Unpacking While Packing...

My family is moving this week. We're moving back out to Mom and Dad's old farmhouse in Walnut Grove. My mom vacated the premises after her stroke a couple of years ago, and since then the place has fallen into dire disrepair.

We're on a time crunch, as we have agreed to vacate our current house by Sunday. Therefore, all the cleanup of the old farmhouse has to be done each evening after I get off work and we'll move our belongings over there on Saturday and Sunday.

We spent a good portion of yesterday cleaning out the house. Being out in the country, when there was no human movement, the mice took up residence in force. In response to the population boom in rodents, the snakes moved in thinking it was a smörgåsbord of  furry little creatures. So, we're finding empty rodent nests, droppings, and snakeskin all over the house. It's quite an undertaking to clear it all out and make it livable, a task which my wife has shown great fortitude in attacking. I've been under the weather for a couple of days, so yesterday's physical labor was less than stellar on my part.

As I'm going through the items in the house, I'm uncovering a lot of memories of my mom and dad. Faithful readers and friends will know that my dad was killed in a tractor accident on the farm in October of 2005. Though it's been nearly a decade, sometimes the memories of my father are overwhelming, as is the sense of loss. It's not as if I'm walking around in a grief-stricken daze. It's simply that sometimes the emotions wash over me and I miss my dad more than the average day.

Apparently, delving into all the personal effects around the house have triggered these emotions, not just in waves, but in tsunamis. I find myself becoming very sullen and quiet as the liquid grief washes through my soul. Yesterday I came across Dad's wallet. It was a weird sensation opening my dad's billfold and seeing his ordination card and ID in there. It's impossible to describe the feeling as I looked at it.

Rather than being a debilitating factor in my life, though, I've found that thoughts of my father bring me joy. Yes, there's the pain of loss and the loneliness that comes with wishing I could be with him and talk to him about life. However, I think back to the laughter he brought, to the tangible change he wrought in so many lives and I have to smile.

I have such a rich heritage. I had the privilege of watching my mom and dad pour themselves into the lives of countless people over the years. I had the dumbfoundingly awesome experience of seeing, first-hand, what a true heart of ministry and service was. My dad wasn't perfect. He'd be the first to say it. But through trials and tests, his character and commitment to Christ were always evident.

As I look at his belongings, the only physical remnants I have of his existence, I smile with blurry eyes. My dad loved me, and I him. My dad loved God and served Him until his dying day. My dad cherished my mother. He was a hard worker at everything he did. And, even when there was little recognition of his service, he still did it... because it was right.

I miss my dad, but I look forward to embracing him in eternity.