Five years. It seems a blink of an eye and an eternity at the same time. I have wondered at times if you were a dream: that smiling brown-haired, cow-eyed kid with mischief in his eyes. I can’t hold you now, I can’t talk to you or kiss you. Were you real or did you just live in my mind? But I know you were real. My heart hurts too much for it to have been anything but true. You filled a spot in my life that will never be filled again. I have pictures and videos of you that are proof of your life and how much you loved and were loved. I look at them often and remember the days and circumstances of many of them, and I remember you. You had such humor and kindness, far more than me. You spoke to everyone with the exact same directness and respect regardless of their situation. You listened and encouraged, you helped others dream and instilled in some the courage to do the hard thing needed to get them going.

You told me once how you hated addiction, how it dragged the very life out of you, but very few saw that side. You gave yourself fully to everyone you met, and your presence was so strong that many of your friends still talk about you and tell their kids about “Uncle ZacK” and how much you meant to them and how you impacted their lives. Such a legacy for a such a young man to leave, especially one that fought so much to be himself and happy against the cruelest of enemies.

Your mom, your sister and I loved you so much and were (and are) proud of you. I know you questioned that at times because you knew you and the choices and mistakes you made. But we didn’t care. We prayed for you. We fought for you. We fought friends and family for you. We fought you for you. When you left us, we knew that the battle was over, and we could all rest knowing there would be no more war. We were tired, but we knew you were so much more so than us. We believe you are at peace now. What joy you must have felt at the final release of the weight you carried.

Five years ago, and this afternoon all at the same time. Time doesn’t heal wounds. The wound is still bleeding, the pain is always there.  The Bible doesn’t tell us to not grieve; it says to not grieve as those who have no hope. I truly believe I will see you again, and you will be dancing.

For me, the single most difficult aspect of writing is to exercise the discipline of writing something on a regular basis. I didn’t start doing this until four years ago when I found I needed an outlet beyond my usual methods of release. Some things just needed to pass from my head and heart through my hands to the keyboard. I found that the action of writing allowed me to examine myself from a different perspective, that by just sitting down and allowing myself to just type gave me the chance to see how I really felt. It gave me the vehicle to pour it all out, look at it, and learn something of myself. It wasn’t a disciplined approach.

I have come to understand that I need to write more often. For me, writing is an act of decompression. The process allows me to sort the flickers of memory or emotion, dig into them a bit, poke the sore parts, and release the joy of the good parts. Mentally, I get to release the pent-up fears and regrets of the mistakes I have made, the sore parts. Reliving those memories puts me back in the moment. I can feel those same feelings, whether anger, panic, embarrassment, or despair, but knowing that I somehow survived the event, and, with that knowledge, I can relieve myself of any burden that I may still be carrying. Therapy, if you will. I may shudder, shrink, or even cry, but I feel some lifting of the load.

On the other hand, I will also experience the joy of memories of old friends, family, moments both great and small. I am walking down the aisle with my new, beautiful bride on my arm, I am holding my babies for the first time. I am sitting at one of the family dinners, either with my dad, mom, and sisters at our house on Fairlane, or at any one of the large family gatherings at Easter or 4^th of July. I am hugging my parents. With each of these memories, I am flooded with gratitude for the life I have been blessed to live.

Many of you may not prefer my honesty, but what I am hoping is that by sharing my heart and mind, I am encouraging others, or providing a few moments of reflection of our common history, or maybe just a little entertainment. I don’t claim to be any more than I am: a man with a few years (and a few pounds) under my belt that has discovered that writing helps me get through life, and I need to do more of it.

My deepest gratitude to those that read my stuff and encouraged me to continue. Thank you.

The approaching holidays have made me (and some of you as well, I’m sure) somewhat nostalgic. That is what has prompted what is below. I hope you enjoy it, and God bless you and yours through these days of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

It is not unusual for a man as he reaches a certain stage in his life to look at his past and measure it, not against the immature dreams of his 15-year-old self, or against societal norms of wealth and possessions, but using the dreams and aspirations of his younger self based on the standard he set in place. It is normal for a newly polished adult male to use his father as his first measuring stick, whether good of bad. Sometimes, the father’s life represents the opposite of what is desired. Other times, as in my life, the father sets a standard that is so high as to seem unattainable. When there is no father to look at, either other people are substituted, or that individual must find his own way. Whatever the source, that standard is then set as a guidepost on his journey in life to either walk toward or away from.

Over the last few months as I have attained the title of “Medicare Recipient”, I have become curious of what my legacy might be. I have done quite a bit of looking at my life, with a goal of seeing what adjustments I need to or may be able to make to stay on or return to the path I had set. I now take the time to consider how my decisions will affect what influence or wisdom I leave behind, if any. I don’t want to pass from this life without impacting someone’s life for good. In my looking, I have noted a few areas that are lacking and a couple of things I may have done well. Only time will tell, and I will have no knowledge of it until Judgment Day. I hope the balance lands on the good side. Jesus’ blood covers my sins, and His grace is sufficient to cover and correct my mistakes. I just hope there aren’t too many!

Also, in the process of scrutiny, I have made some discoveries. The first thing I found is that my circle of friends has shrunk and there is some good and bad in that. Some of them I miss desperately. Most of those have moved away or passed on. Those who have moved have done so hoping to better their situation and future. I miss them, but I understand and applaud the willingness to pay the cost. The latter hurts the most. I didn’t want to lose those connections, but I did anyway through no fault of mine. Pieces of my heart have gone with them all. And good riddance to those “friendships” that are only demanding, never giving. I learned long ago that some will not be helped. They are a drain and a distraction. I am glad they are gone.

The second discovery is how much I miss the times we got together in large bunches and did stuff: Six Flags trips, bonfires, cook-outs, singing, birthday parties. We had a lot of “creative types” around us, so music was such a huge part of our lives. We sang a lot (well, not me), usually quite loud, but mostly in tune (as long as I wasn’t participating). I am reminded that we used to be young, our friends were young, our children were babies, and we had our lives laying before us. I cry when I think about those times, not because I want to go back, but because the memories are so poignant, and I am so grateful that have made them. I wouldn’t be honest if I said I didn’t wish to go back there occasionally. But I know there is no returning, so the memories are what I have left to comfort me when I need them.

Tonight, Reneé and I went with my daughter and grandson to my grandson’s Meet the Teacher night. While we were there, we went past the choir room. Even though my grandson is not taking choir, both Reneé and I, without talking, immediately walked into the room. Choir had been Zack’s love starting when he was in the 5th grade. He had a beautiful voice and the personality to go with it. All around the room were pictures of the various choirs over the years. Since this room was used for both the middle and high school choirs, there were pictures of all his choirs from middle school through graduation.

These pictures represent so much of our lives for the years that Zack was in choir. We chaperoned every choir trip except two from the time Zack started choir until he graduated. We loved this room, and we love the memories it brought to us. We got to know these kids as we spent time with them on the bus, at the hotels and at contests. We watched their personalities develop. We got to talk to them about their lives and their futures. We spent seven years traveling with that bunch of young people and we loved them all. We still see a few around the area. They have grown and many have families of their own, some even entering choir for the first time this year. I pray that their children and these “kids” that are now the parents get to have the same adventures and make the same memories that we were blessed to make with them.

To those “kids” that are reading this: we love and miss you and thank you for the beautiful times we had together. Thank you, Clara Dickerson for allowing us to have these kids be such a huge part of our lives.

It is now the day after Mother’s Day. Reneé managed to smile through the day, but I could tell she was distracted. We, along with our daughter, Candace, and grandson, Jude, went out to a small restaurant at lunch so we could get in quickly, then on to shopping for a few small items Reneé wanted. Later, we met with family to just enjoy each other’s company. All would have seemed normal to an outsider.

But as we went through our day, I could see the wistfulness in her eyes. She wanted to hear that voice one more time, “Hey, Momma Bear!” She occupied herself with chores, then conversation, but the pain was there, the pain only a mom knows when she is missing a child. This was her third Mother’s Day without Zack. I miss him terribly, and I carried him (and still carry him) in my heart and memories, but I will never know her pain and grief. I didn’t carry him in my body. I didn’t provide the nourishment to him after he was created and placed in her womb.

Reneé is an incredibly strong woman with an unshakeable faith in God, even though she may question why. She is able to get up each day, carrying this unspeakable burden, and provide love to her family and friends. She makes strangers feel welcome in her presence. She smiles and hugs everyone she can, not to try to replace Zack’s hugs, but because she knows the pain of being without them. And she doesn’t want anyone else to feel the longing and heartbreak she feels.

She cries silently at home, or if in public, steps away when the waves of grief come. Many nights, we tell Zack stories as we go to bed. We laugh and we cry. We celebrate his life and the time we had with him. She smiles as she remembers, and she longs for the day she will hold him again.

Tonight Reneé and I were watching a favorite show, one that is mostly comedic with some occasional moments of personal sadness or grief thrown in. In one of those more serious moments this episode, a character sang a verse of Demi Lovato’s “Anyone”. The song is about the horrible loneliness of an addict. When I heard it, I began to cry like I haven’t since the few weeks after we lost Zack.

It reminded me of a night that I wish I could erase: We had gone to Austin to bring Zack back home again. He had been living there for a few months, originally doing fine, but he lost his job. Things began to spiral downward and he called.

We were to meet him at 2:00 PM on a parking lot because he had moved out of his apartment and was staying with a “friend”. We waited for four hours, with the irregular “Hold on, I got tied up” or “I’m at someone else’s mercy” type of text, and then even those stopped. I decided to just come back home. I was angry and hurt and scared. I felt he had used again and was just doing what I had grown to expect from him.

(This is very difficult to write, but I am hoping this will help another parent to understand that they are not unique in their feelings of despair and anger.)

Reneé managed to calm me down and asked if we could just book a hotel because it was late and anger is tiring. After we checked in, we went to get coffee and walk around a book store to decompress. Ten minutes after we got to the store, Zack called. The fear and desperation in his voice when he asked if we were still in town broke me. This was my son experiencing such a level of fear and loneliness I had never known.

We went and found him as quickly as we could. When we saw him, he ran to us and fell on us crying with relief. My words are not able to communicate the fear in his words and eyes, nor the utter joy that we hadn’t abandoned him.

He was soaked in sweat. He told us he had walked across Austin, hoping we were still there, after the driver had kicked him out during an argument about bringing Zack to us. Zack’s phone had died during all this so he had to find a place to charge it before he could call. He was desperate.

Hearing this song tonight brought all of those emotions to a boil and I cried and sobbed that my son, MY son, for whom I would have given my life, had ever felt so utterly alone.

The last hug. The last kiss. The last “I love you.” The last time I hugged Zack was three years ago today. I didn’t know it would be the last time. We thought we had him forever. Reneé and I thought we would be the ones closing our eyes seeing his beautiful smile and brown eyes while he stayed.

I hugged him when I came home from work that day. I came home early to help him get ready to move the next day. I told him I loved him and was glad he was home. After a trip into town, I told him I loved him when he walked through the room headed to take a shower. Such an innocuous thing. I never thought that these would be the last minutes with him. He left us just a little time later. I hugged, kissed and told him how I loved him and how proud he had made me when I had to tell him good-bye … for the last time.

Until we meet again, son. I love you and miss you.

Dad

Please don’t complain when your child calls your name: ”Mama, Mama!”, “Daddy, Daddy!” There will come a day when you will hear someone else’s child call in that sweetest of voices filled with such urgency, and your heart will break. You will ache to hear that call once more, but that time has passed.

Keep the memories of those calls in the night, and the times you held them when they were afraid. And the times they shared their joy in discovering something new. And the times they just wanted to be with you and hold you. Hold these times close; they may not last.

Remember how they feel in your arms, and the smell of their hair as you hold them. Remember the feel of their tears on your shoulder, the sound of their laughter in your ears. Remember how they look at you.

Time passes, and children grow, and changes come. It is the way of things. There will be a day when these things pass, and there may come a day when these things are no longer possible.

We were soldiers once … and young.

Dad served in Korea in 1952-53. He didn’t want to go and almost filed for CO status. As a Christian, he had a hard time reconciling his faith with the possibility of taking a life. He went because he felt he owed that to his family, and to America for providing such great opportunity. He never fired a shot in battle.

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What he experienced, like so many others, made him into the man he was: quiet, but with incredible strength of character. I am proud to be his son. I hope when I leave this life, I leave half the legacy of this good man. I love you, Dad, and I miss you.

40 years later, we still hang out! What a life! I would start again tomorrow.

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