This Sunday, during Easter celebrations, my Dad will celebrate his first heavenly birthday, turning 77 on the other side. 

Fitting in a lot of ways – he passed on Christmas Eve, the day before the holiday of birth, and his birthday is on Easter, the holiday celebrating death and resurrection. He was a lefty, so doing this backwards seems appropriate. 

A few days ago, my grandmother, Doris, had her 13th heavenly birthday. She would have been 107! I remember realizing at some point that my grandmother, my father, and I were all 30 years apart, so this is the time of year when we all would have 7’s at the end of our age. It felt magical and serendipitous when I figured that out. Today, without them to celebrate this magical triple 7 moment, I’m sad. We would have felt lucky, maybe bought lottery tickets. 

Last week, I listened to the last Hit Parade podcast, where the host discussed the music of the 60s. The thread of the episode was how many of the billboard hits of that decade eventually became obscure, and don’t reflect the way we remember that musical moment. Many were songs that my dad continued to love, and as I listened, I could hear him singing them, in his voice that was always on key, even when the strength and power of it started to fade.  

I heard his sarcastic wit in River’s voice the other day. When I told her she probably should bring a coat to school for the chilly morning. She declined, saying dryly, “I like to live a dangerous life.”  It was so Peepaw, I had to laugh and give in. 

I have been angry lately, too. Angry that the world isn’t doing better, that people continue to get hurt just living their lives, and that efficiency is never just. And I hear him in that anger. He preferred to be silly but his anger rumbled out of him in outbursts – not towards his family, but not with any purpose or plan. And that is often how mine manifests, too. I’d rather be silly. I am doubly angry when I can’t be. 

Peter has mentioned that when he has a question for his mom, usually something gardening related, he can often hear her voice in his head. John does not answer my questions when I ask them, because he never did. Not directly. I hear him in these jokes, song lyrics, in the anger that is my inheritance and where it tells me I need to direct it. 

I hope that my choices in directing that anger are healthy, productive, and useful to society. I know that was not always the case for my Dad. I think he often took that anger out on himself. But in spite of that anger, he was able to provide a safe home, a great life, and love for my mom, my sister, me, and our kids and families. 

I like to think that finding better ways to channel my anger is the greatest gift I can give back to him for this heavenly birthday. He did the best to swallow his, so I wouldn’t have to drink that poison. My goal is to take the anger in me, and use it as a medicine to help myself and those around me, in the best way I can. It’s hard work, but worth it. I know I benefitted in ways I am just beginning to understand because of the work he did. So I’m obliged to pass it on.