While I called him "Dad," his friends called him "Walt." I remember my mom's mom calling him Walter, clearly enunciating the t. In Texas, middle consonants often get blurred, so when folks used his whole name it often sounded more like "Walder." Two of his younger brothers called him "Wally." Once, at my brother's baseball game, Dad was acting as bench coach. I tried calling out the ubiquitous "Dad" but it was lost in the crowd noise. When I yelled, "Wally!" I gained the desired attention, only to be told later, at home, to never do that again. Yes, sir. Dad was a teacher and school principal, so he was often referred to as Mr. Meyer by kids, parents, and teachers alike. Some of the old-timers at church called him "Teacher Meyer." But tonis at home, including Mom, he was simply Dad.
It's been 23 years and a little change since Dad died. Memories are starting to get fuzzy. I have a harder time remembering things about him. My mind has snapshots, but sometimes I wonder if those snapshots are more from literal snapshots that are in picture albums than memories in my head. Is it live or is Memorex? Some, I know the answer to: I clearly remember the photo of him holding Alyssa on his lap, his first time holding his first grandchild, and the big, Walter Matthau grin in his face. Others are less clear and I wonder about those.
There is a scene in Saving Private Ryan where Captain Miller and Private Ryan talk about trying to remember family back home and how it was getting harder to recall things, places, faces and voices. One of them, I forget who, said to think of a particular context or event and place the person in that moment. In other words, and in my story, don't try to just think of Dad but think of Dad in the garden, or at his classroom desk, or shining his shoes on a Sunday night, or reading the paper while eating breakfast. Then, the picture comes into focus, even if only for a moment, another snapshot in time, a mental photo or recording about him, of him, with him.
Sitting here this morning, I'm trying to remember his voice but I'm having trouble with the sound of it. Words, yes; the actual tone, pitch and timbre, not so much. My last memory of him was on Sunday, April 23, I called home. It was Easter. Our class had received our first calls to churches two weeks earlier and graduation was about four weeks away. I remember we talked about those major milestones, starting to plan for moving back to Texas. We also how he was doing, having only gone back to work a week or two prior after surgery to remove a section of his liver. As we brought what would be our final conversation to it's close, he said he loved me and I said I loved him. We hung up the phone. Two days later, he was gone.
We didn't get to celebrate his 60th, or his retirement. He didn't get to pass his second granddaughter back to me after she loaded a diaper ("grandpa's privilege!" he declared after grand daughter #1 did a #2). He didn't get to meet the grandson who shares his name. He missed a lot of things, and we missed him being there.
He's already celebrating the heavenly celebration that awaits us all, the faithful in Christ. While his body rest son that sacred Walburg hillside, his soul, along with his youngest brother, Fred, and sister, Lorraine, and oldest brother, Bill, and with his own Dad, Fred, and Mom, Melinda, and so many more thst no one can fathom, are at peace with the resurrected Christ. One day, sooner than later, I pray, there will be a great resurrection reunion with the saints in heaven joined with the saints in earth. We'll see each other in the wholeness we were originally created to be, under the glory of Christ, our Resurrected Lord.
So, today I'll remember him a little more closely. Maybe I'll even share a story or two with anyone who cares to listen.
Happy birthday, Dad.
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