Trying to embrace memories as a gift

Sometimes, we get weary.

We all have those people that we can turn to (or run to depending on the situation) when the day-to-day grind overwhelms us.

But, what do we do when one of those voices is silenced?

For me, The Dad was just such a person. While the grief of his passing is always under the surface, of late it has made its presence known with a vengeance. And carrying the weight of that is exhausting. The simplest of things can put us right back to the moment of our loss.

This time, it was tomatoes.

I’ve been working on clearing out the garden spaces, getting everything ready for planting. The Dad always said that if I planted before Easter, I’d be planting again after Easter. It was a sweet memory while I was clearing away the leftover winter from the yard. A few hours later, I was strolling through local stores and spotted early plants and, without a thought, began searching for Roma tomatoes. Every year, I plant these for The Dad; and each year, they produce either nothing or one shriveled tomato not fit for sharing.

The giggle of planting tomatoes for him again was replaced with a gut-wrenching realization that he’s not here.

The reality is that, good, bad or ugly, when something happened, I’d share it with The Dad. I’d share stories just to hear him laugh, or to see him smile. If either of those things happened, it was a good day. I’d bring the one and only tomato in all its pitiful glory, and he’d laugh. I’d tell him about encounters with students or people at school, with people we both knew, and at times, I’d just listen. He was a great storyteller.

He was, hands down, one of the most giving people I knew. If he had it and you needed it, done deal. He had a beautiful (if crotchety) spirit. Even in death, he gave; The Dad was a tissue donor and, as such, would help veterans who needed skin grafts and such. He was a servant leader his entire life and lived what he preached. He certainly lived what he preached as he left this earth, and shared what he could with whom he could. Yet another lesson from The Dad’s book of life.

As the one-year anniversary of his passing from this life to the next looms, I’ve quit trying to dodge the memories. Rather, I try to embrace each one as a little gift from him. A reminder that he’s around. Laughter? Absolutely. Tears? Buckets. But mostly, just love.

Patti Dobson writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact her at:

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