Last Saturday was the seventh anniversary of my father passing away. He had suffered for several years with Parkinson’s Disease so I had a few years to watch him deteriorate.
Before you think that this is going to be a long post about how sad I am, I want to assure you that I won’t be dwelling on how he died. After all, he managed to pack a few things into his life so I’ll mention a few of them.
At the start of the Second World War he was one of the schoolchildren who were evacuated away from the cities that were thought to be at high risk of bombing from the Nazi regime. By the end of the war he was in Germany having landed in France on D-Day +3. He remained a lifelong friend of one of the German prisoners of war.
He adopted my mother’s two children – both of my parents had been married and divorced by the time that they met. The story is that my Dad was preaching one Sunday and my Mum was in the congregation. I wasn’t there, so I have to take their words for that.
He was also a Reverend and even took part in the service when Gloria and I were married.
Anyway, I won’t go on too much about what things he managed to do.
I was thinking that it’s strange how someone you love may have passed away but you still end up feeling different emotions towards them each and every day. It’s as if you’re still constantly seeing them and arguing and laughing with other, just like you had in years gone by.