This is what we do for the joy of the King,
For His peaceable Kingdom,
For a world in despair.
And this is why we bring any hope we can give,
Any bread from the table,
Any touch of His hand.
This is what we do.
This is where we go.
This is why we sing.
This is how we live.
This is who we are.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

I Miss You, Dad

My dad, Curtis Robert Sewell, went home to be with the Lord 17 years ago today.  I love this picture, even though the funky glasses make him look a tad bit demented!  He was a HUGE tease, and always had a funny comment to make about the little everyday things of life.  In this picture, you can tell by the upturned lip that he was on the verge of a big smile and a typical one-liner.  On this occasion, it probably would have been, "Don't break your camera, Son." Note the JBC logo over his shoulder.  My parents both loved Johnson Bible College--it was the "holy land" in their minds.  (It is to most of us who were ever connected to it in any way.)

When I was in 9th grade, dad used to take me to school in his truck. (That year my high school was temporarily re-located while a new campus was being built.)  I'll never forget a comment he made to me one morning during our commute. I was angry or frustrated with my mom about something or other.  He didn't argue with me.  He didn't threaten me.  He just reminded me that my mother loved me more than life itself and how I should thank God every day that He'd allowed me to be her son.  There were tears in his eyes when he said it.  I not only forgave my mom for whatever she'd done, but I had a wonderful confirmation of how much he loved both of us.  It's truly a blessing to know that even if you lack a lot of "stuff" in life, when you are loved, you have more than enough.

I love you, Dad.  I miss you like crazy.


Rick said...

It's been 20 years (10/8/88) for me. I have similar memories, mainly him coming home after a 12-hour day and driving me 20 miles to watch a minor league baseball game, which he detested. Then he'd drive me home (I'd be asleep by this time), get up at dawn and get ready to do it again. Without words, he showed me what it meant to be a dad.

Don said...

Great memory, Rick. Wow...did he die young? Or did you come along later in his life?

My dad really prepared me for music ministry. He was one of the first ones who threw out the infamous, "It's just too darn loud." Toughened me up!!

JD said...

Great - way to make me tear up before going to work. I have a busy day but now have to work in a call to my dad too. Thanks for sharing the memories. And at least he said "darn" loud - that's better than some comment cards I've seen....

Rick said...

He was 80--41 when I was born. 8th grade education, basically a migrant worker. At one packing house his nickname was "Happy" at another it was "Smiley" at another it was "Jolly", etc. My best friend's dad was the local bank president, and I didn't really appreciate what a great dad I had until I was in my 20s

Heidi said...

What a great post...

thank you for sharing your dad with us!

SingingShrink said...

I'm now out of grandparents. I have to rely on Kira's now. I can't imagine losing my parents. One of my favorite memories in the car with my dad is from Junior High on the way to a dance. He gave me a dollar to buy a Pepsi (I hadn't yet discovered the awesomeness that is Coke) and a Snickers bar. He told me not to tell my mom he gave me money. For some reason that night has always been important to me. I don't really remember anything about that night other than consuming what I bought with the dollar and thinking about my dad and being thankful.

I guess it's the little things that usually make the most difference. Sometimes when were not even paying much attention.

Kristi said...

Oh man...I loved that guy.

I'll never forget the horrible moment of walking into Drill Team practice and having Margaret Murray console me, thinking I knew what had happened and I had no clue. I fell down to me knees and started sobbing.

He was so much fun. I love that I married a man that has his same name. He always feels a little closer.

I'm laying on my bed right now, looking up at his camera case. I'm going to go open it up and smell still smells like his room. It makes me happy inside. Maybe you should come over and breathe it in too... although, then you'd probably have tears in your eyes like me.

johnsonandjohnson said...

I have been thinking about him a lot today. Thinking about you and him.....thinking about our family all together at Christmas or when they would visit us in TN or KY.

I had such a connection with him....I used to think I was "best friends" with him. I remember telling one of my friends that my best friend had passed away.

I was asking one of my friends today why is it so hard to make friends.....we decided that there are so many layers to being friends....friends, in the way that I often define friends, is out of longevity and loyalty and trust....For the years that i was lucky enough, blessed enough to call him grampa....he wasn't just a grampa....he proved to be a very good friend.....the best kind of friend.

Don said...

Kristi, I don't think I could handle sniffing the camera case...I had a hard enough time just reading your comment. :) I'd forgotten about how you got the news. You and I both were not given very subtle notices--I got the word on my PCC voice mail!! That was a shocker!!

Don said...

Jennifer, he loved being your grandpa and your friend. Yeah, our family times together were really precious. I was proud to be his "buckaroo" too. It was a sad day when he stopped calling me that.

Don Crane said...

Wonderful Tribute! Thanks for sharing.

beckie said...

It seems the longer they are gone, the more we miss them.
Much love you. Beckie