L. loves his big brother so much. All C. has to do is cross L.’s line of vision, and he breaks into a huge smile. This is my favorite picture from this week:

How cute is that?

[Okay, gushy mommy moment over...carry on.]

C. starts second grade next week, and I think he’s a tiny bit apprehensive. His two best friends are in the “other second grade,” and although he does know several kids who will be in his class, there’s always the whole who-will-be-friends-with-who thing to work out at the beginning of the year [Grammar note: I know the final "who" should be "whom," but what 2nd-grader says whom?]. So friendship and its inner workings have been on his mind.

I’ve read a number of good posts on friendship lately, such as Jennifer’s and Katherine’s. And although I share lots of blog-stuff with my family, I hadn’t discussed this particular topic. But C. seems to have figured out on his own what I always need to be reminded of. [Grammar note #2: yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition, but I don't really like that rule - sorry!]

So anyway, he came downstairs the other night with an announcement:

“I’ve figured out what it takes to be really good friends with someone:

You have to have a very similar personality.
You have to be together a lot.
And when you first meet, you have to be willing to not be nervous to meet that person or else you might miss a wonderful friendship if you never thought to introduce yourself.

So, it basically takes a lot to become a good friend. The hardest part is not being nervous when you first meet, and being willing to become friends.”

Sounds like he’s got the basics down. I’m sure he’ll do just fine this year as he navigates the seas of gradeschool friendship.

And, since we’re talking about the wisdom of kids, I’ll share this little gem that he told me last week:

“You might not want to try to touch someone’s glass eye to see what it feels like, because you might accidentally touch the wrong one.”

Don’t ask.

It was late August, 1995, and my dad was at home. Only he wasn’t puttering around, working on some household project. He wasn’t sitting at the breakfast table with his large-print Bible and magnifying glass, his glaucoma-strained eyes poring over God’s word. He wasn’t dozing in the recliner, snoring to the accompaniment of an A-Team re-run.

He was lying in a hospital bed set up in the TV room, asleep. In a coma, actually. He’d been fighting cancer for three long years and was spending his final days of the battle at home. The home where he and my mom had raised their two children. The home where he made dinner several nights a week, as he and mom traded evenings working at the ice cream store. The old farmhouse in rural Pennsylvania where my childhood memories were formed.

Dad (top right) and some of his army buddies

I’d been married for a year and a half and was living in Virginia with Chad. But when Mom called me with the news that Dad wouldn’t be with us much longer, I packed a suitcase and drove the six hours home. I’d seen dad a few weeks earlier, at a quick weekend meet-up with my family. He was weak, frustrated with all he could no longer do, and more than ready for some peace. So when I got home and saw him resting quietly, in a way, I was happy for him. There was no grimace of pain on his face. He simply slept.

Mom still had to keep the ice cream store running, since it was her only source of income. So I spent days by Dad’s bedside and nights working at the store so Mom could be home with Dad. I was in the process of re-reading the Chronicles of Narnia, so I’d read to Dad about Aslan and Lucy and the dwarves and the fauns. The hospice nurses would come and take care of his basic needs, and make sure that he was okay. Mom was focused on getting through each day – caring for her teenage son who still needed a father, keeping the store going, and watching her husband fade away.

My family at my high school graduation

A few days after I got home, our pastor came to visit. He talked with me, made sure I was doing all right. Then he spent some time with Dad. As Dad lay quietly, his chest rising and falling with each breath, I could hear Pastor McMinn telling Dad that everything was going to be okay. “It’s all right, Bill. Your family is taken care of, they’re going to be fine. You can let go. It’s okay.”

The next night, August 24th, I served cones and sundaes to people eager for some relief from the summer heat. As the evening wound down, the bell on the front door jingled and a family friend entered the store. My first thought was, “Oh – it’s Nancy. I haven’t seen her in a long time.” But not even a second later, I realized that of course she wasn’t here for a frozen treat. She didn’t even have to tell me. I knew. And I knew Mom wouldn’t want me to hear it over the phone. She’d want someone there with me.

I locked up the store early that night and drove home behind Nancy. Although I felt the beginnings of grief, I was also flooded with relief for my father. Dad’s battle with cancer was over. And God had won – my dad was Home. Whole.

The next few days are a blur in my mind. My wonderful husband came up from Virginia the next day and did whatever was needed for my mom. He even took over my dad’s role of making ice cream cakes. Chad would tell you that they weren’t as nice-looking as my dad’s. But it wasn’t the evenness of the layers that counted – it was the kindness of Chad’s heart, his willingness to do whatever it took to help us get through. As far as I’m concerned, those ice cream cakes were perfect.

Walking me down the aisle
He’d been dealing with cancer for more than a year by this point

There’s so much more I could write. We got through the funeral. And we got through the days afterward. It’s been eleven years now, eleven years without my dad. I miss him, yes. I wouldn’t have wished a long, painful life for him, though – better that he is in a place without even a hint of cancer, a place where his eyes once again see perfectly, a place where he has energy and joy and most of all…the Lord. Right there, in person.

But the one thing that breaks my heart, the one thing that I think of in the late days of August every year…is that my kids won’t have the joy of knowing him in this life. And oh, how he would have loved them. He would have bounced them on his knee, told them corny jokes, tossed them giggling onto the bed long after I asked him to stop. He would have coaxed a giggle from L.. And he would have absolutely loved C.’s analytical, inquisitive mind, and the hilarious things that come out of his mouth. And I just know that my boys would have adored their Grandpa.

I don’t claim to know exactly how things are handled in Heaven. But I like to think that Dad can check on us every now and then. I like to think that he chuckled when C. told me I need to write better posts. And that he beamed on May 25th, when L. made his way into this world.

And Dad, if you happen to have a chance to peek over my shoulder at this, I just want you to know, I love you.