Dads and Dreams.

An incredible thing happened after my last blog: a precious woman read my blog and offered to pay for the writing class I had mentioned at the beginning of my post. I really can't explain what this did for my heart, well...yes I can.

A friend once said to me, losing someone close to you is like losing a leg. You can live without your leg, but the way you live changes drastically. Five months into losing my Dad, I can vouch for this analogy and say this is a very true statement. I'm still breathing, but life has changed and at times it feels like I walk with a limp. It is the little things that hurt the most. For example this week I watched a sweet little movie called Flipped. In a quick, subtle scene the girl jumps into her dad's pickup truck and they drive through the countryside. Before I could recognize the buildup of water in my eyes, I was weeping, it actually took me a moment to notice the onslaught of tears on my face. A dad, a truck, and the country, they didn't even talk during the scene. It's the little things that hurt the most.

This class was one of those little things. My dad was a dreamer, he was a mountain man that lived in a tiny mountain town and drove a tiny pickup truck. But that man knew how to dream (I'll share his awesome ideas sometime). My dreams were equally important to him, if anything I would say my dreams took priority over his own by a landslide. I could picture me spilling my heart to my dad about the writing class. How it would help me become a better writer, and someday I would write a book (this is where my dreams come in). He wouldn't say much on the other end, mostly because I wouldn't take a breath to allow him a word in. When I had finished talking about this class and my dream. He would tell me how wonderful it sounded, that I should do it (knowing that I couldn't afford to do such a class). I would then inform him that I couldn't afford to do such a class (though he already knew it). 

"How much does it cost?" He would say to me.

 "Seventy dollars" I would reply.

"Honey," he would say, "You know I'm going to pay for your class." 

And he would, he would pay for my class. 

The money isn't the issue here. It's the man behind the money, the supporter of my dreams. So when these things come up and I want to call him and say, "Dad! You got me on this one?" but can't... my heart breaks. Not because I lose an opportunity. I miss my dream holder-upper. My provider. To be honest, I don't think I prayed about this class, maybe I did but I don't recall. I tucked it away in my back pocket and allowed it to inspire my heart to write again. I read some blogs on writing, sat outside and brainstormed, and wrote a new blog. When I got the message on Friday from a friend who wanted to pay for my class, and wrote "I believe in you so much" in that little text, well...it felt like I got a heart massage.

I so needed to be reminded that God in His truest form is the Father. He loves to see me dream, and He wants to be a part of it. He loves to make a way! I remember thinking to myself (knowing He was in on the conversation) "You saw that?" I find it completely enriching and almost laughable. He sees and loves and supports... ME!? I knew my Dad got it from somewhere (ahem...God).

Well, tonight was the first night of my writing class. It's a small little class, perfect in size. The instructor's advice in starting to write was, "just begin." Edit later... but you have to just begin to write. So that's what I just did! I was planning on writing about something completely different (don't you worry, I'll get there someday) as I wrote, the aforementioned flowed out... and voila! A blog.

On an all day Daddy Daughter Date.