My Dad, my giant.

Once you were gone, I could see your whole life in one frame, and who you are came so clearly into focus.

I hate to tell you, Daddy, but you’re 92 today, not the 93 you were expecting.

Somewhere in that last, whacky year of your life, you proudly added an extra year to your age, but now that I’m safely out of your reach, I’ve got to break it to you: you were 91. And 92 happens today, if you’re still counting years there in heaven.

I’m doing okay. I laugh more than I cry now, when I think of you. I’m still so proud.

Once you were gone, I could see your whole life in one frame, and who you are came so clearly into focus. You were a giant of a man, small and bent when you left this earth, but giant in character. In integrity. In mission. You were a straight line, a tree firmly rooted, a force unwavering. A “long obedience in the same direction.”

Do they have birthday parties in heaven? If they do, your Mom is playing the piano, her hands bouncing dramatically and ranging over all the octaves on the keyboard. Your brother, Roy, with his crooked smile, is thumping away on his bass, and there is a whole lot of familiar laughter in the background. You’re laughing as loud as all the rest, and your familiar grin is lighting up the room.

(Room? Somehow all of heaven seems outdoors in my mind.)

We’re remembering you here, too, Dad, and holding you close. Don’t want you back; I like the vision of a whole and hearty You. But I miss you like crazy, and want you to know I will love you and admire you forever.

Best of all the Papas, I still remember what my small hand felt like in your strong grip, and my thanks for your lifetime is never enough.

Happy birthday!