The Day I Walked You Home...

The day I walked you home: A letter to my Dad

Writing, to me, is synonymous with healing.

I suppose that’s why I blog–writing–almost every day. Whenever an emotion moves me to.

People say I tell too much. Expose too much of my heart and soul. But all I want to do is write about what it was like for me. As my fingers tap the keys my eyes flicker with tears that are rolling down my cheek. “No one fights alone. And my spirit can’t help but agree. No one fights alone. Or loves alone. Or struggles alone. Or dies alone.

We’re all walking each other home.

I realized–as soon as your breathing went silent and your Savior greeted you as soon as your blue eyes faded,–that the walk is always worth it. Leaning near your still face and kissing your forehead, that’s what I said too. “It’s worth it”. Even though I want you to know my heart wasn’t feeling it, Dad. My heart screamed “Come back!” instead. My faith just had to rely on the fact he was there.

Now, digesting the memories–memories that haunt me in my dreams and awaken me from sleep with tears and a racing heart–I want you to know why I was honored to walk you home.

The walk home started on June 11, 1958…when I was born.

I’d like to think we chose to walk together–that before we even came to earth we knew we’d be walking in unison along with some very special others–taking on the challenge, and the joys, of mortality.

During the walk home you taught me many things. You taught me how to play. And in turn, I think I taught you patience.

The walk home entailed some discomforts–some trials that required me to cry in your arms or vent to you–or get so mad at you that I slammed my bedroom door. I tried to say sorry about that later on–you didn’t let me though.

During the walk home you showed me how to walk on my own at times and forge a new trail when others get to their own trail’s end. How to be a good friend. How to listen more than I talk *although I still have problems with that*. How to put family first.

During the walk, sometimes it rained. I know I disappointed you many times.

During the walk–you showed me to ‘get over it’!! Thick skinned, the Frichtel’s are.

There were a few times on the journey I didn’t feel I was good enough. But I secretly smiled when you told people "My daughter is THE BAKER at Tippecanoe Country Club. The one thing I did that made you proud. Tippecanoe was a big deal back in the day!

 

During the walk you taught me what kind of man I should choose–simply by being that kind of man. Or you tried. I was always going to do it my way, no matter what. Although Paul and I made it 20 years, I was proud of that.

You loved my mom–even when lightning struck and rain hit and rocks in the trail made you two stumble. And that’s the greatest gift to give to a daughter. I am sorry about the rocky trails, I learned.

During the walk home you taught me not to fear the trail coming up–the part of the walk home that splits the trail in two. The part where we would separate for a time. You told me it would come–and it was okay. Because you knew that if we kept walking, the two trails would join as one again.

During the end of the walk home I was honored to be next to you. I was strong simply because–well, so were you. And I will never forget the day we were watching TV together and you looked at me and said "I love you, i have ALWAYS loved you, even in our bad times". Me too dad. Me too.

I’m sad, Dad. I miss you so bad that sometimes I can’t breathe. And when I do, it hurts my lungs. I miss you so bad that sometimes I hear your voice and jump to a start in the middle of the night. I miss you so much that I get angry that we already came to the fork in the road–sometimes I get mad at God. Sometimes I get mad at myself that I didn’t hold you a second longer the last time you hugged me.

But then I remember, like I remember now. No one walks alone.

 You and mom provided for me even after you went home. You will always live in my heart (and in that little box over there...)

No, even though we came to that place in the walk where the trail splits in two–I still feel you guiding my feet. I still feel the same Savior that took you home and held me at the same time. I’m not alone.

I’m honored I was one of the people to share the walk with you, Dad.

You’re my hero.

And you will be until our trails meet up again somewhere on the horizon–and I’ll meet you there at home.