Chapter 10 – Beryl Donald Paullin

My “search for Truth” would take a long detour through my relationship with my father.  I never had much desire to write about the “search for truth” that I had undertaken in the 1980’s, let alone the rest of my oft-times irrelevant,  isolated life. Why on earth would I want to write about important elements of my family, or of my personal life? The answer to that question is that I never did, up until around the year 2014. When I had to retire early from my career as an electrician to provide extra care for my father, I finally had the time to consider where I was, where I had been, and where I might want to be, for the limited time that I had left on this planet. I saw how my life’s foundation was that which was provided for by the works and processes established through our family’s history, and through the history of all fathers who had ever lived.

My sister has always been quite the family historian, and in the past, I would defer to her, to let her develop the elements of the family history that might be the most interesting or important in nature.  Yet, my sister could not fully develop the emotional heritage of those ancestors, due to the limitations of the availability of letters written by them, or by the deaths of too many of the carriers of the family history.  Since my father was so available to me, I took advantage of my direct, almost continuous engagement with my father and his memories, as well as some family records,  to help me develop the first part of my story.

My father, Beryl Donald Paullin, was a product of the Great Depression, having been born in 1927. His Father, also named Beryl, was a Fire Chief who was respected within the community, and also feared in his home because of his  abusive nature and alcoholism. I know little else about Grandpa Beryl (also known as Bruce), other he also served in the military, during World War 1, and is buried in Willamette National Cemetery, as is my father.  My father kept my sister Pam and I away from grandpa Beryl until we were teenagers, that is how much my father wanted to protect us from the oppressive presence of his father. While in our early teenage years, Pam and I did visit with Grandpa Beryl at his La Center home twice, and I visited him in the VA hospital prior to his death. In his later years, he was sober, and seemed like a pleasant enough man.

Dad’s mother Elsie was the classic abused wife, suffering also through physical and emotional problems while married to “that Brute”, as my father referred to him. I also know little about her, either, other than she had kidney disease, was one of the first Oregonians to receive a kidney transplant, and that she died shortly after my birth.  John Edward was dad’s older brother (Ed preceded him in death) and Ed was removed from his home and placed at their grandparents’ farm in Oregon City at 6 years of age, after nearly being beaten to death by their father. I later learned that Elsie secretly gave birth to a daughter at age 15, which she gave up for adoption. So my dad and his brother and sister had an older sister that they never knew of, until very late in their lives.

Gloria (or Susie) as most people now know her, was his younger sister, and both Susie and my father suffered under abusive conditions for most of their childhood. Both my father and my aunt displayed some symptoms of PTSD for most of their lives, as well as both being products of the age of which they grew up.  Over the years, Dad found a way to manage his life much more successfully than his sister Susie, for sure.  Susie carried a most unfortunate and hurtful story about my father all the way to the end of my father’s life, which was that it was my father’s fault that Edward was almost beat to death, because my father, at  four years of age, tipped over a lamp, and broke it.  Edward’s near fatal beating supposedly arose from that event.

My father really loved his older brother Ed, through all of the years of his life, though he loved to challenge Ed about the mess that was always present in the yard on Ed’s farm.  Ed loved to collect old and junk cars, much to the chagrin of his neighbors, friends, some family members, and the local police department.  Sharon and I started sharing in their love beginning in 1995, when we all started sharing breakfasts, and family gatherings together for the first time.  My Uncle Ed was a masterful story teller, and I always enjoyed it when he grabbed my ear, for his epic tales about family, friends, and his work at the Crown Zellerbach paper mill, where he was the lead electrician for over forty years.

In 1943, at 16 years of age, Dad enlisted in the Marines, as he wanted to serve his country, get away from his family of origin, as well as he thought of himself as a “dummy” ,with no faith in his ability to successfully finish high school at Benson PolyTech. His mother promptly collared the local Marine Corp recruiter, and forced dad’s return home from the service. He re-enlisted in the Navy the moment he turned 18 years of age, and was assigned duty on two different warships, the West Virginia, and the Wisconsin, during his two years in the Navy. Upon his return from active duty in 1947, he returned home, where he threatened his dad with death if his dad ever laid a hand on his mother again. Dad moved on from that relationship with his mother and father, not seeing either of them again for quite some time.

He started college at the University of Portland, studying Psychology, Logic, Metaphysics, Philosophy of Mind, and other courses, from 1947-1952. He really wanted to understand the human mind at the deepest level, and his curious mind about other issues only left him after my mother’s death in 2009. But he had to delay his search for the truth about the broken human mind, as his now hyper-busy life got in the way of him finishing his studies of the human condition.  Dad formed a great friendship and relationship with Father Delaney, who taught at the University of Portland, and in whose name the Delaney Institute was named. He struggled a bit with his school work, but he did stay at it over a course of five years, which did not result in a degree.

Note: I was to later pick up my father’s mantle, and I have made my own attempts to finish the job that he had started, which was understanding the human mind. And, like my father, I rebel against the spiritual and philosophical authorities of the day, sometimes sharing with the readers of my blog and Facebook readers my insights.

Dad still had a fire in his heart, and an incredible desire to succeed. He worked harder than anybody around him, the sign of a classic “overachiever”. He endlessly drove himself, and he was going to overcome his upbringing, and prove to the world that he had higher value than the poor self-esteem that his verbally and physically abusive father had inculcated him with. His perfectionism and zealousness for order and efficiency was utilized to its best advantage in his future employment with the US Postal Service. That same attitude tended to, at times, challenge others, especially those that he attempted to help, or manage, as both a general manager with the Postal Service, and as a friend and family member. A person with a passive/aggressive personality, like me, had the most difficulty with him. Those who were self-assured or had found their own voice, and engaged him directly, had the best relationship with him, and he really enjoyed engaging with others in stimulating, challenging discussions. Those who took the time to get to know Dad, also found a way to love him, in spite of his rough edges. But it was hard to get to know him because too many times he would lead with a derogatory remark, or insult, and bad first impressions rarely get changed.

He had several choices in his career, either as a policeman, fireman, or joining with the US Postal Service, of which he ultimately selected. He also began courting my Mother, Corinne Beatrice Henry, who happened to be quite a “looker”, and also quite a hard working young woman, as well. Mom worked at the original Fred Meyer store in downtown Portland, among many other jobs over the course of her own career. Mom’s parents were not impressed with my fathers’ parents for obvious reasons, and Dad had to overcome some real judgements to make inroads into that family. My Grandpa Henry made my father mow his yard before he would even let Dad take Mom out, as part of their desire to prove that Dad really wanted to move forward with her.

Dad married mother in June of 1950, and they lived in NW Portland for several years. Pamela came along in 1954, and Dad knew love in a way he never knew before. Pam was a precious prize, and Dad delighted in her presence, and her life, until his death. I came along in 1955, and Dad initially had trouble embracing who I was, as I had troubled early years, causing much disruption to the family lifestyle, because of health issues (the underlying truth is that Dad had trouble understanding the innate value that I had as a baby, and as a son). Dad had a house built in West Linn in 1955, and spent the next nine years there, investing thousands of hours of work turning his property into his own outdoor temple. He repeated the same process with his next two homes, as well, converting the landscapes into his own unique paradise.

First and foremost, Dad loved his wife, Corinne, his children, his older brother John Edward, his new family, eventually including all of his in-laws, and all the new friends that they developed through the Oakey Doaks square dancing group. These included, among several others, Bob and Dorothy Fero, John and Cleone Edwards (John worked with Dad at the Post Office), Dick and Eunice Jamison (Dick also worked with him at the Post Office), Joyce and Merlin Litson, Joe and Sue Constans, and Bob and Diane West, along with several others.

He carried a lifelong friend, Roland Mills, far into his adulthood, with Mom and Dad sharing many fond memories with Roland, and his first wife, Eloise. They attempted to continue their friendship with both parties after Roland and Eloise’s divorce in 1980. Dad’s dementia late in life kept him from being friendly with Roland, though he still recognized Roland and knew his name, but had lost the willingness or ability to share memories with him.  In the very early years, my sister Pam and I shared some fond memories of staying at Roland and Eloise’s home while being babysat by their daughter Cindy, watching horror, science fiction, and Elvis Presley movies with her, and her brother Gary. Gary and Pam’s first deceased husband Jim Graham actually ended up working together for a while in the early 1990’s in the home real estate industry, resulting in the sale of the house to Sharon and I that we presently live in.

When dad was a young husband and father, he carried two jobs for a number of years because he did not like feeling in debt. Because Mom had to work, too, we spent much of our first years with baby sitters. I never nursed with my mother, and, as a baby, because I cried at night, I was wrapped in a blanket, and placed in the car in the garage in the evening so that my father could get sleep before arising at 2:30am for his first job every day.

My father loved to play hard, and he had many stories of being a top flight beer drinker in the local tavern scene, while also becoming quite the accomplished shuffleboard player. He told a story that the owner of a tavern even served him a beer while he was in the bathroom. Yes, he became friendly with the suds during that time period.  My father’s love of the suds translated directly to me, where I learned, quite early, how wonderful the flavor of beer was, and how wonderfully intoxicating it’s effects were. He told the story of how when I was 5 years old, he left an open beer on the coffee table, and when he left the room for a moment, I lifted the beer up, and drank it all. Within 30 minutes, I fell off of the couch, and dad and I both knew that I had a new, but dangerous, friend. Dad took care to monitor his beer after that, and so did I.  I would steal drinks off of his beer after that, until I learned how to steal whole beers later in childhood.

Dad carried a tarnished understanding of how to discipline his children, though he later claimed that he eventually came to realize that he was repeating his fathers’ abusive behavior, as far as physical discipline was concerned, and thus he stopped (I still got beat with a belt up to age 14, though). His rebukes were quite powerful, and seemed to outnumber his praise and acknowledgement of us. Early on, Pam and I suffered under the abuse of his belt too many times to recall. But through all of that, I never lost my love for my father. He was my hero, albeit a broken one. He loved my mother deeply, though at times unskillfully. Fortunately for mother, dad never lifted a hand against her, though they both traded many barbs over the years. A lot of it was just the way they communicated, thinking that they were being funny, and a lot might have been not-so-veiled aggression. They shared much pride in their children, and being parents brought untold gifts, and meaning, to both of their lives, because of, and in spite of, all of the challenges and lessons that we presented to them as children, and then as adults, over the years.

Dad was an avid reader, but spiritual or religious readings were not a draw for him. The last time that I remember Dad being present in a church was to witness my baptism in 1987, which also corresponds to the last time I was in a fundamentalist church environment, as well. Dad avoided going to church, having never been convinced that church attendance had any relationship to a connection with God. He stated that if he ever walked into a church, it would probably fall onto him. His church was his love for nature, its beauty, the wildlife, hiking through woods and meadows, hiking the deserts in Arizona, the trails of the Columbia River Gorge, or any of thousands of places around America, and the world. His church was also his love of his wife, his family, including his brother and sister, and his in-laws, his love of his dear friends, his love of his dogs, of which he had many. He adored his dogs, and they supplied a constant supply of the unconditional love that his heart, and soul craved, and which his experience of his exterior life sometimes failed to supply him in sufficient amounts. He loved the homes in which he lived, and prepared the grounds of each of them carefully, as if making each one a sacred offering to his creator. His body of life was truly the temple of his living God.

He was the type of guy that, had he ever met Jesus Christ in person, if he noted lettuce in the Christ’s teeth, he would tell him about it. He liked to state that “heaven was not ready for him, and that the devil did not want him either, as he would try to take hell over and run it the way it should be run”. Dad lived his life “outside of the lines” so to speak, and he delighted in challenging other people’s assumptions, sensibilities and understandings.

Dad was an accomplished card player, square dancer, stamp collector, avid fisherman, hiker, camper, traveler, scout troop leader, general outdoors man, adventurer, humorist, wise man, and golfer, but retired early in life from hunting. As a young man he hunted with his father, though he grew to be repulsed by the idea of killing innocent creatures. One time while hiking in the Arizona desert with his dog Misty, they were confronted by a rattlesnake, and he had to draw his pistol and shoot the creature. He regretted having killed it, which shows how his love for all life had taken over his soul. He had a challenged understanding of cats, though, and was quick to punish wayward cats that strayed unto his property to assault and kill birds and squirrels.

Dad’s high point in his career was when he was promoted to Operations Manager of the Main Office of the US Postal Service, in Northwest Portland. His career there spanned over 35 years, and he developed many friends, and a few enemies, along the way to his peak. He was respected by the Postmaster, though it was the Postmaster’s dissatisfaction with an aspect of dad’s personal life that encouraged dad to retire at 55 years of age. Dad’s next step would have been to become Postmaster over the entire Portland operation, and succeed Ben Luscher, had he not entered into an affair with Karen,  the office nurse around 1980.  Mother had a lifelong investment in my father staying married to her, and she took charge of a situation that would have discouraged most other people by informing the Postmaster of dad’s indiscretion. So my fathers’ official retirement date was 1982, and a whole new world opened up to mother and dad.

Dad traveled extensively with mother in retirement. They took their verbal “Punch and Judy Show” around the world, and around America. Eventually they settled upon their yearly snowbird excursions to Queens Valley, in Arizona, where they would park their travel trailer, and spend the winter in sunny southern Arizona. He lived the dream, and learned to make mom his best friend, and travel companion. Mother’s health had taken a downturn in 1978, when she learned that she had kidney disease. Dad would admonish her about her weight, thinking that if only she would lose her extra weight, her health would be better. Mom would do her best to comply, but, hey, that chocolate cake was just too hard to resist sometimes, and, anyway, she deserved it because she stayed so active. Dad had a habit of being disrespectful to my mother over the years, and the weight obsession my father had only added to all of our uneasiness with him.

There are some who thought that my father was a horse’s ass, but that is the view one sometimes gets when in second place, having been passed by his race horse of a mind. A man like my father, who lived a full life, could have his own book written about him, and not scratch the surface of all the people that he impacted, positively or negatively, and all of the experiences that he had, all of the humor that he shared, and all of the wisdom that he developed.  My sister, my wife, and I wrote several pages of “Beryl-isms”, which are quotes directly from my father about life in general.  I have presented a few of his “top 50” statements, which he repeated many times over the last few years of his life.  In parenthesis, I have included a few of my replies to his common statements that I used to give back to dad as part of our “conversation”..

1). Don’t wait too long to retire. People think they need to work those extra years, they work that extra one or two years, thinking they need the money, and death takes over, and they never make it to retirement (well, Dad, I retired early, but we will have to wait and see if that has any beneficial effect on my longevity.  Right now, my main goal is to try to outlive you, oh immortal one!).

2). Oh those rich people, all of that money, and they still have to die anyway! (and the rest of us, we have to die too, darn it!)

3). Why do you need to know, are you writing a book? (well, as a matter of fact I am!)

4). I really took the system, didn’t I? (after being retired and on pension for 35 years, contributing $22,742 to your pension, and getting over one million dollars back, I would say that you did!)

5). Come back again when you can’t stay so long (well, I am working on that one!)

6). Don’t you have something better to be doing? (yes, but you are the priority of the moment, so try to enjoy it while I try not to suffer too much)

7). Sure am glad that I am retired, or is it retarded? (um, I won’t touch that one)

8). I might be here, but I am not all here (then where is the rest of you?)

9). You know, having a dog like Rocky adds 7 years to my life (yes, but your dog took 7 years off of mine!)

10). (to any waitress) Say, you sure are looking good this evening. Would you like to come home with me and serve me my favorite meal? (argh! So embarrassing!)

11). I am not trying to be pretty, and I never will win any beauty contests (I can’t argue with you on that one)

12). The doctor needed a urine, stool, and semen sample, so I just left him my underwear (oh, boy, what a bad joke!)

13). You couldn’t hit a beach ball with a banjo! You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn! (comments made to me both as a youth when pitching or batting on little league baseball teams, and while playing golf with him as a child and as an adult)

14). When I get to Heaven, I am going to have a talk with the “Old Man” about my wife dying before me.  Wives are supposed to outlive the husbands.  Either I should have died first or we should have died at the same time (Maybe mom finished her work before you did.  In what form would you have wanted a simultaneous death, like in a murder/suicide, or in a car wreck?)

15). Son will we all meet again in heaven? (are you sure that you really want to hang out with the same crowd for eternity?)

16). Heaven is not ready for me yet, and Hell is afraid that I will take it over, so that is why I am still here (maybe you are still here to provide a few more lessons for the living.  I know that I sure am getting a crash course!).

17).  I am in no hurry to die.  Nobody I know has ever come back from the dead and told me what a great time that they are having after death. (yes, and wayward religions continue to capitalize on that mortal fear, ignore the fact that heaven is here and now, and do not effectively teach us how to die to ourselves and our fears and suffering to experience heaven in advance of bodily death)

18). I provided care for you all of those years when you were young, now its your turn to take care of this old man (I should have read the contract more carefully before my birth!)

19).  You should always be best friends with your sister.  Never let anything get in the way of that friendship, because she will find a way to love you to your death, as you should love her as well (Well, Dad, you sure have shown commitment to both your brother and your sister, especially over the last twenty years.  Somehow you all endeared yourselves to each other.  Thank you for being a success in that aspect of family love, and overcoming the chaos created by your parent’s relationship.  I think that Pam and I are on a good course right now)

And on and on it could go. My dad was a great story teller, and fountainhead of wisdom, one-liners, humor, self and other deprecation, and sarcasm.  My personality was so much less colorful than my father’s, yet, it is easy to see that I truly am my father’s son.  I have many of his same attitudes, and I replicated many of some of the same deficiencies in my own life that my father also experienced.

It was tough watching my father deteriorate, which began in earnest after his radiation treatment for prostate cancer in 2005. After mom died in 2009, Sharon and I had him over for dinner every evening. He was anxious, and suffered horribly from grief, and deteriorating cognitive health. I took him to the doctor’s office for treatment for depression in late 2009, and the doctor ending up prescribing anti-depressants for me instead. He continued to threaten to kill himself, and I had to locate all of his guns, and empty them. In the process of emptying his rifle, I almost shot myself in the foot, sending a bullet through his bedroom floor.

Within three more years, late in 2012, Sharon insisted that Dad have his driving competency evaluated, as he appeared to no longer be capable of driving safely. When the doctor confirmed that Dad should no longer drive, my life as I knew it came to an end. The loss of his independence also became my own loss, as well. I became responsible for 100 percent of Dad’s life, health, nutrition, meals, baths, finances, home and lawn care, and spiritual support. Dad no longer managed his life, other than dressing himself, going to the bathroom (mostly), smoking his cigars, and eating the food placed in front of him

I found a way to love that man on deeper and more profound levels, as I continued to release my own expectations of how he should be, and how he should live. His sole concerns became his love for his dog, Rocky, and maintaining residence in his own home until his own death. He had lost all short term memory, and was basically unteachable the last 5 years of his life, though he maintained his dignity, his sense of self, his recognition of his family, and his love for his children, including my wife Sharon. At the beginning of 2016, I finally hired a support person to help me with Dad’s care, a loving young woman by the name of Madison. She helped for about 15 hours per week, which went a long way to take some of the burden off of Sharon and me.

When Rocky died in June of 2016, ten days after our own dog Ginger’s death, Dad’s final thread of love and companionship with his past was snapped. He asked me over 5000 times where Rocky had disappeared to, after his dog’s death. I watch my father call out 30 times or more, Every Day, to his deceased dog, Rocky. We made up a sign for him, so that he can see, in writing, that his dog is dead, that it died of old age, and that he is ‘in heaven’. But, he never truly got it, because his short term memory was gone. At times, I felt compelled to set him straight, and tell him he is neglecting this moment, where Sharon White and i lived, and instead he was worshiping the dead,, where all of his grief and losses reside, but of course he quickly lost that. My heart broke for him, and for all of us

Our presences were just not quite enough to make all OK with Dad. But, we made him as comfortable as we could until his last days. He never took one medication, nor was I about to force one onto him. Dad’s final four years were a real labor of love for me, forcing me into early retirement from work, and the experience almost tanked me. But I learned how to love another human being unconditionally and completely, though the lesson plan exacted a price from me. I am only just now coming out from under the spells of anxiety and stress around the experience of care giving for my Dad, as well as being fully present for my friend Marty for the several months prior to his own death, which occurred five days prior to Dad’s death.

The last conversation that I had with my father was 6 hours before his death.

This is what we exchanged with each other:

Dad, you are still in bed, and its 2:30 in the afternoon, what’s up, it’s such a beautiful day outside.

You know son, I am always tired now, but I am about to get up.

Well, Dad, this might be the last sunny day in a long time, so why don’t you get up, and go out on the porch and have a cigar? I’ll put a chocolate bar on your table, and a drink for you.

I’ll get right up son. By the way, who is caring for me this evening?

Well, Dad, Madison is caring for you this evening.

Oh, poor Madison!

Dad, Madison benefits by being with you, as you do with her.

I will be with you beginning this Sunday morning, and I will be with you for the next three weeks as usual. You know we are planning one final trip to Hawaii with you, right?

Oh son, I am happy just staying at home. I have everything that I need here.

Well, OK dad. I am going to leave now, as I need to prepare for Marty’s funeral tomorrow.

When will I see you again, son?

Dad, it will be Sunday morning, OK?

OK, son, you know that I am dependent on you. Please take care of yourself.

Oh, dad, you know that I am dependent on you, too. You be careful too!

I love you, son.

I love you too, Dad.

I leave his room, not knowing this is to be our last exchange.

The next day, at 10:58am, as I stand in back of the hearse, as a pall bearer in Marty Crouch’s funeral, I prepare to receive Marty’s body to place into the hearse. I receive a call from Madison, which I cannot take, so I hand the phone to Sharon. Sharon is informed that my father is deceased. Sharon has to leave the service for our friend, and tend to my fathers’ body.

Oh, father, you really knew how to place your unique stamp on my life, didn’t you?

Through my relationship with my parents, I witnessed very early in life how women are oppressed, and how ignorant men try to dominate and control anyone or anything, including those that appear “unlike themselves and their own expectations”. It took many years before my mother was able to stand up to my sometimes loud- mouthed, judgmental, aggressive, harsh, and insensitive father. It took me 61 years to face down completely my own internalized image of what a man is, as well. To finally see how completely that negative ‘male’ internal structure permeates human consciousness in general, and in my own unconscious mind, in all of its diverse, obvious and subtle forms, finally transformed me. My own repressed nature found the ability to communicate its message to me, and rather remarkably it has revealed itself in the form of the “divine feminine” and I refer to that activity as my “second birth” as a human being.

My father died on September 15, 2017. Dad died in his own bedroom on a Friday evening, and had the look of awe and wonder in his eyes and face. He had found his promised land, where loneliness, depression, and dementia disappears, and where ‘bums’ are converted back into the saints and angels that they always were, but were rarely recognized by others as being so. It took nearly my entire life to release my own misunderstanding and judgement towards my father, and allow for him to express himself in the only way that he knew how to, while still providing a loving protection for him in his time of greatest need.

I know all too well the effects of getting the “bum’s rush”, which is the cultural response to my own social insecurities. I now try to celebrate the saint and angel that lives within me, and within all of humanity’s children, which continues to be released from within me as I release my past, looking for its own unique new expression in this strange new world. I thought that my life’s work was over when I became sober and had a series of spiritual healing experiences beginning in 1987, and continuing for six years afterward. Now I know that my real life’s work has only just begun.

Note:  The Clackamas Country Police and Medical Examiner made life hell for Sharon and I, upon viewing my father’s death bed.  Sharon had cleaned up the bed sheets because father emptied his bowels after death.  Because Dad had a slight wound on the back of his head from a fall earlier in the week (he fell off of a chair when the leg broke) the police treated his bedroom like it was a crime scene.  We were forced to sit through SIX HOURS of investigation and interrogation, all because Sharon wanted to make dad’s death bed a more sacred setting for all of us.  Sharon wanted to make sure that I did not have to witness the fecal mess upon arrival, since I was already traumatized by having to leave a funeral, where I was a pallbearer for a best friend, to attend to my father’s body.  I don’t think that I have ever been more traumatized by any combination of events in my life.  The second injury caused by the ignorance and insensitivity of the police department is understandable, yet very painful.

We who knew and loved you in all phases of your lives miss you both, Mom and Dad. Now being an “orphan” with no children of my own has opened new vistas of understanding for me. The self that I fashioned as a response to my upbringing has no value now. I unconsciously chose a less colorful persona as a direct response to my fathers’ flamboyance, and now I release that choice, to open the door to a new, more conscious way of being in this world.  Who, or what, am I now? I am a mystery, even to myself. I need not be anxious, though the transition times from what  I thought I was to who I am predestined to become can create anxiety. I am to be forever walking into the unknowable present moment. Living into the Truth of that which is now is the new story of my life. If there is only One Mind, it can only be experienced by a journey through the Unknown.

In retrospect, My father only appeared to cast a shadow over my life. It was up to me to find my own unique voice, in my search for my own truth, so that I could arise from my own self-imposed shadows, and be with him as a partner on love’s endless journey. Those who did not learn to love my father, missed out on one of my life’s most precious gifts, yet there are many other opportunities to bring light into our own lives. The healing journey that I had with my father could be considered miraculous by some, yet it is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yes, that healing will die with me, as I have no heirs. Yet, the love that we shared, as a family, will live forever in the mind and heart, of God. 

Dad, I will love you until the final day.