not to us

Yesterday, after Mike picked me up from work, he asked me to call my dad before I did anything else.  Since I had asked Mom and Dad to watch Ruby on Saturday, I just figured he was going to tell me they wouldn't be able to do it.  Instead, he said, "Honey, are you with Mike?"  "Yes," I said.  "I have some very bad news."  And then he paused.  My body started to panic from toes to head, and then he said some of the worst words I'll ever hear.  "Honey, your Uncle Dan died about an hour ago."

For those of you who don't know, my dad (and his twin brother) were a great big surprise to my Grandma Burke when she was 40 years old and finished having children.  I think my Aunt Judy was 12, my Uncle Dan was 17, my Uncle Jim was 19, and my Uncle Ted was 21.  Ten years later, it was obvious why God "surprised" my Grandma with twin boys.  My Grandpa Shorty died of a heart attack.  Grandma Ruby often said that her boys (all of them) kept her going.  Needless to say, losing your dad at the age of 10 is heartbreaking for a little boy.  My dad was blessed, though.  He had three older brothers who loved him and stood in the gap, even through their grief.  My Uncle Dan was the closest thing my dad had to a father as he went through his puberty years, teenage years, and on.

By the time I came along, Grandpa Shorty had been gone for more than 15 years.  Since my mom's dad was also out of the picture, I was left with no grandfathers.  But God chose to bless me, too.  He gave me a grandfather named Uncle Dan.  Someone to give me big bear hugs.  Someone to tell me (false) scary stories of three-legged men living in the basement.  Someone to take out the dentures and gross me out, tickle me into tears, encourage me in my faith, and fawn over my daughter.

When I could have been left with no grandfatherly influence, my Uncle Dan accepted a burden for which he had no responsibility.  I'm not sure I was ever able to express my gratitude in a proper or accurate manner.  I truly miss him already, from the very depth of who I am, I just want one more hug.  One more goofy lopsided smile.  To hear that unique raspy voice say, one more time, "Hey, kid.  I love you."

I guess I just wanted to say "I love you, too." one last time.