Any Place, Any Time, Any Manner - A Personal Invitation

I have so very much to tell you. I'd better start at the beginning. Last November, I participated in a coat drive with my church at a local apartment complex with a very large refugee community. I watched in astonishment as women and children from all over the world streamed to the World Relief clubhouse inside the complex, forming a line the length of a city block; I'd had no idea all of these people lived in my own city. Most of the women wore head coverings, and few of them spoke English.

Only a couple of women were allowed entry at a time, and they could only take coats for children who were present with them. No matter how ill-fitting a coat might be, or whether a boy had to take a pink coat, the children and their mothers were overwhelmingly grateful. Within an hour or two, we were completely out of coats, and I cried in frustration. Why had I not purchased more coats myself? 

Sometime during my brief shift that day, I felt a strong tug in my heart. I wanted not only to help these women, but to know them, to be a friend to them. Before I left, I spoke with a World Relief volunteer and picked up a brochure with the application information. 

I fully intended to fill it out and start assisting newly arrived families with adapting to their new surroundings, but I could never seem to find the time between working full time, cooking for my special dietary needs, and trying to keep my house somewhat clean. 

Around January, I started a Priscilla Shirer Bible study called Discerning the Voice of God with the women in my family. At the beginning of the study, Priscilla asked us to start praying about a specific situation in our life where we needed to hear God's direction. I decided to pray about whether to volunteer with World Relief. If I couldn't even find time to fill out the application, I wondered, how could I find time to volunteer? Still, I couldn't stop thinking about those beautiful women and their children. So I continued to pray as I did my homework each week.

"Is this the right time for me to volunteer?" I asked. "Or am I too busy? What can I do to make more time in my life? Would you please give me a sign about what you want me to do?"

One Saturday morning in early March, less than a week after I prayed for a sign, I had a burning desire to return a little drain cover to Ace Hardware. That part had been sitting under my kitchen sink for a year, maybe two. I'd run across it when my niece, Savannah, helped me organize the cabinets and pantry. 

When I walked into the hardware, a vaguely familiar woman in the checkout line out waved at me. "I know you!" she said. 

"Yes!" I agreed, as we both searched our memory for the connection. After a few moments, I said, "You were the table leader at some of my Bible studies." 

"Yes, that's right!" she said. "How long has it been since we've seen each other? Maybe 10 years?"

"That's about right," I said. "Man, I miss those Bible study days. We did so many great studies at that church." 

"Yes, the Bible studies were great," she agreed. "But there comes a time when you have to stop just studying the Bible and start doing what it says." 

"Yes!" I agreed, thinking of my discontentment with life as usual over the last several years.

We stood for an obnoxiously long time at the head of the line, catching up. Angie told me she'd recently retired and started a nonprofit organization benefiting Afghan refugees.

"Really??" I asked incredulously. "That's very interesting, because I've been praying about volunteering with refugees." I told her about the coat drive at the apartment complex.

"Oh, I go there all the time," she said. I know lots of families there."

"Wow!" 

We exchanged numbers, and I figured that would be the end of it. But within a few minutes, she had sent me a text:

"So good to see you again! I would love to take you with me to meet some of the families. I'm planning to go on Wednesday from 11-3 if that would possibly work for you."

I shook my head in amazement. Here was a personal invitation to participate in refugee ministry. I'd call that a sign, wouldn't you? 

Over the next few weeks, I visited an Afghan lady with Angie and helped a couple women with online applications. I wanted to do more, but work was very busy, and I couldn't take any time off. 

In frustration, I asked God, "Why would you connect me with a refugee ministry when I don't have any time to volunteer right now?"

The next evening, Angie sent a text asking if I'd like to do a prayer walk at the apartment complex that Thursday... at 6:40 a.m.!

If you know me very well, you know that I utterly despise getting up before dawn. I started to say that it wouldn't work for me, but then I heard a voice in my head asking, Didn't you say you wanted opportunities to participate in refugee ministry? This is outside work hours. What's stopping you from going? 

I confessed to Angie that my flesh didn't want to do it, but I told her I would do my best to be there. 

In the early-morning darkness that Thursday, Angie and walked around the parking lot and prayed with one of her friends from a discipleship class she was taking. His name was Caleb, and I learned that he lived at the complex. He planned to become a missionary in the near future, and he would stay there for nine months to acclimate himself to the culture of his chosen people group. 

"How does the program work?" I asked. "Does the organization have units here?"

"You just rent an apartment," he said. "You can have roommates if you want to." 

As the inky blue sky gradually became suffused with pink, an absolutely crazy desire steadily grew in my heart. After we'd said goodbye to Caleb, I told Angie, "I'd like to live here. I don't have to go overseas to be a missionary. The nations are gathered right here." As I talked, a plan began to take shape. "I could rent out my house. If I lived here, I could get involved with the ministry efforts without having to drive anywhere. I could meet with the women in their homes and invite them into to mine." 

She urged me to pray about it. 

The more I prayed over the next few days, the more excited I felt. As I contemplated the sacrifices I would need to make, though, two things hit me hard: not having a washing machine, and giving up my giant, light-filled kitchen with its wall of windows and many cabinets full of various beloved but seldom-used kitchen gadgets. Could I really be happy cooking in a tiny apartment kitchen? 

On Saturday morning, two days after the prayer walk, I read a passage of scripture for my Bible study homework that cut me to the heart: the familiar story in Matthew 19 about the rich young ruler who most likely decided not to follow Jesus because he was unwilling to part with his wealth. For the first time, I looked beyond what I always thought was the main point: that the man was greedy. No, the most tragic part was that this young man had the opportunity to walk with Jesus in the flesh, and he passed on that! He could have seen Jesus raise Lazarus and open blind eyes and feed the 5,000. Instead, he settled for enjoying his money. 

My eyes filled with tears as I applied the story to my own life. Would I seriously consider missing out on all the amazing plans Jesus had for me just because I wanted to keep my kitchen? My mind went back to a moment in the middle of the night in July, 2019, when I felt the call to evangelism. My response had been to fall to my knees in my prayer closet, saying, "Cualquier lugar, cualquier tiempo, cualquier manera" (any place, any time, any manner). 

Now, as I relaxed in my quiet time chair, I said aloud, "Yes, Lord. Yes, I will do this. If you open the door, I will live in that refugee community." 

TO BE CONTINUED

What I Would Have Said

In the 25 years after my first husband Byron and I divorced, our relationship gradually grew from tense cordiality to a mutual commitment to co-parenting, and finally to a friendship rooted in decades of shared experiences. Nevertheless, I was still a little surprised at how frequently I found myself thinking fondly of Byron this past Christmas season. 

Starting a few days before Christmas, I kept hearing the song "Here Comes Santa Claus," and each time, I smiled as I recalled Byron walking through our house singing along with it at the top of his lungs. He always made me groan with his own silly lyrics in places, typically something involving farts. Recalling these happy moments from so long ago triggered other Christmas memories from our 11-year marriage, such as the way we liked to do all of our shopping in one marathon trip to Target.

Christmas Banquet, Circa 1993

All of this reminiscing brought me welcome joy in the midst of the last-minute frenzy that marks my shopping and preparations these days. Several times, I thought, "I should send Byron a text to let him know I'm thinking of him fondly," but each time, I simply made a mental note to text him later. There were stocking stuffers to buy, presents to wrap, food to cook, and stockings to stuff.

The last time I heard the song and thought of Byron was on Christmas morning, and I really wanted to send him a Merry Christmas message, but I didn't pause to do that during my hurried breakfast preparations, nor after Ethan, Sumer, Allyson and I had eaten and exchanged gifts. Instead, I raced to feed the cats and pack my car for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to my oldest sister's home in Nacogdoches.

I arrived late in the afternoon, just in time to open gifts with Melody's family, our mom, and our sister Amy. I thought of Byron again as we unwrapped gifts, remembering the way he'd give money to my little sister Emily and ask her to buy me a bunch of clothes. It was always so fun to see what she'd picked out; she had much better taste in clothes than I ever did.

Definitely, definitely I would send him a message on the 26th, after things had settled down, I thought.

Confessions of a Chia Bomber

When I first started planning my trip to Washington State to help Allyson settle into her dorm, I was thrilled to find I'd earned enough frequent flyer miles for a free flight. The only problem was that Allyson didn't have her move-in date, so I had to delay making the reservations. Then, time got away from me and before I knew it, I was under three weeks out from my departure. At this point, there were no available reward flights. 

Unperturbed, I searched for a flight on Spirit, the budget Airlines we used on our $55 flights to Indiana in August. My hopes were dashed, though; there were no Spirit flights listed for Seattle. The only airline remotely in my budget was Frontier, which has an even worse reputation than Spirit. Still, the cheapest fare on Frontier was $276, a decent price, but a far cry from $55. 

Allyson Just Before She and Bill Embarked on the Very Long Drive

It occurred to me to skip the trip because I didn't know how helpful I'd actually be. But Allyson had said it was very important to her that both of her parents be there for this milestone. All of this frantic searching occurred during my trip to lovely Vermont to visit a Girl Scout friend, Allison, whom I have known since first grade. As we trekked from one quirky tourist attraction to another on what her family lovingly calls The Death March of Fun, I had a cell signal approximately 25 percent of the time, and I was desperate to secure the tickets before they were gone. So I turned to my personal travel agent, my budget-savvy little sister, Emily. Over a series of sporadically delivered texts and phone calls between myself, Emily, and my other travel companion, Diana, we managed to purchase the tickets. 

"Are you sure you're okay with just a personal item?" Emily asked. "It's over $50 each way if you take a carry-on." I said that for a four-day trip, I figured I could manage with a standard backpack, just as I had on the longer Indiana trip. 

I made up some of this unanticipated travel cost by booking a shockingly cheap Airbnb, a single room with a shared living area, kitchen, and bathroom(!) for just $56 a night. I'd never stayed in a facility with a shared bathroom, but the next cheapest option would have cost more than double. After reading every single one of the reviews, all positive, I clicked Reserve, resolving not to mention the details of my accommodations to my mother until after my safe return. 

Finding a cheap rental car was easy. I used my American Airlines AAdvantage membership to secure the discounted rate of $242.10 for four days—a steal! 

The final phase of my budget travel planning was the most challenging: planning a menu consisting of cheap food that I could pack into a lunch bag the size of an average purse. On the Wednesday night before my departure, I made Buffalo chicken in my mini slow cooker while I boiled two eggs, baked my favorite gluten-free sandwich bread, and whipped up a batch of chia pudding, which I topped with some frozen pomegranate arils. While the bread baked, I carefully tucked a pair of casual pants, a hoodie, a pullover sweater, two nighties, some socks, and a stack of panties into my backpack. I figured I could wear the cardigan and the fleece jacket that I would need in the much cooler Northern climate, rather than carrying them in my bag. 

Homegoing - Part 3 of 3

When the sun finally came up on Sunday, August 4, Dad made signs asking me for his glasses and hearing aids. I helped him turn the hearing aids on, but I couldn't figure out how to put them in. His hands trembled so much that it took him about ten minutes to get them positioned properly, and in the correct ears. The whole time he labored over that task, I prayed that God would guide his fingers because without those hearing aids, he is deaf.

When the hearing aids were in, I reread the verses from Sam, Melody, and Amy and then read two more verses I'd found in my devotional that day:

"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." John 15:27 

"The LORD's unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in Him." Psalm 32:10

The day nurse, a woman we hadn't seen before, brought Dad his pills, but he simply shook his head.

"He can't swallow now because of his swollen tongue," I explained. "Is there some other way he could get his medication? Maybe an injection? He wasn't able to take his anti-arrhythmic last night."

"I'll ask the doctor," she said.

"And what about water? He's really dehydrated. Maybe that's part of the problem with his tongue. Would it be possible to give him some IV fluids?" 

"His latest labs showed reduced kidney function," she said. "If we give him too much fluid, it will build up in his lungs again."

"He's really suffering," I said.

Again, she promised to talk to the doctor.

Love Across the Miles

Around 7:30, Dad managed to communicate, with much effort, that he wanted to call his younger sister Donna. I handed him his phone, and he pressed the large icon on the home screen labeled Donna. When I saw that the call had been answered, I spoke into the microphone. 

"Aunt Donna," I explained, "Dad can't speak because his tongue is swollen, but he can hear you. I can't hear you because the sound is going into his hearing aids, but he can hear you. Would you please talk to him and pray for him?"

I couldn't hear her answer, but I could hear her voice emanating faintly from Dad's hearing aids. As she spoke, I leaned close to his ear and picked up a few words: "Dear brother... Heavenly Father, wrap your arms around him... in your love." 

Dad smiled and grunted to let her know he was listening. After a couple of minutes, he motioned for me to disconnect.

We called his older sister, Carol Jean, next. I couldn't hear her voice at all, but whatever she said seemed to soothe him. 

The Longest Night - Part 2 of 3

Friday, August 2

On Friday night, Dad's third night in the hospital, my brother Rick and I sat side by side watching him sleep peacefully. I leaned close to Rick and lowered my voice. "I'm kind of scared that Dad might pass away while I'm with him. I've never been with a person when they died. I want to be with him, but I'm also afraid."

Rick said he understood. He talked with me about his daughter Mindy's passing, and how it had been very difficult for him, but much more peaceful for his wife Diane. 

After I left the hospital, I prayed, "Lord, if you want me to be the one with Dad if he dies, I'm willing." I felt my heart accelerating. "But please, I'm afraid. Please help me be strong if that happens." 

Hopes Raised – Saturday, August 3

On Saturday morning, Dad felt so good that when he phoned Rick, he sounded just like his old self. His vitals were stable, his coloring was good, and the doctors began talking about moving him out of ICU. He'd been asking for food for the last 24 hours, which we thought was a good sign. Unfortunately, due to difficulty swallowing from his previous esophagectomy, along with his current pneumonia, the risk of aspiration was too great. Therefore, he needed a swallow study before he could resume eating, and that apparently could not be arranged before the coming Monday. So gnawing hunger was added to the list of discomforts he must bear.

As I sat with Rick in Dad's room that evening, we expressed a shared hope that he might be able to go home, just as he had after his esophagectomy, multiple bouts of pneumonia, an obstructed bowel, and a bleeding ulcer. "It's almost like Dad has nine lives," I whispered. 

Shortly after Rick left, however, I got the first sign that all was not well. Dad's speech sounded slurred, though his mind was sharp as ever. He's just tired, I assured myself. 

Life in Death - Part 1 of 3

This is the first in a series of three entries about my father's last few days. At the time of this writing, Friday 8/2, I did not know that he was going to die. 

I have to warn you that these entries will be painful to read, as they were to write, but there is beauty in this story. Although Dad was 93 years old and had faced many health issues, his passing still took us by surprise. I think that we don't talk about death enough, probably because we don't like to think about our own mortality. If you choose to read about Dad's courageous battle, I and my family will be honored. 

On the morning of Wednesday, July 31, my father woke up with chest pain, pain in his right arm, and severe nausea. After consulting with my brother Rick and me, Mom called his doctor and then headed to the emergency room. 

Within a few hours, he was diagnosed with an ischemic heart attack. We learned that he had a blood clot in his heart, and his heart function was at 30 percent (50 percent is normal). At that point, he was in stable condition but feeling terrible due to the nausea. However, the medications he received made him much more comfortable by that evening, and it seemed that the heart attack might have been a mild one. They started him on IV heparin to clear the clot, and we settled in to wait for the results of his cardiology consult. 

I wanted to be with Dad, but my sister Amy was staying with me, and I couldn't leave her alone. It would have been difficult to take her with me, and only two people were allowed in the E.R. room, so we said a prayer for him and went to bed, thankful that the attack had been mild and that Rick could stay with him through the evening.

Dad Looks So Strong in this Photo Taken by Rick at 9:05 p.m. on Day 1 of Hospitalization

Tough Decisions

The next morning while I was preparing breakfast, my phone rang. 

"Are you the daughter of Richard D-?" asked a heavily accented, male voice.

The Disastrous Debut of the Dunlap Quartet: Rick's Tribute

Last, but not least, here is the eulogy presented by Dad's only son, Richard Allen.

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Most eulogies are a collection of stories about positive aspects of the departed. I’m going to mix things up a little. I am going to start with a story about one of my dad’s flaws: Dad was a terrible singer!

One of my early memories is of me sitting next to my dad in church with him singing old-timey hymns in an extreme off-key manner. I had to plug my ear to block his singing so that I could attempt to sing on-key.

A Dubious Idea

One day, my family was asked to sing for the outreach program at one of the local nursing homes. We knew that this was a bad idea, but felt that we couldn’t say no.  We dutifully practiced our number, but it didn’t matter; we were still terrible. 

When the time came to sing our number for the old folks gathered, we were all very nervous. Melody played the piano while my Dad, Mom, and I “sang.” Well... Dad started to giggle. The giggling spread to Mom and me despite our efforts to suppress it.  Soon, the giggling spread more widely.  Dad tried to stifle the giggle by closing his mouth, but it came out through his nose... along with some other things which hit the top of my head.  Feeling this, I turned around to glare at him. Dad erupted into laughter, followed by Mom, me, and nearly the entire place.  We were unable to finish our song.

Afterwards, a sweet little old lady told us that she really appreciated our number and was greatly touched by it.  I don’t know if she was just being nice, or if she appreciated the comedy.  

That was the end of the Dunlap Family Quartet. We were not destined to be the next Partridge Family.  On the plus side, though, we were never asked to sing again.

Photo Taken a Year or Two After Our Disastrous Debut
Rick, Amy, Sarah, Melody

Carrying on the Family Line

I come from a long line of one-son families, going all the way back to my great grandfather Arthur Dunlap.  My grandfather Arta used to pressure me to “have lots of sons to keep the Dunlap name alive.”  I didn’t do so well because Diane and I only had one son and one daughter.  My son Mitchell and his lovely wife Michelle, however, did a much better job as they have three boys: Miles, Caleb, and Landon. This made my dad very happy.

Our Family Line: Miles, Mitchell, Caleb, Dad, Me

I don’t mean to imply that my dad loved his son more than his four daughters; he most certainly loved all of his children equally.  Dad was just very old-fashioned and believed that a father has a duty to teach his son how to be a man and father. He fulfilled this duty well.

Early to Rise

Dad believed that a man gets up at an insanely early hour, and that he is at least an hour early for work each day (you never know... you could have a flat tire on the way to work). When I was a teenager, he would literally drag me out of bed far earlier than was necessary and frog march me to the table. He would then talk to me and make me breakfast. I may not have appreciated at the time why he did this, but as I matured I began to understand--although I still don’t like to eat breakfast.

From when I was young and on through engineering school, I was lucky enough to work with my father on many jobs. We seem to be our most relaxed and closest when we were working together.  We carried this tradition on throughout my father’s life through completing numerous projects together.

Staying Active in Retirement

After my dad retired, he kept himself busy with projects, odd jobs, and yard mowing. At one point he was mowing multiple yards in addition to his own and mine.

Ready to Get to Work

Dad would show up to mow my yard at around 5:30 or so and wait in his truck until it was light enough to begin mowing. Diane and I would awake to the sound of the lawn mower before it was even fully light outside.  Dad would be finished with the job around the time I would be having my first cup of coffee. He would sit there with me on the patio drinking coffee and discussing things: current events, sports, family, etc.  These are some of my most cherished memories.

As my dad got older and slowed down, he dropped all other mowing jobs except for his own yard and mine. I frequently asked if he was up to mowing my yard. Up until the end he would always say that he was.

At age 91, he went the the VA for a checkup, and his doctor noted that he was in really good shape for a 91-year-old man. She asked what he did to stay so fit. He told her that he mowed yards. She reacted, “Oh my, Mr. Dunlap, you are far too old to be mowing yards. You should have your son mow your yard.” My Dad said that he was afraid to tell the doctor that he mowed his son’s yard too.

Last year when Dad was 92, I could see that he was struggling to mow my yard, and I asked him again if he was still capable of mowing. He answered that perhaps it was time for him to stop. I knew then that as tough and strong as my dad was, time was finally catching up with him in the end.

Dad to the Rescue: Tribute from Melody

Here is the eulogy given by Melody Anne, Dad's firstborn.

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Dad was a carpenter, and loved his work! He was always working on some project at home. He built closets, cabinets, bedrooms, bathrooms, additions. He built at least three bedrooms for me. Dad always let me help with the design. One of my bedrooms had bright pink carpet!

When I was around 17, Dad was removing old living room carpet in preparation for new carpet. As I was walking through the living room to the kitchen, barefoot, I stepped on a rusty old carpet tack. It went all the way into my heel. I started hopping, yelling, and carrying on! Dad and mom, my sisters, (and probably the neighbors) came running to see what happened. 

Dad assessed the situation, left the room, then returned with his HAMMER in his hand! His plan was to use the claw side of his hammer to remove the tack. I had to be held down, but he was successful. He pulled the tack out just like it was a nail in a board.

Portrait from Around that Time

Dad was always willing and eager to help us when we needed him. I was living in North Carolina, and he was living in Indiana, but I needed him. Greg, my two-year-old "Dennis the Menace," dumped a basket full of shell soaps into our toilet bowel. It had melted and solidified like cement. I couldn't pull it out or plunge it down. 

Sean, Greg, Stephen

So... I called Dad!

He told me step by step what to do. I wrote it down, then methodically went down the list: 

1. Buy a new wax seal
2. Turn off and disconnect water supply
3. Flush toilet twice
4. Lift toilet off the floor and place it upside down in the shower
5. Spray hot water into the toilet, using snake to dislodge the soap
6. Place new wax seal on floor
7. Place toilet back on floor
8. Reconnect water supply and turn on water
9. FLUSH

It worked!! And my toilet had never been so clean! 

Thank you, Dad ❣

2023

Cowboy Buddies: Tribute from Amy

Here is the eulogy shared by my older sister Amy Beth, the middle child. 

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I didn't think I'd have anything to say about Dad, but God brought to mind what I could say about Dad. 

The first thing is Dad was real quiet and didn't talk much, but although he was quiet, he was definitely there. He was always there. He was in the background, but he had a mighty presence in his family. He could always be counted on to be there. He showed his love by doing. He lovingly hung all my pictures and knick-knacks in my apartment. That's what gave him joy. 

The second thing is when I moved to Texas with Mom and Dad. He handed me his razor and said, "You're my barber now." I was scared because I never cut hair before. I did it the first time and found out it wasn't that hard. I cut Dad's hair about every six weeks for three years. That became a special time between Dad and I. I loved cutting Dad's hair. And he loved his time with me. 

Lastly, Dad was an avid Cowboys fan. I was his Cowboys buddy. We watched the Cowboy games together. One of the last games we watched together, I got drowsy and dozed off. My dad got upset and woke me up because he wanted me to watch the game with him. 

I wasn't going to talk about this, but Aunt Sue told me I should. The last time I spent with Dad before he died, I was sitting in the living room with my dad. The last thing my sister Melody told my parents when she dropped me off at my parents' was that I was not supposed to sleep during the day. I got drowsy and went to sleep. Daddy kept poking me with his cane to wake me up. He took his job seriously and kept poking me. He thought it was really funny, which I did not. I was really angry at him. I know he was doing it because he really loved me. But his sense of humor shone through because he loved to tease me. He had a fun loving heart. He was a lot of fun even when he was being annoying.

Dad with His "Poker"
At Granddaughter Erin's Wedding, 2021 

He was a great man and left a huge hole when he left this earth. He's now in heaven, dancing for joy. 

Love you, Dad! Goodbye. 

A Working Man's Hands: Tribute from Emily

I so enjoyed all of the eulogies that I asked my siblings if I could share theirs, too. This one was written by Dad's youngest child, my sister Emily Diane.

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Strong, steadfast, faithful, hardworking, dependable, provider, protector, man of integrity, God-fearing. These are just a few of Dad's many virtues.

You might be wondering why Dad is not dressed traditionally in a suit and tie. Well, that's just not who he was. Dad was a hardworking man. He rarely ever wore suits. 

Dad loved the Texas Rangers. He literally cried tears of joy when they won the World Series. Afterwards, I bought him a World Series Champions T-shirt. He was so looking forward to wearing it to a Rangers game this season with Rick, but was called to his heavenly home before he had the chance to wear it. So what could be more fitting than for him to wear it into his eternal rest?

With Son Rick and Grandson Sean

Family was everything to Dad. He was happiest when surrounded by us. Well that, along with watching Newsmax, according to Mom, for eleven hours a day. 

I can see him now, sitting in his old easy chair in the living room, his whole face lighting up upon seeing us enter the room. We were always welcomed with a warm smile, hug, and kiss on the cheek.

With My Son Knox in the Easy Chair

As a little girl, I remember Daddy as a big, strong man with calloused hands; a carpenter with working man's hands. Deep down though, he was a big teddy bear. And as he grew in years, so did his tenderness.

One of my favorite early childhood memories is of him making pancakes for the family. He was always sure to make Sarah and I "Doll pancakes" as he liked to call them. These were tiny drops of pancake batter that dripped onto the griddle, no bigger than the size of a dime or nickel. We would snack on these while we eagerly awaited our pancakes. 

Mom, Dad, Me, Sarah - 1975

Another fond memory I have is as a 6 year-old little girl on Dad's 50th birthday. I made him a homemade birthday card and gifted him with a couple of my Barbie dolls. With a chuckle and genuine gratitude, he pulled me onto his lap and gave me the biggest hug. I'm pretty sure he treasured that gift more than any other he received that year.

And of course I can't forget how when Amy, Sarah, and I were growing up, we were woken up each morning by the sound of Dad's jolly voice, "Get up squirrels, I mean girls!," which always brought a smile to our face.

Dad was goofy and had a great sense of humor. He had the best laugh. A contagious laughter that would spread across the room. 

A favorite memory from recent years is of him telling us about a time when he had made himself a hamburger. He grabbed the mustard from the refrigerator, squeezed it onto his burger, and took a big, juicy bite. "What in the world?!" he exclaimed as he looked down and saw the butterscotch syrup on the counter, which he had grabbed by mistake. "Oh well," he said, and ate it anyway. He got so tickled telling us about it, and the room just burst into laughter.

Dad was a fierce protector. Years before I was born, when Melody, Monica, and Rick were small children, and Mom and Dad lived in California, they were coming home one night, driving through a sketchy part of LA. They came across a chain gang blocking the road and heading straight toward them. Without giving it a second thought, Dad hit the gas and plowed right through them. Being a man of integrity, though, he drove straight to the police station to report what he had done. They said, "Sir, you did the right thing. They would have surely killed you and your family." Dad was a hero.

Monica, Mom, Rick, Melody

I have many more stories and could go on and on about how wonderful Dad was, but it is only fair to give my brother and sisters a chance to share their love as well.

As long as I live, I will share Dad's legacy. And until we meet again, Daddy, I love you. Forever, your Baby Girl.

Tribute from a Daddy's Girl

I have always been a Daddy's girl. During one of our conversations last week, Dad reminded me of his ritual of lying down on the floor next to the heat register for a nap after work and how, as a toddler, I'd lie down right next to him and go to sleep.

1972

Though I can't remember this, I'm told that I loved him so much that he never needed to spank me when I was naughty. All he had to do was frown at me and I would burst into tears. 

There was so much to love about Dad.