It was 1:30 am on February 9, 2015 when the call finally came. I answered the phone in the darkness of the bedroom to hear my sister’s voice on the other end of the line, “He’s gone…”

My Dad’s passing was the genesis of what is now “PlanBe Adventures”. Be awake… be aware… be alive. Losing someone you love so dearly – someone who has literally shaped the arc of your entire life – deeply reinforces the reality that life is fleeting, and fragile, and finite. And it must be lived while you’re alive.

There’s been a lot of tears since then. And a lot of laughter and stories and joy. My Dad had lived a long, full life of 89 years. And though his final few months were punctuated with a great deal of pain and frailty that began with a fall that fractured a vertebrae in his neck, for the most part he had a great life. Travel. Cruises. Winters in Palm Desert. Lots of experiences and celebrations with family.

My first trip to Africa was in the late ’80’s, and I was privileged to spend a couple of weeks in Zimbabwe experiencing the Shona people, which is the largest ethnic group in that country .

In Shona culture, great honor is given to age. And to be the “old man” is to be the most respected person in the room.

When I came home from that trip I explained that to my Dad, and often used that greeting when I saw him. “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going?” It kind of ruffled his feathers, because he had grown up in a culture where young people calling their Dad “the old man” was demeaning. I’d tell him again and again why I used that term, and each time he would grudgingly acknowledge that he loved the honor, but had a hard time getting past his early memories of the term’s use.

The older that he got, and, especially towards the end as the aging that he had stayed so far ahead of caught up to him in a frantic way, my heart would swell with love and pride when I looked at him and said, “I love you, Old Man”. Every aging moment had become extraordinarily precious.

He often said to me in his final weeks, “Don’t be sad for me when I’m gone. I know where I’m going. I’m ready.” And I would look back and him and say, “I won’t be sad for you, Old Man, I’ll be sad for me…”

I’m sad that he wasn’t able to go on that last fishing trip with me. I’m sad that he won’t be here this summer, sitting around our kitchen table, and telling stories we’ve never heard before. I’m sad that he won’t be at my granddaughter’s wedding. I’m sad that I can’t just pick up the phone on a whim and call him to tell him we love him. I’m sad for me or a lot of reasons. I am not sad for him.

Robin Sharma, in his book, “Who Will Cry When You Die”, said his father once said something to him that was instrumental in shaping his life, “Son, when you were born, you cried while the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a way that when you die the world cries while you rejoice.” Yep. That about sums it up.

As I sat for many hours inside thoughts and memories of my Dad, I wrote this piece of prose in his honor. It tracks the trajectory of life from the unspoiled naiveté of childhood, through the angst of teenage years, on to the slow advance of adulthood, aging, and finally saying goodbye.

I love you, Old Man. You lived in the hope of a better, eternal home on the other side of the grave. I live in that hope too…

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The Old Man

cinnamon doorways
tropical moons
cool Januarys
magical Junes
dragons and kingdoms
flights to the moon
all this and more
in just one afternoon

wide-eyed with wonder
kisses first tried
loud celebrations
wounds that we hide
peril and promise
life’s matchless embrace
time’s tumble seems endless
in a season of grace

then slowly the years
just pass on their way
from “I love you, Daddy”
to moving away
busy with duty
time’s river flows on
leaving shadows of sunsets
lingering long

with each moment’s passing
life etched its sweet lines
on a face filled with memories
of a much younger time
till God kindly whispered
your name in the night
and the hope that you lived in
became your delight

no sadness, you said
when you waved goodbye
still tears slyly find me
at the strangest of times
I so miss you, Poppa
as you’ve taken your place
in eternity’s wonder
and heaven’s embrace

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