A few years ago, my sisters and I were sitting around Sherry's kitchen table when the topic of conversation turned to my father. Sherry confessed that she always thought that secretly, she was my father's favorite daughter. Karen confessed that secretly, she thought she was my father's favorite daughter. Then I informed them that I was quite sure that secretly, I was my father's favorite daughter. We had a good laugh over that and marveled then, as we do now, at my father's ability, without words telling us so, that we were each special to him. And so we all were.  

 My dad lived his love, with actions that spoke volumes more than his words, although the words "I love you" were never far from his lips. As an adult, I felt great acceptance by my dad regarding the choices I've made. It's no accident that I married a man much like him in many ways. My dad, both of my parents, have taught me well that love conquers all, and in the meantime, humor will get you through just about anything.  

 He was a man of few regrets and a man who was willing to move mountains, as he did when he saved his life—and ours as a family—by quitting alcohol. But that never stopped him from putting others' comfort before his own, always keeping booze in the house for guests, even though he couldn't drink a drop of it himself. And it didn't keep him from holding on to the best part of his drinking days—gathering around a table to share food and drink and, best of all, stories. Moments before he died, we had been doing just that—sharing stories about my father and our family with the hospice doctors and nurses who had gathered in his room.  

 My father timed his death beautifully. He waited until we had left the room—he always liked his peace and quiet—and he waited until my sister Karen arrived. And then, as we were laughing and talking and crying and laughing some more, he slipped out the back door. He left us as he liked us best: together as a family, being there for one another, enjoying one another, and letting laughter lead the way.  

There's so much more that I could say, but my dad could be a man of few words and he likewise appreciated brevity in others, especially in church. But I must say just a few more words. For my dad, as he requested, an Irish blessing: 
 

May the road rise to meet you 
May the wind be always at your back 
May the sun shine warm upon your face 
The rains fall soft upon your fields 
And until we meet again, 
(And we will meet again, Dad) 
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.