December 28

What a difference a year makes. Last December 28 Daddy left our house to fly back home. I didn't know it then, but he had visited us for the last time. Though hospitalized until December 22, he had roused his aging body and made the flight to Atlanta. I had picked him up, rented walker in hand, and he had come into our house to grace us with his peaceful presence.
He mainly sat in the recliner, napping when there was a lull in the festivities, but his rheumy eyes twinkled and his smile took part when his two-year-old greatgrandson Tyler held court in the den. Daddy later commented to my brother that one of the delights of Christmas had been Tyler because he was "so engaging."

Today, December 28 a year later, Daddy is gone. Right after he got home last December, he went back to the hospital for 5 weeks. His body began shutting down, and by the first of April I wondered if he'd make his ninetieth birthday May 2. But he rallied once more, and as all the family and many friends gathered on May 1, he laughed and enjoyed the accolades and anecdotes of his long, well-lived tenure on earth.
Just six weeks later, on June 14, Daddy flew home to his eternal home - the place of no sickness, no aging, no leaving, no sorrow. The place where he can fully enjoy the Christ of Christmas.

We missed Daddy this year, but life goes on. We started a new tradition of playing family jeopardy (Who knew David's favorite Christmas present as a child was roller skates?). We watched three-year-old Tyler's delighted expression as he tore open one of Santa's gifts and found inside, yes, roller skates. We laughed when he stared down at the four pads and said, "I didn't know I had so many elbows!" His candidness was totally engaging, and I smiled, remembering Daddy. He would have loved every moment.