My father died on a Thursday; I buried him on a Saturday, and I was back to work on Monday.

It’s not that I didn’t love the man. I did. He was my “go to” when I needed advice or prayer. My dad had a way about him. He could take some of the worlds most challenging problems and make them seem small. You’d just feel at peace after talking with him. I needed that. We could talk for hours. I was constantly challenging him. His thought process. Scriptures. God. He never tired of it. Seemed to welcome it.

So when I got the call that he had passed, I didn’t even feel like I had time to process it. I was running a business. I had people counting on me. Add to that my Ma mentioned she was getting calls from, “The vultures”, as she called them, and my mind was in crisis control mode. I had her give me the names of the people who were calling her. The guy from the grave yard about a spot for my Pa. The guy at the funeral home about the casket and miscellaneous things. She told me we had appointments with each of them and gave me the times. I got in my truck and went to visit both of them before the scheduled appointments.

As I waited in the office of the guy at the cemetery, I’ll admit, I was pacing a bit. He walked in, all smiles, introduced himself. Then I started talking, and made sure to wipe that smile off his face. Told him my family would be showing up in a couple hours for an appointment they had with him to discuss the burial of my father. I told him that there would be no discussion of money or the cost of anything while my mother was in the room. He was to speak to only me about that. I told him I didn’t care how long he’d been in his position or how many trophies he’d earned over the years. That when my family showed up, the trophies he had decorating his office, better be in a box. Then I left. The second meet with the guy at the funeral home went in a similar fashion. Told that guy my dad just died and my emotional state wasn’t in the best place; so for me, jail was a viable option if things didn’t go my way.

The appointment times came and went. My family showed up, and both those guys were on point. They didn’t breath a word about costs with my family. They were nice as pie, with no upselling. My mother had showed up worried about how things would go, and she left relieved. We got all the arrangements in order with no problems.

On the day of the funeral I had my suit laid out and ready to be put on. But as the time on the clock came closer to leave, the less I felt able to put it on. I’m not sure why. I just struggled with it. I meant to wear that suit. I wanted to. But I just couldn’t. The thought that my dad wouldn’t care if I was wearing that suit or not stuck in my mind and I couldn’t shake it. So I showed up to my dads funeral in a white t-shirt, black workout pants, and tennis shoes.

I got a lot of looks that day. Got even more when it came time to toss the rose we had been given onto the casket just before they covered him. I remember vividly what the pastor said, “and as an expression of our love we give this rose”; and then one by one, everyone holding a rose tossed it into the grave onto the casket. Except me. I just stood there, with my head down, holding it. The pastor repeated the line. I knew he was looking at me. Waiting for me to toss my rose. So I slowly looked up at him, jaw tight, eyes fixed on his. He got the message and moved on. I knew how it looked. Looked like I didn’t love my father. Looked like I didn’t respect my father. But just prior to that, while we were being handed those roses, my younger brother had mentioned to me that he would like to keep the rose he had been given. So, I gave him mine. I dropped it off at his house the next day.

I go by my dads grave occasionally. Sometimes….just to talk. Typically when I feel like I’m up against it. Spill my guts in the comfort and privacy of a memory. I think about that day. The things I did. How it looked. I know now I could have handled things differently. But at the time, truthfully, I really wasn’t sure how. I just really felt like I needed to take care of my family. So I did it how I thought I had to. I’m not saying it was right; or justifying my behaviour in any way. I could have went about it better, I know.

Years later, I see that gravestone….read the words. My thoughts seem lost in the meaning. “God touched me. Unconditionally loved me. And never failed me”…

I try to feel it. Try to understand it. But I can’t.

My dad was the real deal. A genuinely good man. But I’m not him; and that’s not me. My path is different. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say, “and He never failed me”. I honestly don’t know how he could say that. It feels like a false statement. Of course, if my dad were actually here we could debate it. I’d bring the passion of my argument to his chair, and he’d patiently listen until I was finished, then softly remove every angle I had offered with the precision of a well placed scalpel. I miss that. I’ll always miss that.

Testing the metal of my youth, with a man solid in the resolve of his….maybe that’s what he meant?

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