I wish we could've loved longer

I guess it's pretty obvious this is about a boy. Can I tell you about him? I'm going to anyway, so you might as well just listen.

Picture it: Tall. Like, TALL. Taller than ME tall. Blue eyes. German. Beautiful, naturally. Strong. A pilot.

Sounds good, yeah? He's all that, and more. A lover. A husband. A father. A grandfather.

A grandfather of whom I only have one memory of.

See, Papa died a few months after I turned two. I never knew him when he was in good health. Add it to the woes of being the youngest child of the youngest child.

I never really knew him. I never got to hold his hand as we went for a walk, listening to him talk to me about nature, the birds, the trees, the little things. He never picked me up at school, never read me a story, never talked about the Civil War with me.

I never got to listen to him talk.

My mom will tell me stories, warm, wonderful stories of this man. Apparently he had a beautiful singing voice, able to sing hymns like it was nobodies business up until he died.

This is what I know (a brief summary): Lawrence Richter Toburen (Papa) grew up on a homestead in Swede Creek, Kansas. He knew what it meant to labor. He walked miles to school in all kinds of weather. He helped run a farm. He drove a grocery truck (all I can think of at the moment is a specific story my mom just told me about bananas in his truck and spiders. Maybe it was a banana truck. I digress.) as a preteen. He was a pilot in the Army Air Corps in World War II--such a good pilot, in fact, that he wasn't allowed to fly with Doolittle because he was too valuable. He trained pilots instead. He fell in love with a certain Ella Joyner Brame (PJ) on the shores of South Carolina--and that was history. They married, had four children, moved from California to North Carolina. He was the president of Pilot Freight. He had more grandchildren than I feel like counting. And he loved Jesus so deeply.

Over Thanksgiving, I found love letters he wrote my grandmother. Have you ever read love letters? How about those of someone you love deeply, who is a part of you, besides those of a significant other? Papa and PJ loved with a love that was more than a love, one full of equality, respect, understanding, joy, delight, devotion, honesty, patience. It was a love that never failed.

I love PJ deeply, and I regret not knowing her. She is a part of me, and sometimes, because of stories, I see to what extent she is. (It's a lot, apparently). But what I regret most is the memories I can imagine with my grandfather. I didn't know PJ at all--she died four years before I was born. I knew Papa, ever so shortly, but I KNEW him, and he knew me.

The day before he died, he smiled at me from the hospital bed. Boy, was that a smile. Throughout his pain, I felt his love. I remember his love.

That's what's hard, I think: having a taste of something and losing it before you even knew what it was.

I wish we could've loved longer. With every fiber of my being, I wish it.

For my family, I think it's hard to understand, try as they might. Growing up hearing the good old stories time and time again is wonderful. I love it. But they leave an ache in my heart. They are memories I was never a part of, only the memory of a memory. It's better than nothing, that's for sure.

I didn't intend to feel all this today, but as it's Father's Day, I suppose it's appropriate.

I know Papa is with me. That man loved Jesus real hard, and I KNOW Jesus loved him. I'm thankful for that, for the faith he passed down. I'm thankful I will see him again. I'm thankful for the love that I know Papa and PJ are showering down on me, a love I can feel.

I'm thankful for a memory.

I love you, Papa.

Happy Father's Day.