My Favorite Memory - Father's Day Special.

I worked at Starbucks, I was just settling in to a comfy chair in the sunshine and looking forward to eating my pastry and drinking my coffee when a co-worker sat down next to me. He had his lunch break too I guess. We were classmates as well as co-workers, and he decided then was as good a time as any to ask about my life. "What is your favorite memory of your dad?"... well that came out of nowhere. I smiled, and said as plainly as possible, "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into." You see, I had my hesitations in sharing my life with people I wouldn't consider close to me, but at the same time he happened to ask about one of my favorite subjects on the entire planet- my Dad, and holding back wasn't much of an option for me. Unfortunately for him, if he thought he was going to get a fun 5 minute story, he was wrong...he has just lost his lunch time.

I had to think about it for a minute, I tried to tell him funny stories of when my siblings and I were children, how my dad would give us bull rides and play out characters for each bull. The strong one was "Daisy", the pansy bull was "Butch" (see what he did there?), we would climb on his back and our mom would let us out of the gate (otherwise known as a pillow cushion), he would gently buck us around until we laughed so hard we couldn't hold on anymore. My co-worker looked at me with a big silly smile, and I was so discontent with my answer.

"Listen," I said, "I'm sure you love your dad and I bet he's awesome... but my Dad is unlike anyone I know. I talk to him almost every day. I've felt loved and wanted by my Dad everyday of my life. I don't have just one favorite memory for you." My co-worker assured me that was okay, he was happy to listen to them all. "What a weirdo," I thought. But I happily obliged, and talked his ear off about one man for the remainder of our thirty minute lunch. When our lunch was over I went back to work feeling like I had just stood in the fresh air on the top of a mountain for a whole day. I couldn't wait to get off of work and call my Dad.

As soon as I jumped in my car I called him, I had a twenty minute drive from work to home, and more often than not this was our daily catch up time anyways. "DAD! GUESS WHAT!" I shouted when he answered the phone. "What is it Ash?" He seemed a little put off by my unknown excitment. "I got to talk about you during my lunch break!" (yes I was a 23 year old adult here). He laughed... I miss that laugh. I told him all about the conversation, and how I was so thankful for a Dad like him. I told him that I believed God was good because of him. "Oh Ashley, I'm not anything special, but I'm so glad you feel loved by me." Was his response. Not anything special?! Really?! I told him I know a lot of girls who don't have dad's or who have dad's they aren't connected too, he really was something special. The conversation slightly shifted from there...

"You know Ash, I was sitting in the church parking lot the other day waiting for my ride to the mine." [Please note here that my dad hadn't stepped foot in an actual church in probably over a decade. He just carpooled to the mine with his buddies, and they all parked at the church and went from there] continuing on he said ... "I was sitting in that parking lot and I remembered that God said our righteousness is as filthy rags, and I thought 'man, if everyone's righteousness is of filthy rags...mine are shitty diapers.'" I couldn't agree more with him, I had shitty diapers too. He continued on, "But then I thought to myself, well...if God wants me and my shitty diapers, I have to give it to Him. I have to let Him have them, have me, and He can make whatever He wants of me from there." We ended our conversation an hour or more later. I'll spare you the rest... But I will never forget that conversation.

My dad was the least religious man there was, he was a miner...and he cussed like one too. He was vocal about his dislike for "scumbags" and if he didn't like you, he didn't like you, but he brought holiday dinner to his lonely buddies he knew from the local diner. He watched reality TV and smoked two packs a day. His road rage was short lived but very real, and he would apologize for laughing at dirty jokes while laughing at the dirty joke. He would chuckle and shake his head at you while he smiled and muttered "you're pissing me off." He was so real, and so far from perfect, that to me he was perfect. And while most people elevate the deceased blocking out their faults after their death as a sort of coping mechanism. I remember my Dad's faults, I cherish them and laugh at them still...like I did then. I loved how wonderfully unapologetically human he was.

My times with him are my favorite memory. I couldn't count just count one or two or fifty. Because once I start, it's quite hard to stop:

Learning to dance with him at 3 years old in our small living room and still dancing with him in that same small living room at age 24 is my favorite memory.

Helping him pick out a shirt for the day and being so frusterated that he took longer to get ready than I did is my favorite memory.

Holding his hand or locking arms as we walked from store to store even as an adult is my favorite memory.

Long drives and him keeping me awake with music and dashboard drumming is my favorite memory.

Sharing one dang couch for years and fighting over cushion space is my favorite memory.

Driving on his lap at 5 years old is my favorite memory.

Him becoming my friend as I walked into my 20's and still feeling like his baby girl all at the same time is my favorite memory.

Him staying on the phone with me, half listening to my story, half listening to the baseball game until he got caught is my favorite memory.

Driving at 2am to the gas station to get "snacks" because "A pepsi sounds nice" is my favorite memory.

Sitting at the counter at our small town diner is my favorite memory, whether we were talking or both reading a piece of the newspaper.

We always fought over who had cuter feet (I still think I do). Favorite memory.

Growing out his beard as long as he could until I came to visit...only to shave it because I liked seeing his face, is another favorite of mine.

Convincing him that we should have "lunch" before 4pm on a daily basis is my favorite memory.

Taking me to shop at my favorite small boutique in his flannel shirt and logging boots and activly helping me pick out the cutest purse is my favorite memory.

Packing my overnight bags for sleepovers and filling it with ding dong's and ho ho's for me and friends is a favorite memory.

Learning to drive a stick shift up the small path on the side of a mountain...another favorite memory.

Going for drives through town late at night teaching me to harmonzie with him using our favorite hymns "As the Deer" and "More Precious Than Silver", once again...my favorite memory.

And so for Father's day, when I wish I could buy him one more card and a gift he "didn't know what to do with" (hardest person to shop for... favorite memory), instead I go over what made him my Dad, and it's so sweet to me. If he was here he would say that this blog was enough, that I didn't need to get him anything for Father's Day because this was more special than any gift I could buy him. And I would know deep down he meant it, but I would still buy him a thermos or a gift card to "The Olive Garden" since he "loved those damn breadsticks." Because I know what he didn't: that he was special, and he deserved every useless gift, every handwritten note, and every gratitude filled phone call I could ever bring his way. When you have the best dad in the world, that's just what you do.

This picture was totally his idea. I was the guilty party who took it.

Dark Rooms

We live in a time where everyone knows everything about us. That's mostly our own fault, Facebook asks me What are you thinking? and you know what, I tell Facebook...every time... exactly what I'm thinking. But most of the time I won't dig into the depths of my thoughts, I skim the surface of my mind for a basic, perhaps funny, or a slightly profound thought, and that's what I tell the world.

I don't share what keeps me up at night, or the subtle changes I'm recognizing in my psyche as I process through the twists and turns of my life. Those things are precious, those things are painful, and still so unknown to me that I wouldn't know HOW to broadcast it, much less feel like it is appropriate. 

I have wanted to write again for some time. But all I can write about is what is seeping from my skin, my deep self. It normally releases into the atmosphere in the form of tears, or yelling, or a weird giggle that I wish would go away. It sounds like silliness but it's not, it's uncertainty. To write it down is so vulnerable, but to keep it in is detrimental. Is it weird that I hope few actually read this?...what am I saying only a few do anyways!

What would I write but the truth...and the truth is I'm scared, I'm terrified of life right now. It has been wonderful, it has been excruciating, and I just feel like I'm sitting in the middle of a dark room with my head spinning. Is that gruesome? Yeah, I guess a little.

How do you deal with your downfalls? How do you embrace your weakness? How many times can one person say they're sorry? Welcome to my world...have you been there too? Weakness is ugly, and only those who don't feel weak at the moment would instruct you to embrace it. I know because I've done it...right in the middle of my stronger moments. But when you feel weak, yeah that's not advice you easily adhere to. 

So here I am feeling wonderful, feeling terrible...and I'm looking for God. What is He like? I know that He's real, I've been too convinced in times past to doubt that. I'm not asking of His existence, I'm asking for His consistence. What is He composed of, what is His nature? I've met people that have told me He's cruel. But that's not what I've ever found. And even now when I feel like I deserve to be turned away instead I'm met with mercy. Lord help me, I can barely stand it!

I found myself bawling in my car two days ago, overwhelmed that I'm nothing like Him. I cried because the ones that love me most are the ones I can be the most terrible to (you know who you are!), especially when it comes to THE ONE that loves me most. Love Himself- He's so relentless, and I'm here with an empty flask of perfume once poured out looking at Him like: Oops! It's all gone now! I've got nothing left. I feel like I should be the last to talk, the last to pray, the last to sing, then all of His stories come crashing over me, all of His parables that He told the crowds wash my wounds. And in my undeserving state I try to push it away, not because I don't want it, but because it's so hard to accept. 

That's why I know He's real, I know He's real because the world condemns, they even condemn Him. The world shames, the church shames (though in my case most have not), and I shame myself. But not Jesus, not this One that won't leave. He's different- if my mind made Him up, He wouldn't be so nice right now. He tells me His ancient stories again and again, reminding me that he is 'The Lord God Gracious, The Lord God Merciful, Slow to Anger, Abounding in Steadfast Love...' (Exodus 34) He tells me again that He has my ring and my robe, and sandals for my newly swollen pregnant-lady feet (Luke 15). He reminds me that He is indeed the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob (Exodus 3), men with stories, men drenched in humanity and failure, and the one's God has decided to make His name known through. He's the God that chose a prostitute as the lineage for His perfect Son (Matthew 1). He says to me in stillness, "Let's talk, I never leave, I never forsake...(Duet. 31)" He knocks on the door I'm so hesitant to open, scared that I will find arms calked back ready to cast stones, but still He whispers to me through it, 'Open to Me, My love, My dove, My perfect one...' (Song of Solomon 5). And I know that slowly I will, after all, it's lonely in this dark little room.