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The Reasons I Love You

Friday evening I attended a memorial service for a man who loved greatly while he was on this planet, and as a result had approximately 500 people show up for a service that lasted over two hours. His god daughter was one of the speakers who had written a letter/poem for her adopted father-figure entitled “The Reasons I Love You.” Her list included the slumber parties he and his wife hosted at their home for her, the game nights and gatherings, the teaching of principles and more. As she read her list I wanted to compile a list for everyone I love. What a beautiful way to honor oneself and the other person; both. Love is another name for God. It is the Ever-Present, Never-Exhaustible, energy of witnessing and appreciating the Only Thing that Is. As today is Father’s Day and my dad is no longer on the planet in physical form, I get the pleasure of connecting with him in the Invisible. Sometimes I experience my dad by...

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Honoring the Deceased Father on Father’s Day

  Oprah gave a heart opening address at her mentor and friend Maya Angelou’s memorial service where she referred to Maya as her “Spiritual Mama.” The love for her friend was palpable in her energy field of grief (note to self: grief is evidence of having loved). I administered two memorial services for my father. A private graveside one for my family and a public one for the greater community. In both I cried like a baby throughout the service as periods punctuate sentences throughout a paragraph. Fine for awhile and then a flood. If I were to describe my relationship to my father, I would say he was my “Earthly Father.” He had mastered a level of operating in the world, which I counted upon. When I was buying a new car, I’d call him for advise. When it came to buying homes, I’d bring him along. When there were uncomfortable situations at work, he’d talk them through with me. When I thought I was better than someone else in...

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My Dad

My dad, my three-day old sister and me at age three Happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there!!  Today’s blog is to pay homage to my father. Babe Ruth hit his 700th home run the year my father and his twin brother arrived.  His family lived in a dirt-floored home complete with outhouse in rural Oregon. A wood stove would attempt to keep his family warm in the winter, although the cold would often win.  The only plenty in his family was love.  Poverty and Eagle Scouts principles would become my dad’s greatest teachers. By the time I was born, my grandparents had built a comfortable living for themselves, literally.  My grandfather was a carpenter and built the beautiful home they lived in on the outskirts of vast farmland in  Beaverton, Oregon.  This is where I ate my first lemon cucumber picked ripe from my grandmother’s side-of-the-house raised garden bed and where I learned to ride horses. This land would be sold off a little at time with streets...

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