Grief. I suppose it can be good. It certainly doesn't help us a lot if it isn't, that's for sure. If it's not good, I can definitely tell you it is funny. Not funny, "Ha Ha," although that is how I often deal with the grief when it comes. More of a funny, "That's interesting or odd" way.
See, just now I almost spelled odd "ood." That's funny, "Ha Ha." I am now picturing myself carrying around a glowing ball through tentacles hanging from my face.
Anyway, there's a phone call I used to make.
In the three previous years, it's been a commiseration call. Other years, the call is celebratory in nature. Sadly, it was to be another commiseration call. I was realizing this morning that I don't get to make that phone call this year, or ever again in the future. And I suddenly realized I am going to miss that call.
I owe the connection I have to BYU football to my Dad. Make no mistake, my Mom is a fan, too. But, as a boy, I always looked to my Dad when it came to sports - particularly BYU sports. This was passed on to him from his Dad - in large part by legend, since his Dad died when he was eight years old.
I will miss the BYU-Utah game FAR less than I will miss calling my Dad afterwards, whether that night or the next day. Then I realized that there will be other things that will come up in the next while where I will suddenly notice a hole in my life. Some I might be able to predict, others I will not.
For example, two weeks ago, when I went to the BYU-Texas game, I went down to visit with my family, like I do at every game. I knew my Dad wasn't going to be there, of course. However, when I looked across my brothers, nieces, nephews, and Mom, it was all I could do to not break out crying. My Dad wasn't there. (At least, not that I could see. He's a big enough fan that, I suppose if he was able to arrange it, he was there.)
Here's another example. The week after we got back from Provo and my Dad's funeral, I called my Mom every day. One day, I was in my car, using my Bluetooth to make the call. I suddenly realized the number was stored in my car as, "Mom and Dad Avery."
Moments like these strike when I am not really ready for it. Hey, my relationship with my Dad wasn't perfect, but he is my Dad.
