Father's Day, and a Story

Well, it's Father's Day.

I'm not sure what to say. I'm not even sure how I feel. I wanted to say something big, something meaningful. Some grand thank you, love you, miss you to my dad. But the words weren't coming. Somehow, even after all of the gushing I have done on this blog...today, I want to keep him to myself.

I want to keep my grief, my memories, and my love quiet and safe--held and cherished within. Does that even make sense? I guess I mean that from now on, Father's Day is a private thing. It's just between me and my family and Dad. Since I can't thank him in person or tag him in a Facebook post, it's only and it's all in my heart. I don't need to buy a card or a random gift--all the giving and receiving is done now. What's left is the pure stuff: the truth of our bond, the echo of Dad's deep love, the reality of the sacrifices he made for us. One year or ten years won't change those things.

I want to tell you a story that's only slightly about my dad.

A couple of years ago, I spent a semester studying abroad at Oxford University in England. During our spring break, I went with a group of people on a trip to northern Wales. We rented a house in Llanberis, and from there we drove to places like Caenarfon, Conwy, and Harlech to explore these fantastic medieval castles built by King Edward I. It was awesome. I spent most of my time at Oxford buried under massive piles of books and my tutors' expectations--but at least I can say that I saw some legit castles. We were staying right on the edge of Snowdonia National Park, very close to Snowdon itself, which is apparently the highest mountain in Wales. (Thanks, Wikipedia.) Anyways, when not visiting 13th century castles, we hiked in the gorgeous, rugged landscape around us.

One day, we went on a long hike up in the mountains. We were warned that it would be a strenuous hike, and that there would probably be snow as we got higher up into the mountains. It won't be that bad, I thought. I mean obviously I am not fit or strong at all, but I do like hiking. It'll be fine.

And it really was fine. The mountains were impressive and the views were expansive and I had a great time. We took a break next to a clear lake that was just beginning to thaw for the spring. I ate lunch while looking out at the valley below, where I could see tiny, tiny wind towers standing far, far away.

It would have continued to be fine, except for the unexpected depth and iciness of the snow. The trail finally disappeared beneath a layer of snow when we got to the vertical climbing section. I stood in foot holes kicked into the snow with nothing between my back and the rocks below but hundreds of feet of empty air. I'm not brave at all, it turns out. I hated that part. Hated it. I absolutely do not trust my own strength to hold me onto the mountain. I only made it because someone climbed directly behind me and told me not to cry anymore because it was going to be okay.

At a certain point, our group leader decided the ice was making the route too dangerous to continue up the mountain. And we couldn't go down the way we came. So it was decided that we would slide down the snowy face of the mountain, on our butts, to get to the level ground some hundreds of feet below. I guess it was a good enough plan. At that point, I was so freaked out by the traumatizing climb that I didn't care how we got down as long as we went down. Sitting on snow sounded better than clinging to rocks.

So it's fine, it's okay, we're making it. It's slow going, it's steep. But it's alright. We were going down in groups of three, and my group was first. One moment we were making our way down carefully, and one second later all three of us were sliding uncontrollably down this mountain. I fell first. Or maybe, I fell and they half-slid down after me. I don't know.

So there I was, tumbling uncontrollably down the steep side of this random mountain in Wales. The snow was incredibly slick and I couldn't grab onto anything--there wasn't anything to grab. Afterward I was told that the people watching above were sure I'd hit my head because I rolled over some of the rocks that jutted out from the snow. I don't know. I was turning over and over and I had enough time to think, Wow, this is not good. I might die here. I knew there was nothing to stop me from falling the rest of the way to the bottom of the mountain.

But here's the best part of the story: I'm fallingfallingfalling and I suddenly heard our group leader call out, "I'VE GOT YOU!" and he proceeded to tackle me. He landed directly on top of me and miraculously we stop sliding. I didn't even mind being squished. ALIVE OMG I'M ALIVE ALIVE. We untangled and Simon lifted me bodily and placed me on the hill. And with nothing else to do, I put my hat back on, readjusted my backpack and followed them down the mountain. A couple of hours later, the three of us safely arrived at mostly horizontal ground that was mostly not covered in snow. Glory hallelujah.

(Of course, my tumble had saved us a bunch of time and we had to wait another hour or so for the rest of our group to make it down. We huddled for warmth in the lee of a boulder because I suddenly realized I was soaking wet and my muscles were cramping and I was injured. The fall, or possibly the rescue, had pushed my jacket up so that I had these horrible scrapes and bruises around my midsection from the ice and the rocks. Couldn't comfortably wear pants for weeks.)

But mostly I was glad I survived this crazy, legitimately life-threatening situation. Many people might not have been so terrified--or in as much danger as I was--because they are strong or experienced or unafraid. But I didn't have any control over the fall. I didn't make myself slide, but I also didn't stop myself. I was saved.

A few days after the Mountain Madness, we arrived back home in Oxford. I called my parents to tell them about my wonderful trip and also to tell them about the few hours of sorta-terribly-scary-hiking-but-I'm-totally-fine. Suddenly my dad interrupted my story.

"Wait, was this on Tuesday? In the afternoon?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah. How did you know?" I'd said "the other day," not Tuesday. I was sure of it.

Then my dad told me that Tuesday morning, he'd been at the office and was suddenly overcome with a need to pray for me. Desperately. And he had, briefly, not knowing what to pray for. He prayed for my safety. I thought quickly. Accounting for the time difference, my dad had felt compelled to pray for me at the same time that I was on the mountain, maybe even the exact moment when I fell.

I'm a rather skeptical person. I don't often see "God moments" or "Heavenly coincidences" in my life--I tend to think first of, well, actual coincidence or Western medicine or chance. But when Dad told me he'd prayed specifically for me on that Tuesday morning, without knowing why or even that I would be hiking that day, I couldn't help but believe.

Simon saved me. But how, with what power, with what timing--I like to think my Dad's prayers, his love and his positive thoughts reached across the ocean that day and helped to save me on the mountain.

I was thinking about this story the other day. I thought about my fall and my dad's inexplicable sense that I was in danger and his prayers for me. I laid in bed and wondered....Who will pray for me the next time I'm falling from a mountain? I mean this metaphorically, of course. I'm trying to avoid dangerous hiking situations in the future. But who will worry for me like that? Who will protect me now that he's gone?

Then I thought of a lovely quote from Harry Potter. When Harry doesn't understand how his mother's sacrifice can still protect him from Voldemort, Dumbledore says, "To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever."

I don't have an answer to my question. There isn't anyone yet who can step into that void, though I'm hopeful. For now I'm just clinging to the rocks as best I can.

But maybe the air behind me isn't quite as empty as I'd thought. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Love you.

Family Vacations

It's funny.

I've spent the past week in a city I've never been to, in a state I haven't visited for at least eight years. Though I do enjoy the white sand beaches, the sunsets, the seafood, the Key Lime pie, I don't really care about Southwest Florida. I don't particularly have any special memories from our past vacations there.

Mystic Seaport, Connecticut

So I found it pretty strange when I teared up as we were driving away from the airport last week. I sat in the backseat, watching the sun-streaked sky as the palm trees flew past, thinking about the differences between Florida and the north. The tropical plants, the flowers, the fruit trees, the palms. The low buildings, painted mostly in shades of tan except for the occasional pop of color: teal, lemon, purple, brick red, aqua. Flat, straight roads that dead-end at the beach. Sand everywhere. I looked up at the sky, excited to be starting another family vacation, and I was suddenly struck with a sense of Dad's presence, there with us. Despite the fact that I have no memories of him in that place.

I know, it's cliche: "I felt him there, watching over me." I always thought this was a cliche because I've never felt it, not once, since he died. Dad is dead and Dad is gone. That's always how I've felt. He's not forgotten, but he's gone. I thought that people were making it up, that they half-convinced themselves they "felt" their dead loved one, when really they were just sad or nostalgic or wistful.

Chimney Rock, North Carolina

But I really did get the strongest sense, just for a moment, that Dad was with us, too. That he was setting out with us on a brand new family vacation--just like he always had. I could so easily imagine him in the driver's seat, wearing his clip-on sunglasses and a sun hat. He and Jason would talk about making a tee time; Mom and I would point out the outlet mall--"We're going there!" Mom and Dad would harmlessly bicker about what lane to be in, how to operate the rental car. Us kids would look at each other and roll our eyes; silent, annoyed. Then someone would mention the story about the giant meatball, or how excited they are to go sailing, and we'd all laugh it off. Vacation!

At first I wondered why I felt him so strongly in a strange place, but then I understood. I have many memories of Dad at home, good memories. But the best memories, I've realized, are tied to the family vacations we took over the years. Those trips--to Florida or Tennessee or California or wherever--were the times when our family was closest and when Dad was only ours.

On vacation, he wasn't Dr. Brown. He didn't have to answer to all of his other responsibilities. No phone calls or trips to the emergency room or office hours or dictation to do. On vacation, he was just Dad--goofy and funny and kind and enthusiastic. He was the guy who dragged us to museums and historical forts and retired battleships. He was the guy who threatened to just turn the van around and go home if we didn't stop complaining!

San Diego, California

On vacation, Dad was relaxed, he got enough sleep, he ate well. He was goofy. He wore fannypacks (in the 90s) and loud golf shirts (always). He wore high socks. He made us try interesting new restaurants wherever we were. He laughed so much and told corny jokes. He snored less. He slathered on sunscreen and wore dorky wide-brim hats. He read every single piece of information at museums. He braved active volcanoes and crash-landed planes and waterfalls...on putt-putt courses across the country. (Putt-putt is a Brown Family Vacation tradition. It's right up there with Breyer's ice cream and fighting when we get too hungry.)

Vacation is the place--or the state of being--where I feel closest to my memories of Dad. The memories of Dad and the rest of my family on vacation are just so much more intense--purified of everyday concerns and work and deadlines and homework. With all that removed, we were just family. Enjoying the sights around the country, experiencing new things, getting on each other's nerves, laughing together. And Dad was--and still is--an integral part of that.

Bar Harbor, Maine

On this trip, I felt closer and further from Dad than ever. All week I was reminded of great vacation memories of my dad. We told Kelly, Chris' girlfriend, the classic story of Dad and the Soapy Pancakes. I thought of the random organ concert that he took us to at Balboa Park in San Diego. I laughed thinking of that time we tried to teach Dad how to play Mao, and he was so confused that he refused to speak, even when we told him he could. On Thursday, I walked into this tourist shop and found a whole line of Hawaiian/tropical golf shirts that my Dad would totally have worn. It felt like walking into his closet.

But this time, he's not here. There are things I know he would have loved, like our catamaran cruise, the seafood restaurant, the sunset on the beach. There are things he wouldn't have chosen--mainly the alcohol and the severe sunburn. (Sorry, Dad!) He would have loved to have been at Teddy Collins' wedding. It's sad that he wasn't there, but it's also okay. I thought at first that it wouldn't feel like a proper family vacation without him, but I was wrong.

I was wrong because it was an absolutely wonderful week. I was wrong because life always moves forward. I was wrong because I still have a wonderful family that I love being around. We can still laugh and play and talk and vacation. Even without Dad. It's not the same, but it's enough.