Nobody loved life more than Daddy.
“I don’t think it’s possible to live long enough to do all the things I want to try,” he once told me. Daddy sure came close: He’d been a rancher, a rodeo cowboy, a soldier in World War II, a salesman, a poet, a preacher, and a local radio and television personality.
The Lord gave him 91 good years, and Daddy turned every one into a celebration. “It doesn’t seem right that the last event Daddy will go to is a funeral,” I told my mother the morning of his burial.
“He would have much preferred a party,” she said. “Streamers and confetti were more his style.”
But without Daddy, we couldn’t imagine having a party.
The memorial service opened with a hymn, “When We All Get to Heaven,” and everyone in the church sang along: “What a day of rejoicing that will be.”
The instant the song was finished a wind passed over Daddy’s casket. The papers on the preacher’s stand flew up into the air like an explosion of confetti. Mom and I looked at each other in happy surprise. Daddy wanted us to know he was in heaven. That was something to celebrate.
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