Oldies but goodies…

…until I can get a “newie” written.  Seven years.  Unbelievable.  That’s a long time to miss someone, to be left in the waiting, in the hoping.

I wrote this for Dad at the hospital and read it to him while he was in a coma, twice, in case he didn’t hear it the first time. Because if you know my dad, you know he was always into repetition. I also shared this at Dad’s funeral and memorial service. If you know me, you know I loathe and detest public speaking to the very core of my being, so the fact that I was able to honor my father in this way is a testament to the unbelievable grace of God and His power to sustain us in situations we never imagined ourselves in.
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“Father’s Daughter”
I am my father’s daughter. More and more, the truth of that statement resonates within me and brings a smile to my face, the face so much like your own. So much of who I am comes from you — the good, the quirky, the downright bizarre, and a few genetic flaws that make me say, “Thanks a lot, Dad!”

When I find myself going through an entire winter without heat and wearing triple layers of pajamas to stay warm at night all so I can rejoice over my $17 electric bill, I think of you, knowing you instilled in me this frugality that borders on the absurd. Who else but you dilutes soft drinks with water, thereby effectively reducing the cost by half?
When I go into one of those deep introspective, reflective periods, I remember that we are temperamental twins and that you understand the joys of being a melancholy with that drive for perfection and, surprisingly enough, never attaining it.

When I’m on one of my super independent, “I can do everything myself and don’t need anyone’s help, thank you,” kicks, I think of your stubborn strength even in recent days when I assumed the role of Nurse Laura to you. You were not the most cooperative patient, wanting to do everything for yourself. But it was a privilege for you to let me help you, to bring you your beloved Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream when you wanted it. I think of your determination to push through no matter what so clearly demonstrated when, in a fierce tennis game between us, you fell and injured your already injured shoulder, took off your belt and strapped it around one arm to keep you from using it, and just kept playing.

When people laugh at my random humor and ask me who did I get my sense of humor from, I say my dad. My dad with the dead-on Steve Martin impersonations. My dad with the propensity to break out into an indescribably hilarious dance to the song, “The Boy Who Wouldn’t Hoe Corn.” My dad who even kept us laughing while he was in the hospital and, under the influence of medication, asked us, “How long have I been weird?” My answer: “Well, Dad, since about 1946.” My dad who doesn’t know the meaning of the word inhibition, which, of course, proved a constant source of embarrassment during my teenage years but grew to be a trait I wish I had myself.

Even with all the ways we’re alike, I still hope to grow into some of your characteristics as I get older. I admire your perseverance, your ability to do whatever task God has called you to regardless how tough it may be. I admire your amazing devotion to studying and teaching Gods word; I’ve never seen a Bible as marked up as yours. I even admire your tendency to be a thorn in people’s flesh, to confront in love when needed and nudge people toward doing what they need to be doing.

I have a long way to go to ever live up to the example you’ve set. God really did break the mold when He made you. I am grateful for everything within me that comes from you, grateful that God gave me you as my father, and grateful and proud to be my father’s daughter. I love you, Dad.

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Promises…in red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet

(written for the one year anniversary of Dad’s passing)
My time with my family this weekend was full of sweet remembrance of Dad — much laughter at his kitchen dancing antics forever captured on video, smiles as we swapped stories of this uniquely uninhibited man, tears as the full weight of his absence hit with a newness I didn’t think I could feel after a year.

The trip to the cemetery was particularly poignant. I wore his Indiana Jones style hat, which seemed a fitting tribute and a practical way to block some of the blazing sun from my face. I sang “Be Thou My Vision” for him, my favorite hymn and the song he asked me to sing with him as a duet at his church, but I, in my fear, declined. I ran my hands over the mounds of dirt that cover him, saddened by how unkempt his graveside looked, and told him over and over, “This is not your home.” And then, because I am a Bower and prone to socially uncouth behavior, I danced. That’s right. I rolled down the windows of my mom’s car, cranked up “The Boy Who Wouldn’t Hoe Corn,” and I danced for him. I cast furtive glances behind me, checking for horrified onlookers, but eventually settled into the dance, embracing this small taste of wild abandon that only he could’ve taught me.

The highlight of the weekend for me was giving my mom the Mother’s Day card that my Dad bought for her over a year ago, planning to keep it stashed away so that he could give it to her this year. I retrieved it from its hiding place in his closet shortly after his death and have been hanging on to it (and miraculously not losing it) for a year, hardly able to wait to give it to her on his behalf. What a gift.

It was a good weekend, but when Mom and I returned to Tulsa on Monday evening, I was anxious to get to my next destination — a walk and talk with a dear friend who had agreed to help me decompress. I stood in Mom’s driveway, transferring my belongings from her car to mine when I felt a drop of water splash against my skin. Then another. It was a beautiful, sunny day, so the sudden, short-lived sprinkle caught me off guard. I looked up, as if to verify that this really was rain and not some obnoxious neighbor kid lurking in the bushes with a Super Soaker.

That’s when I saw the soft, blurred pastels of a rainbow peeking out from the gathering clouds. “Look, Mom! Look!” I exclaimed, pointing heavenward with the gusto normally reserved for four-year-olds on a sugar rush.

“Oh, wow. How amazing to see that today!” she said.

My eyes wandered slightly, and I tried to figure out if I was the victim of an optical illusion, or was I really seeing what I thought I was seeing? It was actually a double rainbow, the outer arc a muted wisp of its more brilliant companion, but barely visible, beautiful nonetheless.

Every time I see a rainbow, I am reminded of the first rainbow recorded in history, the one God created as a symbolic promise that never again would He destroy the world by flood. As Mom and I marveled at the significance of the double rainbow on that particular day — one year exactly since Dad’s death — I couldn’t help but indulge the thought that this was no accident, no coincidence. That God had created one rainbow for each of us. I felt that with mine came another promise from God, that He wouldn’t let the loss of my father and the events of this past year destroy me. How badly I needed that reminder. Because honestly, there were times when I thought it would.

I can only describe this year as touch and go at best, sometimes just existing from one horrible moment to the next, clinging to a hope that seemed to disappoint me again and again. This was a year of survival, of seeking escape and numbness, of simultaneously believing God’s sovereignty but feeling an anger toward Him that knocked me off my feet and kept me reeling for months.

But somehow, even in the midst of that jumbled mess of emotions, I have been surprised by joy. (Thanks, C.S. Lewis.) My pain has been tempered with just enough peace to sustain me and keep me from going completely loony. (No smart comments, please. I know I’m 75 % of the way there anyway.) I have fought against God, I have railed against Him, and yet couldn’t get away from Him. “Oh love that will not let me go…” It was as if He was telling me, “You’re mine. You may not like it just now. You may not be real happy with me, but you cannot escape my love.”

Many were praying that my faith would not fail, but maybe that’s what I needed, for my old faith — one that was built on the circumstances of my charmed life and had never been put through trial by fire — to be scorched, consumed, and replaced by a new, deeper faith, one that can say, albeit grudgingly at times, “God is good no matter the circumstances. God is good no matter how I feel.”

Staring at that kaleidoscope of color in the sky, envying the vantage point Dad has for viewing the same beauty I beheld, I did feel God’s goodness toward me in that He would use the work of His hands to remind me of His faithfulness. And I’m holding to His promise that this will not destroy me, that He won’t give me more than I can bear. Every thing that comes into my life has been filtered through His hands with His love, and it comes with another promise that it is all working together for good. I don’t understand it. I grapple with it and wait impatiently, arms crossed and foot tapping in annoyance, for the good to come from losing my dad. I may never have an answer to the countless “whys” that run through my brain at breakneck speed, may never understand it all until I reach Heaven myself and nestle into the full realization of all of God’s promises, staring with Dad in open-mouthed amazement at rainbows no longer muted in their brilliance.

I still have that empty Blue Bell carton.

Written six years ago today

 

The next two and a half weeks are densely packed with memories of what was taking place this time last year. A year ago yesterday was the last day my dad ever practiced dentistry (unless there are cavities in Heaven, which I highly doubt, what with that whole glorified body thing). I hope those patients whose crowns he cemented that day know how lucky they are.

A year ago today, I got The Call from Mom: “No time to explain, but Dad’s not going to Germany. He’s sending me on without him, and I need you to come to the house to look after him.” That call set in motion a chain of events so tangled and chaotic that I am hard pressed to recall with any clarity many of the details. They’re blurred watercolors that run together, creating a soppy beautiful haunting mess in my mind. Many I would rather forget. Many I cling to with the sweet sadness shared by those of us who have lost, those who hold fiercely the memories of our “lasts.”

God entrusted me with the privilege of caring for him during the week that Mom was in Germany. This is one of the greatest gifts He ever gave me, those days that can only be described as the most burdensome blessing I’ve experienced. It was raw pain, watching this man who was my strength, my foundation, my security — practically invincible, if you asked me –decline each day and me standing by with helpless hands, unable to fix him and wondering if this was more responsibility than I was ready to shoulder. But it was a precious time, too, one I wouldn’t trade for all the Jamocha shakes in the world. (It’s a Dad thing. Just go with it.)

Arriving at the house, watching him sit in darkness with his eyes closed, doing his best to shut out the pain at the base of his skull. Asking what I can do for him. (The response? “Shoot me!”) Trying and failing and trying again to get him to cooperate and let me be the nurse, darn it, and quit getting up to get your chicken salad sandwich! Doing his laundry — ah, the Grinch boxers that always made me smile. The tedious and painful process of transporting someone who can barely move to and from doctor’s appointments. My baffled amazement as he told me, “I think you’re getting the short end of the stick here.” Crying during his cat scan as the worry that this was so much worse than any of us knew began to creep up and choke me. His concern for others in the midst of his crumbling health, as, despite my suggestions to cancel, he met with two men from church to try and bring understanding and reconciliation to a very messy situation. Feeling near giddy when he regained his appetite long enough to send me to buy Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream — this, his last request of me. I saved the carton. Discussing Constantine’s inexplicable early eviction from American Idol. Tucking him into bed, and him telling me, “You’re the best.”

Sometimes, in my more pathetic, fear of man moments, I worry about wearing people’s patience thin with stories of Dad and the loss of him, as if my dear friends would think, “There she goes again! It’s been a year. Time to move on already.” Then I think, get a grip, Laura. You lost the most important, influential person in your life — a man who was an absolute original. Zany. Purposeful. Gregarious. Melancholy. Without inhibition. It’s important for me to share with others the person that he was for them to have any understanding of the person that I am. It’s important to remember him — all of him — not viewing him through rose colored lenses, but bringing to light the good and the bad.

The laugh so infectious, so boisterous that it could, at times, require him to throw his head back full cackle style. The popping jaw that rendered a quiet dinner with him an impossibility. The tunes he’d hum without any conscious awareness of doing so. (Recurring favorites included “If I Only Had a Brain” and “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love.”) The incessant throat clearing that drove me batty. The way he could relate to people and put them instantly at ease. The extreme “It’s all black and white with no room for gray” mentality that grated on me only because it was so woven into the fabric of my own temperament.

In sharing my stories, I will do my small part to ensure this unforgettable man will not be forgotten. So, as long as I’m left down here, awaiting a heavenly reunion (which will no doubt include dancing “The Pretzel” and singing bluegrass songs with kazoo accompaniment), I will regale the world with tales. Of the man who perpetually led the charge to the buffet table amidst the socially graceful, BORING people too polite to eat. Of the man who never once successfully made it through airport security without getting wanded or frisked in some fashion (“You mean I’m supposed to take the change out of my pockets? That would require me setting down my Mountain Dew and Blimpie’s sub sandwich!”) Of the 25 years, 5 months, and 15 days I was blessed with having John Bower here on earth as my father.

(I was going to leave it as, “having John Bower as my father,” but that isn’t quite right. He’s still my father. I still feel a connection to him so pure and powerful that sometimes I’ll break out in a big silly grin knowing he’s up in Heaven shuckin’ and jivin’ while I’m down here sweating butter sticks over my 1040. He’ll always be my Dad. I’m just going to have to take an indefinite raincheck on our next brutal and hilarious tennis match.)

A New Name (I will not let you go)

I woke up this morning feeling vaguely as if someone had thrown me out an eleventh story window. Ninety percent certain that was not the case, I sought out a reason for the sharp pain in my hip. It is a familiar pain, one that normally sinks its teeth into my flesh after vigorous exercise, but the most physically demanding task I performed yesterday was vigorously sitting on the couch. Yet merely turning over on a comfortable mattress now required the strength of Hercules, the dogged perseverance of Sisyphus, and the groaning of an arthritic octogenarian named Frank. 

Hands empty of any possible explanation for my state of woe, the half joking — and therefore bizarrely half serious — thought crossed my mind:

Maybe I’ve been wrestling with God harder than I realized…

The trouble with dreams…

…is that they stick with me, more like a poke in the ribs, really, and have the power to alter, albeit in fleeting fashion, the way I feel about somebody.  Today they have made “What if?” scenarios run through my brain at a pace that neither my feet nor reality can match.  That’s saying a lot, cause I don’t want to brag here, but I can jog a mile in 14 minutes flat.  And sometimes not dry heave afterward.

In last night’s installment of my subconscious, I told him I was sick, very sick with the sickness whose name people speak in hushed tones as if it were either deity or profanity.  I put my head on his shoulder, he put his arm around me, and he let the tears to their cathartic work.  As long as my head stayed on that steady shoulder, nothing could touch me, not even the naysaying doctors and their Debbie Downer, M.D. prognoses.  He was comfort and strength, daring to tell me I was not allowed to let myself wallow.  Turns out subconscious Laura is every bit the melancholic that three-dimensional Laura is.  Who knew?

He did.

And thus, all blasted day today while being sucker punched by the pragmatism so eager to remind me of the reasons we wouldn’t be a good match, the reasons that I can’t just call him and explain all the parts of me that are unwell and ask him to patch them up, some dream-addled, idealistic version of me cries out, “BUT HE WAS SO NICE TO ME IN MY CANCER DREAM!”

Wait, did I say idealistic?  Cause the more I think about it, that’s just sounding like irrefutable logic right there.

The funny stuff goes on Facebook

“The English language lacks the words ‘to mourn an absence.’  For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child or friend we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful, some not.  Still, we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only ‘I am sorry for your loss.’  But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness.”

–Laura Bush

What you can hear in this silence

“There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve — even in pain — the authentic relationship. Further more, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain.”

– Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Love to Insanity

(an excerpt)

You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever shared drinks across the table from, and beautifully damaged.  Night terrors.  Anorexia.  Alcohol.  Broken engagement.  Broken dreams.  And still you laugh, raise a glass and a disarming smile that sets my teeth on edge.

You reek of passion and intensity, obsessive devotion to the world you create, the art you live.  You’ve escaped a plastic existence and wrestle with reality, trading numbness for feeling any and everything, pain preferable to anesthetized content.

You speak of romance without love in the traditional set a date, pick out stemware sense.  To you, everything is about passion, and passion is “love to insanity.”  A love that will help her bury the corpse she brings home, no questions asked.  A love that wants her to be the first to shuffle off this mortal coil so she won’t feel the sting of reaching in vain for a warm body in the night.  A love that understands you’re both broken, baby.  Every concession to mediocrity, every greatness chanced got you where you are today, and the best you can do is try to piece your jagged edges to hers without cutting yourselves too deep.

(I am learning more about you in these few unguarded hours than I ever knew about him…)