Redeeming Corrupted Perfection

As I was scrubbing my kitchen floor today, I was singing worship music when suddenly, a dart hit me right in the heart.  I wept because my tiny Dad experienced physical death. 
As Parkinson's Disease chipped away at his body and mind, I know he prayed for the release of death.  But he'd always hoped that the rapture would come before his body gave out.

I chose not to see my Dad's body after he died.  Parkinson's Disease robbed Dad of his easy smile, quick puns, and baritone laughter.  I truly did not want to see his body without his personality inhabiting it.

Today I grieved, not for the loss of Dad himself, but that he had to experience physical death.  I wonder what it was like for God when his beloved children rebelled and turned the universe inside out.  Did he feel grief like this times a billion billion?  Grief for every living thing that would now experience decay and death?

No wonder why we had to have a supernatural savior and champion!

My eyes are still leaking but I'm trying to remember that Dad is home and safe now.

What would it be like to live in a body that wasn't breaking down and decaying? I can't even imagine it.

Dear Dad

I miss you today.  Your face smiles at me from a photo on my kitchen wall.  It's 15 years ago and you're in your late 60's.  It's some random family holiday and you're wearing one of my handmade basket on your head. 

You've got a fabulous smile that reaches all the way to your hazel eyes.  You're not just smiling for the camera--you're twinkling at the person behind the camera, probably Mom.  I compare it to a more recent photo and I see how much Parkinson's Disease robbed you over the years.  It stole your ability to laugh and smile and twinkle.

When I think, "I miss my Dad," I think I miss two things:  the man in the photo with the dynamite smile and the opportunity of sharing the little achievements of my life with you.  It's hard to know that I'll never make you proud ever again.

I would never wish you back.  You're in heaven now, the man God originally made you to be.  But I miss your face, Dad.

111 days