A year.

It’s been a year since my Dad died.

It’s been a year since my Dad passed away.

It’s been a year since my Dad went to heaven.

Just typing the words makes me feel like I can’t take a deep breath. Like a brick is laying on my chest.

I hate that I didn’t talk to my Dad the day he died. I love that the last time we did talk he was focused on how he might get someone stubborn to believe in God and go to heaven.

He was a prayer warrior, a prankster, and a protector. He was tenderhearted and yet he was steel.

Sometimes I look at the girls and think he’d be so proud of them and how they’ve handled this year. And then I think he sees them and he knows.

I picture his smile when I see yellow flowers or smell honeysuckle.

I picture him holding his hands up in prayer every time we left the house as I watch Audrey walk to the bus stop each morning.

I picture his hand placed lightly on my back, encouraging me, each time I have something new or hard to do.

Perhaps because I was searching for them, this year was filled with signs he’s still close. Eagles hovering near the house. People named Paul. Finding long forgotten books.

I love opening up his old bibles and books and seeing his handwriting, his highlights, and his notes. I had a full circle moment last week that I know would have brought him such joy. It came via a text from Ella. She took one of my old bibles to school with her, and on a night when she was struggling she opened it to see a 25-year-old affirmation of mine: The healing power of God is working in me right now.

Thankful for his example.

Thankful for almost 50 years with him.

Thankful his prayers are still at work today.

Thankful his example is still at work today.

Thankful.