Five part two.

Five years ago today, my father left us. The sting isn't new, but the absence is still achingly real.

In the time that's elapsed, I've become a pretty different person. I'm more introverted. I'm quieter. I'm the photo that appears in the dictionary next to "abandonment issues." I'm slower to love, because I'm irrationally convinced that love will leave. More often that necessary, I feel I don't deserve goodness. I have less blind hope.

But I'm also more mature. I'm mostly stronger. I pay more attention to things that truly matter, and don't make time for things (and people) that don't. I'm emboldened to tell the truth. I'm closer to my mother. I'm more prepared to become one myself, when the timing is right. I relish in the pleasantly uneventful. I know that the only things I really want out of life are happiness and taking care of the people I love. I'm as ok as I can possibly be.

This is me now. I miss him every day. I'd give my own life to have his back. But I can't, and he wouldn't let me do that anyway, so I must live, love, and build as he would demand that I do.

The most fitting way I can see to commemorate today is to share his eulogy. Five years ago this week, I gave this address, under a gorgeous blue Arkansas sky, to a standing-room-only church full of guests. It's all still true, and it's the way I choose to remember this day.

...

For those in the back that can’t see just how much I look like him, I’m Ashlee, Tim’s daughter. And for thirty years I had the most loving, precious, witty, thoughtful, generous, and hysterical father imaginable.

My family and I would like to thank you for the kindness and generosity you’ve shown us, specifically in the last few months. Judging by your warmth and support, you all seemed to know just how neat of a guy Dad was. Although recent focus on my father had to do with his devastating accident, those aren’t the definitive memories of him I’d have you remember.

I want you to remember his smirk. His love of every artist on the Motown record label. His ridiculously dry sense of humor. That uncontrollable cackle he had when something really cracked him up. The way his face lit up when he talked about his dog. His unending, humble love of God and the church. His quiet, intense love for his family. How he always loved hunting, but only magically got better after the year 2000. Seriously, he was horrible for 20 years, then boom- marksman. His incredible memory, at a moment’s notice, for every lyric ever sung by the Temptations. The way he’d poke fun at his wife Gloria, but with a sparkle in his eye that let you know just how much he adored her. His hearty baritenor voice while he belted out gospel hits in the church choir. The seemingly endless supply of couduroy jackets with elbow patches. That ever-present glass of iced tea. How with a few very carefully selected words, he’d speak what it took others pages to say.

Countless memories flood my headspace as I think of how I should illustrate the father I knew, from our yearly trip each fall to get firewood to the silly made-up language that only me, my parents, and the dog understand to “name that tune” games on rock radio when I was nine. But this one sticks out to me right now:

My father was obsessed with weather and watched the Weather Channel incessantly, but I’m pretty sure it started because they plated smooth jazz in the background during the weekend forecast (after he turned 50, he had this thing for Spyro Gyra). After moving to Chicago, Dad would call me to check in, and would always ask how the weather was. I’d tell him, and then he’d explain to me how he already knew that. He’d been watching the forecast for Chicago for the last ten minutes, and wanted to make sure they were “doing their job.”

Times with my father weren’t always rosy. In fact, there were times when "rosy" seemed light years away. But in the end you knew that no matter what, underneath it all, he’d do everything in his ability to make you happy. That’s who I remember.

I refuse to let this be a day of sorrow, remorse or self-pity.

I choose.

I. Choose. 

I choose for this day to be one of joy, love, and tribute to what an amazing guy he was. I’ll remember that he was a fighter, to the very end. A man of God, a brother, a husband, a father. And hopefully to all of you, a treasured friend.