I miss my Dad.

It's eight years today that I've gone on living life without him,

and to think of so many

days,

events,

memories,

moves,

accomplishments,

babies

and so many other things happening in that time,

that he missed,

it gets me down.

Until it doesn't.

Until I remind my sad-sack self, that in fact, he hasn't missed a beat.

He's seen it all. Correction. He sees it all.

He hasn't missed a single thing.

He's just got balcony seats that, well, he paid a hefty price for.

But really, if for some dang reason you'll one day understand, God must pull you from your life and those you love so freakin' much, I guess it ain't too bad to observe "your people," next to the Big Guy who loves and cares for those humans just as much as you do.

Life ain't always peachy, and it's easy to fall into the trap that is
“woe is me" and "why is this happening?"

But I won't let myself.

My dad raised his daughter to be tougher than that.

My dad raised his little girl to take her woes and do something about them.

My dad raised a woman who knows that when she asks,

“why is this happening,”

it's up to her and her dang persistence to find the damn answer.

And, if there isn't a good one, to then squeeze even the tiniest bit of positive out of a stinky situation.

You know, I will never understand why God took my dad from this Earth, but what I do know for sure is that why he was here for as long as he was

-- which I will never believe to have been long enough --

was to impart upon all of those who were lucky enough to know or meet him the lessons he did.

The lessons I'll never forget.

The lessons I'll relay to my children.

The biggest lesson of them all being:

Be in the arena. Do life. Bitch and complain if/when you must, but then pull up your bootstraps, and get back to work.

I've kept working these past eight years, Daddy, with my most extraordinary production being your three stellar grandchildren, and now and always, we hope we're making you proud.