The stories below have been shared on the air prior to Father’s Day in the past. I am grateful this Father’s Day to have been loved by such an amazing, inspiring, sweet man. May you get to know a little about him by what I’ve written.
Miss and love you, Daddy.
The story starts, “I knew the day would come when I would get “the” phone call. The Doctor’s had told us the tumors were inoperable this time. Dad had about 6 weeks to live. The news came on his 63rd birthday and it was devastating.”
I have read that story on the air, every Friday before Father’s Day since 2004. Somehow, God provided me the words to put on paper the emotion of those final weeks of my Dad’s life before he lost his 18 month battle against cancer.
I’ve talked about his faith and his courage and how much I loved him. I have talked about holding his once mighty hand in my own, as he took his last breath and went on to be his Heavenly Father. I’ve talked about a song, one that I’ve heard many people say they don’t care if they ever hear it again, called “Daddy’s Hands”. And I’ve told how it came at the perfect moment to console me and encourage me when my world was dark.
It sounds cliche, but the truth is, my father’s death was a defining moment in my own life. I have persued a path to try and encourage others that have cancer, have a loved one fighting cancer or have lost a loved one to cancer. And in so doing I have been inspired and encouraged by others and their stories. I’ve learned a thing or two about human connectedness along the way. We all really do need someone to just listen to our heartbreaks sometimes, and say they really do understand.
This August 31st, my Dad will have been gone 16 years. To those of you who have been blessed to have never lost someone you love, that probably seems like time to “get over it” as they say. For those who have lost a loved one, you understand when I say, not a day goes by, that I don’t wish I could hear my Dad’s voice again, and for the opportunity to hold his hand again.
My Dad probably wasn’t any more special than your’s. He loved my mom and his family, loved God and his country and
tried to do his best every day. I remember once I said, “Dad, I’m not perfect!”. He said, “neither am I and that’s okay, as long as you are trying to do your best.”
He always said that he didn’t want us crying over his grave while he was pushing up daisies. So instead, this Father’s Day
just like the many years in the past now, a pin-wheel, I call them whirly birds, will be placed on his grave. It makes me smile and I believe it probably gives him a chuckle too.
It’s mushy and emotional when I say this to you, but if your Dad is still alive, please be sure to call him and tell him you love him. If you can,squeeze his hand for me. When he asks you why, just say it has something to do with some silly country song about “Daddy’s Hands” and that girl on the radio.
And Pop, I love you. Happy Father’s Day.
~dedicated to my Pop and written by his baby girl, Robynn Jaymes
For My Dad
I had known the day would come when I would get “the” phone call. The Doctors had told us the tumors were inoperable this time. Dad had about 6 weeks to live. The news came on his 63 rd birthday and it was devastating .Looking back, I still marvel at his courage.He was a strong man. 6 foot 2, strong in stature, strong in conviction, strong in his faith. And I know his faith carried him through those dreadful last days, as well as it carried the rest of us in the family.He called a family meeting and I think it was the first we had ever had. As we sat around the table he told each of us what he wanted, what he felt was important. When he finished talking he asked us all to join hands and sing “Amazing Grace.” To this day, when I hear that song it touches me to my soul.He met with each of us individually, my brothers and my sister and then finally me. I was the youngest, his baby, and it was a talk I did not want to have.He said quite simply, “I am dying and there are some things I want to say to you.” I listened and I sobbed quietly while he shared with me the things that would be important in my life in the future without him. When he finished, he asked me if I had any questions or anything I wanted to say. I could barely speak the words, but I said, “I’m proud to be your daughter”. He put his arms around me and held me as we both cried. He said “I’m proud to be your father”.We had always been close. He was my cornerstone, my shelter in the storm, my rock of Gibraltar, my cheerleader, my inspiration. I simply did not know how I would go on without him. All of those thoughts were rushing through my mind, and so many other precious memories following the phone call that he had slipped in to a coma and was not expected to make it through the night.My nephew lived in town with me, and he drove the 500 miles that would take us to my father’s death bed. I mostly sat in silence, lost in heartache. We arrived at 1 in the morning, and mother said the Hospice nurse had called and there wasn’t much time left. I’ll always believe he waited for me to get there .I was with him when he took his last breath. I had stood by his bed talking to him and holding his once mighty hand. I could remember when my hand had felt so small in his, but now, his hand was so frail in mine. I wondered what it had been like for him the day I was born, when he had taken my tiny hand in his the first time. I knew he had gone to a better place, but I just wasn’t ready to lose my Dad. He would no longer be at the other end of the phone when I needed to know how to cook a turkey on Thanksgiving morning. No more advice would be given on how to recover from lost loves, or what to read at night when I couldn’t sleep. Arrangements were made and family and friends notified and the business of the end of someone’s life filled the next day. On the morning of his funeral, I sat in the backseat of the car as my sister drove my mom and me to the service. The radio played softly in the back ground and there was no conversation. As we were pulling up the long driveway to the church and I was struggling to get myself together, to find some kind of composure, the most wonderful thing happened.
Right there on the radio we heard the song “Daddy’s Hands” by Holly Dunn. The three of us exchanged looks and nodded and just smiled. It seemed, at just the exact right moment that we needed some divine comfort; there it was in a song. As the tears streamed down my face, I knew in my heart it was his own way of saying he was still holding my hand… and he would always be there …to hold my hand.
Today’s Warm and Fuzzy is about and dedicated to my Dad, Robert.
Written by Robynn S. Jaymes