap each other with bubble wrap for our entire lives. Accidents happen. 

I miss him, oh how I miss him. This doesn't get easier as the days pass. I remain stuck between thanksgiving and disbelief - grateful for having him at all, knowing what a fun dad and good friend he was, such a "stud" - and still have regular disbelief that he is gone.

I want so very much for him to answer his phone when my mom calls it, as she has often since September 8. But all she hears is his cheery recording, asking to leave a message. I wish he'd come home and fill up our house that at times seems so very empty without him.

We are so blessed in so many ways. We have so many friends who share in our loss, who are no stranger to this grief themselves. We have god, and faith, and peace. We have hope. We have ancient words promising we won't be left or forsaken.

I am so so so thankful to have been born in a land with religious freedom, to be able to cling to Christ in this crazy devastating time, to have had parents make us go to young life and/or church, to have had parents who prayed we'd learn the gospel for ourselves. Isaiah 43:2 says that when we walk through the rivers, God will not let them wash over you. When we walk through fire, we will not be burned. How grateful I am for that truth. How grateful that though hurting, we are unharmed. Though struggling, we are cared for. 

I can think of no better time to die, than instantly, with no pain, than at sunset. My dad didn't worry about much, but he very much worried he'd have Alzheimer's like his dad. And now, that worry is erased. 

I watched my grandfather's body give out in March - for over a week he lay in a hospital bed, twitching, unable to swallow, unable to speak. I rubbed his hand and I thought: "A plane crash at sunset doesn't seem too bad right now, does it?" 

My dad always said God was showing us he's a UT Longhorn whenever he paints the sunset a vibrant orange. And I know that the sun never truly sets for us, who trust in the Resurrection and the life. I know that God is making all things new. My heart hurts, but I can hear my dad quoting one of his favorite passages, one he read often after his mom died in 2004 and then good friend Jay died in 2008:  

John 14:2 In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?