The Unexpected Party Guest

It had been a bittersweet birthday celebration for my son some sixteen years ago. I could not help feeling a sense of sadness on this day of celebration. With the exception of my father, all of my family was there. My father had died in the spring of that year at the age of sixty-three. I could not remember a family occasion he had ever missed. There was a tremendous void...a real sense of loss. His empty chair at the head of the table was an additional reminder of his absence.

Little did I know until later that night that Daddy did, in fact, have every intention of being there for us --

As I was drifting off to sleep that night, I was filled with memories of my father and our lives together. I remember he would always say, "When I die, I don't want any fuss. Just come down to breakfast and say, '˜Things sure are different without Daddy today.'" What a typical statement from a man with such an humble spirit and unpretentious gentle nature. Did he not know that we saw him as the indisposable tender protectorate of our family?

I began reflecting on the way Daddy lived his life and the example he set. He had a busy physician's schedule; but he was always ever-present in our lives. He never missed piano recitals, boy scout camp outs, or school functions. He led our church youth fellowship and drove carloads of friends to concerts and the beach. He had a knack for quietly teaching us to believe in ourselves.

After I left for college, my father continued to guide me from afar by sending notes with inspirational messages and quotes. In times of need, I still refer to them'"a reminder of his wisdom. But the message that he most believed in for a life of integrity was that people should live their lives so that anyone speaking evil of them is labeled a liar.

My father was a steadfast figure for his patients and known for his listening abilities for a resolution of their woes. He volunteered his services in Vietnam as a physician. He was quoted in the UNC Alumnae Magazine as saying, "My stay in Vietnam has given me a deeper sense of our obligation to those less fortunate than we. I have learned that the Vietnamese do not think as we think; but they cry the same tears when their children die." After he died, we found the journal he kept while he was there. He wrote in one of his entries after a hard, yet gratifying day, "I'm hot. I'm windblown. I'm dirty. Boy, do I feel good!" That sentence captured his entire nature of goodness.

Sadly, this man who was so dedicated to his country, friends and family was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's at the age of fifty-six. He, however, maintained productiveness by filling his days doing menial tasks around the house and walking the dogs. He continued to be participatory in family and church events.

Daddy's evident love kept lingering even after he died. He had written a comforting letter to my mother. It said, "You and the children have been my whole life, and I want to say this one last time that I am grateful for you and what you have been to me. If I could live my whole life again, I would not change a thing. How fortunate I have been. Please remind the children that their Daddy loves them more than they will ever know."

-- I awoke suddenly from my dream -- or was it a dream? It felt as if I had had a visit from my father. He was sitting at the end of a festive table. He had a translucent glow and looked healthy and happy. I said, "Hey, Daddy!" He beamed with the brightest smile on his face. I woke up with a great sense of peace. It seemed that in his usual, dependable way, Daddy had come to one last celebratory dinner to let us know of his everlasting love for us -- yet another gift of loyalty from a man who is so missed by his family -- and not just at breakfast.

As you and your families gather around your table, take a minute to drink in their precious presence. Savor every moment. Hug a little tighter. Laugh a little longer. Tell them you love them "more than they will ever know."