I think about my father everyday. I don’t thinks its possible for me not to. He loved me well. I will never forget him. I consider this significant in light of the fact that as flawed humans it can be difficult at times for us to think about anyone else but ourselves.
It could have been very easy for me at times this last year to think the Lord had forgotten me. Hold on now. Before you start to judge me, a minister of the Gospel, for thinking God could ever forget me, consider David. David was, by God’s own standard, a man after the heart of God, and David admittedly struggled in the same way (Psalm 13:1).
I am going to share something with you that I have never told anyone. I have been careful since dad passed this last April to be discreet in saying things socially that could stir up painful feeling in my family, especially my mother and sister, who loved my father very much and who’s struggle has been and continues to be difficult. I am aware they are probably going to read this.
After dad had passed, as soon as the night before his funeral, I started having extremely vivid dreams which included normal, real-life scenes involving life with my father. Things like he and I mowing the yard at our old house on Allen Dr., and he and I working on restoring our current home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Each dream involved something almost supernatural, a hug/embrace with dad, that I could feel. At the end of each dream we embraced, I felt it, and it woke me up. I then would weep and thank the Lord for allowing me to feel what I had felt in that moment. This happened periodically over the next month. It helped me mourn in ways that I can’t explain.
A couple months went by and I hadn’t had another dream. I would go by dads grave on a run or drive and hope that would spur one on, but nothing. One day I was driving home from work and asked the Lord for something. I needed anything, a dream, an experience, just something to know that He hadn’t forgotten about me.
Then my mother called me. She said that she had something to give me the next time I was over. Becca, Willow, and I went over that evening. My mother handed me a ball. You see my father was notorious for writing our names on things that were ours. Ball gloves, basketballs, footballs, baseballs, notebooks, just about everything. He didn’t want us to forget that ” ” belonged to us, or anyone else to wonder. He wanted us to know that it was ours. My mother handed me an old, weathered, worn out baseball. The people that had bought our old house on Allen Dr. had been walking in the neighboring field and noticed something down in the grass. It was a baseball. It could have been anyones, but they knew it was mine. Because written on the old, glow-in-the-dark, baseball was “Jeremy W.” written in my fathers handwriting. Thankfully they didn’t dispose of this, seemingly, worthless, ball. They took it to my mothers house so she could give it to me.
I had to walk out into the garage so my family wouldn’t see me break down. God had shown me in such an awesome way that He hadn’t forgotten me.
How could He?
I am His.
He has written on my heart,