Still Here: We Children of (great) Men

In just a few days I will be running the second leg of a marathon in the City of Oakland. I plan to #RunLikeHella for 6.6 miles. I will enjoy a splendid time at the Race Expo on Saturday with some of the other legs running like hella with me. We will hang out and have fun. Then in our individual places, we will slumber and awake – ridiculously early. Report to our separate starting lines, hella run, and finish. I am sure I will throw in some pre-race complaining about the cold, the cold that will later be the healing breeze fighting against me running hella inclining miles. And we will celebrate greatness. In a few days, I will be great. Hella great.

Miles away, in the same East Bay on this weekend, there will be another kind of greatness. The life of a great man I never knew will be celebrated. Hella celebrated. The hard work. The laughter. The pain. The achievements. The silly moments. Everything. What he created. All he ever created, will be celebrated. Everything he ever touched will be remembered by those he accidentally inspired with a hug, a word, or silence. If the person that I know he made, is any reflection of him, then even this man’s silence was inspirational. His quiet made greatness. Hella greatness.

And I am conflicted. My heart’s desire is to be there for my friend. But we all know my foolish heart. And how reckless my heart can be at times (hella reckless). Thankfully, my head tends to steer the ship, as it’s more calculating. Knowing that me, around grieving people is more of a liability than an asset.

So I write. I woke up from a deep sleep before the sun to write. In hopes that the things I feel, travel far enough to get to where they need to go. To my friend.

Fathers are amazing men. Wise beyond their existence. Magically wise. All knowing – knowing that they do not know much at all. But yet, they seem to always have the answers you need. Stronger than all the pain in the whole wide world. Smarter than the degrees conferred upon their progeny. And funny. They have the unique ability to lighten the worries of your heart with a twisted tale – a tale so twisted, you wonder if it’s just fantasy, or part of their past reality. If a woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets, then a (great) father is the brave traveler on a journey to retrieve every treasure she ever lost there. Successfully.

They make us. Then remake us. And then, do it all over again. The best parts of them end up in all we endeavor to do. And then they leave. They always seem to leave us too soon. No matter how long they have stayed.

Like when I moved into Hedrick Hall in September of 1998. My Father, My Daddie and I road tripped from East Menlo Park to Westwood. I literally started that day at the bottom (the hood) and ended up at the top of the hill (the ‘wood) – I was in there!

We moved every earthly possession a barely 18 year old could possess into a triple on the 5^th floor. He took out the trash one final time. He made up my bed. He watched with pride I imagine, as I found a new home for the t-shirts and toiletries. Carefully, I put all I owned where it newly belonged.

Daddie: Well daughter, looks like you’re all set. I’m so very proud of you.

Me: Awwwwww Daddie!!! *hugs*

Daddie: I love you. My baby girl is a UCLA Bruin… *pause and hugs* It’s time for Daddie to go now.

Me: *confused, legitimately* Where *do you think* you going?

Daddie: *looking at me like I should know* To Aunt Wyrtress’ house.

Me: So… So, um, you’re not staying here with me?

Daddie: Baby girl, I can’t stay here. You’re in college now. You live here with your roommates. Daddie has to go home.

Me: *hella pleading* Uh… Wait. Okay, see, I don’t know them like that. I can’t just be staying with strangers. You can’t be seriously leaving me here. Are you?

Daddie: Yes Daughter. It’s time for Daddie to go. I can’t stay here with you. You have to do this one on your own. I know you can. *forehead kiss*

Me: *hella crying some of the REALEST tears ever cried in the history of wo/man*

I never seriously imagined my world without the man who created it. So much so, for the first quarter at UCLA, I called home and asked him for permission to do everything. Even go to parties. Never did I imagine life without him. Until I had to. I still though, cannot truly fathom it. We are separated by thousands of miles, layovers, starts, finishes, medals, Mondays, and interstates.

And this weekend, another great man I never knew will have a conversation with his son (my dear friend). A conversation with the person he created. And as they celebrate his life, that great man is going to pause the pain in his son’s heart (amidst every other feeling he’ll be feeling that day) and tell him what my Daddie told me, “Yes Son. It’s time for Daddie to go. I can’t stay here with you. You have to do this one on your own. I know you can.”

...pound it pops. #iGotNext

And my friend maybe might shed a tear or ten. And be afraid to do it. But he will. And in doing so, he will remake his father. My friend will fashion all the good things his father ever hoped he’d be, into a greatness those of here left to wander this dusty world will get to experience. My friend is going to make so many things, so many people (like his sons) so much better because he is still here.

He has to. His father told him to. And he, my friend, is a good son. And like his father, I know that my dear friend can do it. We children, children of great men carry a heavy burden. The greatness of the men who gave us life, lives on in us.

I’m supposed to say something churchy or biblical – about joy coming in the morning or peace in the middle of the storm, right? Queue up a hymn with CJC on the organ composing the soundtrack? But my grieving heart gets so far from God in these moments. In these moments, I have difficulty seeing God for Who and just What He is. So, I guess I will say this… I pray that during this season in the life of my dear friend that You show Yourself real God. I pray that the power I know, that can heal, is released through just the hem, just the stitching in the bottom part of your garment – because in times like these, that’s as far as many of us can reach.

I know that, just that much would be overflow.

“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived and let me watch him do it.” #ClarenceBudingtonKelland