Thank you Papa

I was three when I met the man I call Papa.  I don't remember a lot about him from that time, other than he had a brown car and a fairly large cat.

It was 1979 and there was a legendary amount of snow that made his living situation....well, difficult.  He was skiing two miles out a forest road to get to work in the morning and then skiing two miles back in every night.  It didn't take long for that to get old.  At the time my mom, brother and I lived in a house owned by my grandparents.  It was the perfect set up for us - we lived in the main house and my grandparents lived in what was affectionately called 'the back apartment'.  Being winter, my grandparents were in sunny Florida and the apartment was unoccupied.  However the details worked out, this fun guy and his cat moved in that January.  

In my memory he lived there forever but in reality he couldn't have, because my grandparents lived there too.  So some details are sketchy, but that's okay.  Because what matters is that the fun guy ended up becoming a fixture in my life.  

His night job was delivering pizza for the best pizza place in town and he would often arrive with one or two for us - which honestly was just cool.  Anytime an order was messed up they had to do something with the pizza, right?  

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It's funny because he and my mom didn't end up marrying until I was ten but literally so many memories of my childhood include him.  He never lived with us, other than the back apartment winter, but he invested in our family through friendship early on.  

I remember flying kites and foam airplanes, hour upon hour of playing Blast-o on a TI994A computer hooked to our TV.  I remember a camping trip to perhaps Kings Island.  A humongous inner tube that was so fun to play with in the lake.  And always those pizzas.  

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In 1986 he married my mom and we jokingly said that I should call him "Papa", though we pronounced it funny because there was a television show at the time where the girl said it that way.  His given name always felt more comfortable though - so he was just Joe for many years.  I think because he had been my friend before he was my dad.  It wasn't until after Miss E was born that the name Papa stuck.  She had begun calling him Joe, which was precious but he needed a grandpa kind of name.  We offered her a couple of different names to say one afternoon and the one that she could clearly pronounce was 'Papa' so that stuck.  

There has been a lot of living in the thirty plus years since then.  A lot of life stuff - like an injury that he never would have chosen and the financial struggles that came as a result.  As a child it was easy for me to believe that if he and my mom had not gotten married that we wouldn't have had to deal with those struggles but as an adult I have a different and better perspective.  That trial and others like it are just a part of the story that spans the decades.

It really wasn’t until my daughters were born that I understood the large role that Papa took on when he married my mom.  Two kids that weren’t his own?  That’s some big stuff. 

In recent years I have watched Papa care for his granddaughters and for my mom in ways that have been incredible.  Love is the only explanation.  Last summer I watched him selflessly care for my mom when she was unable to do so much for herself.  He was there, caring for her, as she drew her last breath. 

I have to say that I felt a little misplaced after losing my mom.  I mean, Papa was still here but I wasn’t his.  Several times I expressed to TDM that Papa could walk away at any time.  He owed me nothing, my mom was gone.  TDM gently reminded me that we meant as much to Papa as he did to us. 

I have had to put distance some days, because my own hurt has been so much and because I knew that as much as I hurt, he hurt too.  And there is nothing that I can do to make his hurt better.  Grief is hard.  

But then recently the stomach flu took me by surprise.  I woke up feeling fine and by noon I was the sick kind of sick.  Completely unexpectedly my dad stopped in on his way home from his men’s group.  He took a look at me lying in bed, told me that he would stick around and to just rest.  He proceeded to clean up my kitchen, spent time with the girls, got lunch and snacks for them, took a trip for needed groceries and just did whatever had to be done.  He stayed into the evening until just before TDM arrived home from work.  The following day he arrived to take the girls out for breakfast, giving me more time to rest. 

And through my stomach rumbles and frequent naps I realized that my Papa was out there doing what he had always done – which was just whatever needed to be done for the people that he loved. 

How thankful I am to have had this man as a part of my life.  Without his steady presence and his frequent odd tidbits of information, how different my life would have been.  As an adult I realize that there are many step-parents who don't treat their step-children well.  Papa never treated us as 'her kids' or 'not his'.  We were always his.  

Papa, thank you.  For being you.  For trusting the Lord about that red haired woman that lived in a big white house.  Thank you for investing in two kids who needed you as much as you needed them.  Thank you for doing all of the things that you didn’t have to do and for loving Pedro and I, and two brown eyed girls as much as you do.  I love you!