Grace in Wilderness

Dear Lee,

This weekend is our first Father’s Day without you and I hate it. Mostly because I keep thinking about all the things I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.

May was a big month for us. You know, the kind that makes parents look at each other and wonder where the time has gone. There were quite a few milestones, the moments I always thought we would experience together.

Our oldest danced in her first ballet recital. I watched her twirl across the stage, in awe of how graceful she looked. You would have been right beside me, peeking at her over the top of your camera with the biggest grin on your face.

Our middle had her first gymnastics meet and graduated from preschool a few days later. Watching her beam with pride made me wish even more that you were here. You would have loved cheering her on and celebrating her accomplishments.

Our baby took her first steps. Her little tongue was sticking out because she was so determined to make it across the room. When she did, she stopped and clapped for herself. Had you been here to see it, you would have clapped the loudest of all.

There were funny moments too. Like when one of our kiddos (not naming names) decided to cut her own hair and we had to take her to a salon to finish the job. I kept thinking about how hard you would have laughed. It instantly became one of those stories I couldn’t wait to tell you.

Life keeps moving. The girls keep growing. Both of those things make me both grateful and sad at the time. Grateful for these three precious blessings that wouldn’t be here without you. Sad that you aren’t here to watch them grow up with me.

I wish you could see who they’re becoming.

I wish they could make you Father’s Day cards and hand them to you themselves.

I wish you could watch them grow.

I wish you could hear their stories.

I wish you were here.

This past month was beautiful. The girls laughed. They learned. They danced, tumbled, graduated, and took their first steps.

And through every moment, I had the same thought: “you should be here.” These were supposed to be your milestones, too.

We love you. We miss you. And we’ll keep sharing about you so we never forget how much you made our lives better by simply existing.

Love always,

A.

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