Sundays are always the hardest.
It was the day of the week I could nearly time the exact minute of my dad's phone calls.
The conversations, mostly one-sided and driven by my natural conversationist ways, were usually brief.
Sometimes I'd feel slightly adjatated that he didn't have much to say; rather, he just listened, adding to the mix his hmms, mmms, deep-toned yuuups and occasional chuckles of laughter.
But he always told me he loved me at the end of the call.
And what better words could I have lingered on than those?
What more important words could I have asked for from a man who was not a conversationalist by nature?
I find myself lost in more thoughts, memories and feelings on Sundays that silence my normal dialogues.
I retreat to places of laughter and places of deep regret.
Places of love and places of anger.
Places I've never before wandered and places I know like the back of my father's large, olive-complected hands.
The milestones happen on Sundays.
The six-month anniversary of his death.
The first Father's Day where I found myself feeling fatherless.
Today. His 57th birthday. Sunday.
I wait for the day to turn into a darker, dreary one, typical of late November.
I wait, snuggled in my father's cushy rose-shaded recliner near the Christmas tree as G. hangs up my his grandpa's old ornaments and long to sit in the glow of its lights.
I want the sky somehow to know, to reflect what I'm feeling.
I want God to set the mood for my mourning.
But it's sunny today, his birthday, this 28th day of November, this Sunday.
Because my Heavenly Father, He knows this is better than what I so want.
He knows this heart that longs for warmth, the glow of the sun in dreary midwestern winter skies.
So I'm taking this sunny Sunday as a love letter straight from the hands of my eternal Father.
I'm taking its warmth as a strong, loving arm around my shoulder during a day I celebrate and mourn and miss the earthly one I loved and knew for 27 years and will assuredly love and remember for another 57 or so.
I will choose to bask in its warmth.
I will choose to celebrate my dad today, cry when I need to and then remember something beautiful about the father who raised me and the Father who created me.
And I will know I'm neither fatherless nor Fatherless.
On a Sunday.
I find it oddly comforting and ironic that my favorite band has a song called On a Sunday, and it very fitting for today.
*My 365 project will be up tomorrow, a day later than normal, lest you think I've forgotten. I'm just busy remembering other things today.*