Snowfalls, Sundays and a quiet house

Sundays are always lovely, but today especially. The snow is falling more perfectly and calmly than in any snow globe, leaving the ground white and puffy. My sister, who came for the weekend, left early to make the trek back to college before the roads get bad and my hubby is galavanting around the country side with his gun and our puppy dog, looking to bring mama home some pheasant for supper.

So, I get this morning/afternoon to myself, a luxury I haven't had in a while. The dishes have been washed, three times already - once after the husband's breakfast of French toast, again after my lovely sister made us some eggs and finally after cleaning out the fridge of the week's leftovers gone bad. I'm savoring my last cup of coffee for the day, as to not go over my pregnant-lady-caffeine-quota. I've been slowly sipping, warming it up often.

I told myself I wouldn't write or post about this, but the quiet house and nostalgia, perhaps, has gotten the better of me. Yesterday was the two-year mark of my intense missing of my dad. The specifics are not necessary, nor is this anniversary, actually. Remembering someones day of death is a strange phenomenon of us humans, I think. It is a mournful thing, because we mourn. We grieve and pity ourselves and miss people and don't understand. For any reason at all to remember December 3, it is not to be sad, it is to celebrate because my dad met his Maker on that day. What he had lived for and taught us girls and acted out in his everyday life proved honorable on that Wednesday morning and all his pain was gone in that second and Jesus welcomed him finally home with a hug and a smile and a "Well done, My good and faithful servant."

And I am human. As a daughter, I grieve, still. As a daughter, I mourn, still. Saying "dad" has to be in a quick, passing statement, or else the tears start.

I wish my dad could see the wife I have become, and all the qualities I've tried so hard to take from him. I wish he could see my pregnant belly, he'd be the most excited grandpa-to-be. But he can't. Twenty years of having him is a blessing I will never take for grantid and I hope, I pray, that when our baby arrives and the time comes for me to be an old lady mama and tell "back when I was your age" stories, that I can proudly tell of a grandpa who would have loved his grandchild so intensely, as he did his daughters.

So, happy heavenly birthday, Papa Jon. I love you and miss you and can't wait until I can see you again.

Love,
Etta Jean