#292: Presence Over Gifts
“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
- Maya Angelou
Presence Over Gifts
The last time I spoke with my dad he was leaving for a trip to Nevada. Two days later, while driving on a winding road back from the Hoover Dam, he crashed his motorcycle and was gone.
Clara, the main character in a book I'm reading, experienced the unexpected death of a parent too. She revealed that as close as she was with her father, she had forgotten many memories of him and what it felt like to be in his presence. So later on in the book, when her boyfriend tells her that his grandfather is battling cancer and has only a few months to live, she recommends he start writing down the things he loves about him, the sayings he had, the things he’d do, and anything he'd want to remember and cherish forever. She wished she had done so before her loss.
I never made a list about my dad either. But right after reading Clara's suggestion, I paused on the page as two vivid memories came to the forefront of my brain.
The first were the nights my dad would surprise-visit me when I was a teenager hostessing at a local restaurant in town. The second were the mornings when he woke me up for school. My parents were separated, so any day he was in town felt special. But I’ll never forget these two things specifically.
The job at the restaurant didn’t mean much to me. It was just a way to earn some money for college. But being there always became more enjoyable and meaningful when my dad casually walked through the doors. Even though it happened a lot, it always caught me off guard and put a huge smile on my face. He’d enter alone, then go sit at his usual seat at the bar and quietly eat his dinner. He wouldn’t talk to me, or even look my way really. I know he liked Italian food, but thinking back, I realize he came just to simply be there... when I was.
The other profound memory I have is the tactics he’d use to wake me up for school. He’d start by calling my name in this soft, far-off, almost comical tone. "Aaa-maan-daaa..." I'd tiredly laugh at him and pull the covers over my head, which led to his next tactic - pulling on one of my toes. When I moved that foot, he pulled a toe on the other. And I'd continue laughing, though keeping my head buried. So, he would start tugging on my covers. He never pulled them off though. Just quick tugs. I remember these mornings like they were yesterday, maybe because I always felt how the nature of his ridiculous wake-up call drastically shifted the dynamic. I remembered how it all actually felt peaceful. So instead of my grumpily getting out of bed to a noisy alarm or my mom abruptly shouting from the hall (no offense to my mother, she also was making the lunches!), I stumbled out of bed with a grin on my face ready to start the day.
Those are the two memories at the forefront.
I loved and am beyond grateful for the big vacations my dad always planned, and the boat rides and the special birthday parties and gifts. But it’s been 6 years, and it’s the seemingly conventional memories that I remember in the greatest detail. It was those simple, recurring things that made me feel loved more deeply than anything else.
I had a dream last night that I was inconsolable, crying about something. I don't remember what exactly. I just remember feeling overwhelmed. But then I pushed aside the curtains and looked out the window to my backyard, and there was my dad, sitting on a lawn mower (which was actually quite fitting/symbolic as he often worked outside and took care of the landscape). He was slowly moving by on it. I frantically pressed my hands up on the glass window, pushing hard against this barrier. I knew he wasn’t actually alive, that this was his spirit passing by and therefore the visit wouldn’t last. So, shouting through the glass, I quickly tried telling him all the things I’d been wanting to, including the struggles. And he very gently responded, “Don’t stress so much about the little things. Trust me. Everything will be okay and work out as they should. I’m still here.” I eagerly watched him, listening to his affirmations, but the lawn mower kept rolling on. It rolled until he was out of my line of sight.
The crying stopped and I quickly woke up. And I felt this wave of peace in knowing his spirit was passing by to say he was still with me. Maybe not from the edge of my bed or on a barstool twenty feet away, but from a different wavelength.
And that’s beautiful to me - knowing his soul remains. And that he’s still wanting to make sure I feel his love, his support, and his ongoing presence. He always did.
