and i know he watches me

October...a time of change...new seasons...falling leaves and changing colors...a time to reflect...and give thanks...countdowns to christmas...to a new year...so much counting. I haven't done very much counting in the last two years. And, honestly, it has been nice. Because for so many years there we were...counting hours, days, long nights, weeks, months, even years...how much time could I spend at home before inevitably landing back in the hospital....and how long would they keep me there? It was a never ending cycle and we were always counting...counting...counting. So, in the last two years, where I haven't had need to even think about heading to an ER...I have relished the gift of NOT counting...not being so bound by time...not holding my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. All those days of counting have slowly faded into endless days and nights with my family...moving forward...reclaiming moments...reclaiming relationships. And we have been able to just be...no counting...just BE.

Except for one place...one day...in October. One gaping hole so wide that it sometimes takes my breath away.

THREE YEARS...ONE THOUSAND and NINETY FIVE DAYS...TWENTY SIX THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED and NINETY SEVEN HOURS...ONE point FIVE MILLION MINUTES.

without...my...daddy.

October 29, 2009. The last day I saw my sweet father's face on this side of Heaven. There are days when that feels like yesterday and there are days when it feels like it has been so long that, if I take one more breath, I will forget everything. I try to meditate on moments...memorize every last bit...and hold them close. There are days when I can breathe easier...and there are days when I suddenly feel a lightness and then a heaviness all at once...because for a moment I forgot...and then remembered. Grief is strange that way.

I have been thinking so much lately about how much my Dad would have loved watching my boys in the stage they are in right now. He adored all 6 of his grandsons...and I have no doubt that he is still watching them. I am more sad for my nephews...for future cousins to come...and for my sweet babies...who were only 5 and 2 when they lost their Pappy...some days it breaks me apart to think that they may not remember him. By God's grace my boys were so very deeply imprinted upon by the short time they have with their Pappy. And we talk about him all the time. But still...oh how I would love to hear Jack telling him his jokes and reading him the books he writes...to hear them laughing together over the silly movies he makes...Jack Franklin has big dreams...and no one would have been a bigger champion of those dreams than his Pappy, Roy Franklin. And no one would have laughed harder or beamed brighter watching Samuel as he lives in his 24 hour a day never ending fantasy world of sports.

I think about my mom and what it must be like to live this new normal...the day to day...without her partner. I can only imagine what I would feel like losing Matt and just imagining it feels like not breathing. My mom does not grieve as one without hope...but still...there is still grief. I think about my sister, who was always our father's princess, and who longed to have her father there to walk her down the aisle and watch as she started her own family. I think about my brothers and what it must be like to become a man when the most important man in your life isn't there. But oh, how intensely proud I know my Dad is of all of them.

God has been so faithful...He never leaves us fatherless...and I know that...but I miss my Daddy...a girl is just never too old to miss her Daddy. One of my favorite quotes from St. Francis de Sales says, “Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength”. That was my Dad. We were alike in many ways and I miss hearing his voice speaking into my life. Sometimes I call his cell phone just to hear that voice. I have pictures that I study intensely, soaking up every last shred of connection. There is one in particular, from when I was little, that is a favorite  of mine...I love it for so many reasons...but especially because I love to study his hands holding me in it...because we have the exact same hands. Strange the things that can bring comfort so simply. Even in the midst of this election season I have thought often how I would love to sit and talk to my Dad. I am my father's daughter when it comes to that arena and I miss our talks...and his wisdom...not just for politics or social issues...but for life. He was a man of few words...but the words he spoke he chose so carefully. And he spoke with unwavering passion. Oh to have one more moment to attune my ear to those words. And yet...he is all around me.

There was a night when I was in a hospital bed in 2010 when I woke to see him standing at my door. And you can call it medication...or dehydration...or hallucination...I call it GRACE...the gift of a loving Heavenly Father who gave me the tangible presence of my earthly father for one more moment in the quiet of night.

I sang in church yesterday morning..."His Eye is on the Sparrow"...a song that was dear to my father's heart. He had first come to really love it when a friend of mine in high school sang it especially for him shortly after his first heart surgery. So when our worship minister called last week and said, "Hey, I have something a little special I'd like you to sing this weekend" my heart jumped into my throat as I thought about singing a song...this song...on October 28th.

But I sang it. I sang it for my Heavenly Father. I sang it for my sweet Daddy. And it was flawed. It was an emotional song to sing and there were notes that were not at all executed as well as a trained singer like myself would usually seek to sing them. My voice was a bit shaky...it broke in a few places...the pitch suffered in a few places. But I sang. Because I know that my Daddy loves it when I sing...I know that both of my fathers do.

You see, the very last thing that my Dad asked of me before he went into surgery...the very last thing he said before he went to meet his King was...will you sing for me? He had always been my biggest fan and greatest encourager...and he LOVED to sing...though he could not match one note if he tried...but he had spoken before of looking forward to being in Heaven one day and being able to sing perfectly. And so I sang for him. I sang a song that he requested...a song that means a great deal to our family...one that has become an anthem of sorts for us in times of great joy and in times of great sorrow. I sang the song "My Jesus I Love Thee"...the song that I sang a cappella from the back of a church right before my Daddy walked me down the aisle to marry the man I love...the song that I have sung at weddings and funerals of many we love since. Something about the words of that song just echo my heart so well...in the highs and in the lows.

As I married Matt...
"if ever I loved thee...my Jesus 'tis now"

As I said goodbye to my father for what I did not know would be the very last time...
"if ever I loved thee...my Jesus 'tis now"

And as we laid him to rest and memorialized his quiet, gentle, rich in all the ways that mattered life...
"if ever I loved thee...my Jesus 'tis now"

Those words don't always come easy on my lips...but they are always true. So that brings me back to church yesterday. I have been struggling lately with my voice...with my tendency to be extremely self-critical and with my lack of confidence as far as singing...and Satan has been having a field day with this...using it to put me in my own way in an effort to distract me and silence my pure worship. This may seem a strange struggle from someone who has sung all of their life...as someone who earned a degree that required hours and hours of intensive vocal training...from someone who does feel called by God to be a vessel of worship but sometimes lets Satan creep in through that vulnerable place and tell the lies that have me focusing on the technical...the execution...forgetting sometimes what I'm doing. As someone who is musically trained, yes, it is frustrating when things don't go as smoothly as hoped...it is frustrating when you have spent four consecutive years hospitalized with illnesses that include tubes down your throat and not much time for vocal warm-ups. So I am in a season of retraining my voice...of rebuilding that muscle memory...but I am also so very grateful for the in-between place I am in right now. Because there is a freedom in being real...in being broken...and He can bring beauty out of our broken offerings. And He does not look at the things that man does...He does not dwell on a note that went astray like I might have a tendency to do...He looks at my heart. I will not bring before my King that which costs me nothing...especially if what it costs me is my pride. And I know without a doubt that I would much rather sing a song that is flawed...but genuine before my Savior...than to sing something perfectly and it all have been for naught...only for selfish gain. I sing for Him and Him alone.

I thought about my dad so much in church yesterday...as we sang the song of course...and even throughout Jonathan's sermon. He spoke about the rich young ruler and about what it means to be rich toward God...and that was my Dad. He didn't have much in the way of material possessions...he didn't desire them...most all that he had and was...he gave away...but he was SO.VERY.RICH.

I thought of him as we sang these words of another hymn..."life shall not end the song". And I pictured my Daddy...my sweet, tone-deaf Daddy...healed and whole...in a place where there is no death, no separation, no counting, no night, no end...singing perfectly before our Heavenly Father right alongside me.

I sing because I'm happy

I sing because I'm free

His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me