Dear Dad–Happy Two Years!

It’s still pretty crazy for me not having you near.
I do miss talking to you. All the time, actually.
But your memory keeps me looking forward to my own life.
I read this book back in June called “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years” by Donald Miller.
I loved that book. And there were a few things he said that stuck with me. One of them is: “The thing about death is it reminds you the story we are telling has finality.”

I’m living out a story. It’s the story of God’s grace in my life. It’s full of twists and turns–some bad and some good.
But your death was and still is a reminder to me that I only have a specific amount of time on this earth to live out my story.
We live for eternity with the Father. But He doesn’t give us eternity on this earth. It’s short–the blink of an eye. And then it’s gone.
And I want to make my story a good one.

I don’t know if you know this, but you still speak to me. Not in the same way the Spirit speaks to me. But the memories I have with you, all of our conversations, they come up. I think about the wisdom you poured into me. And then I hear your voice in my mind as you say something.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how amazed you were by the sunset. Almost every day you would call our attention to the colors in the sky as the sun was going down. You always whispered thanks to God for the beauty. Sometimes loud enough for everyone to hear, other times you said it under your breath–as if you were telling a secret to Jesus. Your wonder at the amazing works never ceased to amaze me. You were always quick to remind us that this life we’re living is a gift, and we should never take it for granted.

In his book, Donald Miller also says, “We get robbed of the glory of life because we aren’t capable of remembering how we got here…the experience is so slow you could easily come to believe life isn’t that big of a deal, that life isn’t staggering. What I’m saying is I think life is staggering and we’re just used to it. We are all like spoiled children no longer impressed with the gifts we’re given–it’s just another sunset, just another rainstorm moving in over the mountain, just another child being born, just another funeral.”

Thank you for teaching me that every day is a gift straight from the Father. No matter what happened, it’s still a gift. Thank you for teaching me to never lose my wonder.

I’m getting ready to go back to the States. I actually land in ABQ on the 25th. It’s weird to think that the Race is almost over.
But The Lord keeps reminding me to have the attitude that I can take risks and make adventure back home. It’s kinda thrilling to see what kinds of adventures He’s going to bring my way over the next few months.

We’re going to celebrate your life today. Celebrate your memory. And celebrate that we are living and taking risks and going on adventures.
We’re making our stories ones worth telling and remembering.

I love you, Dad. And I miss you every day.
Love,
Your Chewy