Dear Dad:
I was wanting to ask you a question, Pops. Do they make you talk up in heaven? I mean, I know about the never-ending praise, which is a good thing, because never-ending sermons would be a little tough to take. And I know that you've got new bodies, which is also good, because you weren't getting around too well when you had your appointment with St. Peter. And I know that there's laser shows and thrones and spinning creatures with too many appendages. Sort of like a KISS concert. I know all that, Dad. But I seem to remember you never had much to say down here in good old Tulsa. So are you different up there? You can send me an e-mail and let me know, if Jesus remembered to pay the wi-fi bill! Ha Ha!
Seriously, Dad, reflecting back on my growing up years, I'm still a little angry. I mean, it would have helped if you would have asked me how things were going in elementary school. I would have told you back then. You might have taught me how to shave, or instructed me about girls (that would have helped), or told me about all the times you screwed up so I wouldn't have felt like such a loser. You could have talked to me about war and peace and life and death and employees and bosses and taxes and bills and whatever else was on your mind. I might even have listened without letting you know.
You know what, Dad? It's OK. You weren't real big on talking, because I guess you didn't have to be. Mom could talk enough for everyone else. In fact, she talked enough to take care of the whole block. Now, she wasn't a gossip. She didn't turn church into the National Enquirer. But she could tell a pretty good story. By the time I grew up, I felt like I was an honorary citizen of Gadsden, Alabama.
But getting back to what I wrote this letter for in the first place, it's OK. I forgive you. I learned all those other things the hard way, or through friends, or other men at church or at work. And looking back on it, it wasn't a bad way to do it. It made me who I am today.
Just so you don't think I'm one of those kids who just gripes about their lousy parents, you did a lot of good stuff too. You cooked and cleaned and helped Mom around the house. You told a pretty good joke, and no dirty ones that would cause your Southern Baptist friends to gossip. You hacked away at a job for fifty years. You loved your wife and took good care of her. You had the best garden in the city and you liked to watch golf. I shouldn't tell you this, but remember Tiger Woods? He was just getting started when you died. Well, he made $200 million dollars and married a Swedish model, then blew most of it on, shall we say, "women of dubious character." The model took the kids and about $50 million and left him. What a dumb *&%! Back to what I was talking about. You paid your bills and taxes and didn't vote for Jimmy Carter. As you put it, he might make a good peanut farmer, but he should stay home in Georgia where he belongs. You read your bible everyday and I know you prayed for me all the time. You were never negative with me, that would have taken words! I noticed all those things, Dad, I just never told you. You probably don't care now, since with your new body, you're probably snowboarding or dancing with Mom or something like that.
Anyway, we've got three kids and with them, Pops, I'm not like you. You know why? Because I'm more like Mom. I yap all the time. They probably get tired of it,so maybe I'll cut down and do my best Dad imitation for a while. Then they would worry if I was sick or something.
Well, old man, that's a few things I've been wanting to tell you for years. I just waited too long. Don't take it too hard, Dad. Sons and Dads have a rough time, but then when we grow up, we see that you all were't as *^% stupid as we thought you were when we were seventeen.
Do me a favor, Dad. If Mom's up there tell here not to turn around and talk to the person behind her during those never ending services. It might make the big guy mad.
So long, Dad.
Bill
Love it! Thanks Bill
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