4 Months ago, I walked in Barnes and Noble to buy the very anticipated “If You Feel Too Much”  written by Jamie Tworkowski. A friend had recommended (more than once)  that I read it. Without much hesitation, I begin to read. Little did I  know the change that was coming.

Page 30. It begins like this:  “There are some things we can’t change, there are some things we can.  This is about the idea that, if were not careful, the days turn into  years and our rooms fill up with elephants.”

The chapter revolved  around Fathers. Long story short, Jamie felt a disconnect with his  father. The disconnect was a 10,000 pound elephant standing in their  midst. Every time they would end up together, the elephant showed up  blocking them from fully embracing and loving each other.

Suddenly I realized the elephant in the room with my own father.

Rewind  5 years. 2010. Freshman year of high school. If life weren’t hard  enough, this was the same year my dad was diagnosed with ALS. I remember  the night like it was yesterday. I sat in my tiny bedroom against the  dresser i’d become very familiar with. My wrists knew the pain of a  razor. My thighs felt the cut of a blade. Depression became a friend I  didn’t care to have. It crept in and the darkness took over. A knock on  my door led me to the living room where a crowd was gathered to hear the  news. My mom was there. My brother and step-sister. My youth pastor.  Some doctor lady. My dad sat on the couch and looked down as she said,  “Bob has a disease known as ALS”. The room fell apart. Tears. Screeches.  Pain. I didn’t move.

I asked to be excused and sat back against  that dresser. The weeks following were hard. The years harder. We  watched as his body began to unbuild itself. I watched as each piece of  him failed. First his hands. Then his legs. Then ability to eat. Then  his speech. I’ll spare you the details. It wasn’t glamorous. It was  tragic. heart-wrenching. devastating.

As my dad’s health got worse, my fear got worse. The truth is: I became afraid of my own dad. I  was afraid I would hurt him. I was afraid I would mess something up.

This is when the elephant walked in.

Communication  between us dwindled. We stuck to emails and texts. Rare visits on  weekends and avoidance of one another. His tried harder to be close to  me, and I pushed away more. This went on for 4 years.

The elephant took over our relationship.

I  wanted to apologize. I wanted so badly to say something that would fix  it. I wanted to run and give my dad a hug and tell him I love him a  million times. I wanted to ask for forgiveness. I wanted to fight back  against the fear.

I couldn’t.

At least that’s what I thought.

May 27, 2015. I read these words: “Love is a thousand things, but at the center is a choice. It’s a choice to love people.”

I came to the reality of a choice. I had a choice to say something. I had a choice to do something about the elephant.

“Elephants show up where they don’t belong and they try to stay forever and they ask us not to say a word.”

In  the closing paragraph, Jamie explains how it’s okay to ask the elephant  to leave. It might take some time and it’s certainly a process,  but if  we chose to tell them to go, they will.

My dad died 2 months ago.  The months preceding his death I fought for that elephant to leave. I  spent my days working to make sure he knew how much I cared.

I sat  in his room. Counting the breaths. For every 60 second of the world  moving on, my dad breathed 4 of them. Those 4 breathes were hope. They  were signs of life. I knew it would only be a couple hours and those  numbers would dwindle down to 0. But I sat and watched. I waited.

People came from all over to say their goodbyes. Each one walking in for only a  few moments and leaving. I watched each person break down. I watch as  the reality of it all sunk in.

On the last night of my dad’s life  we gathered around his bed. My brother sat by my side. His girlfriend  was there. My mom was there. My dads sister. My grandma and my dad’s  wife. My step sister and her boyfriend.

One by one everyone  dispersed and for the first time in months I sat alone with my dad. I  held his hand and cried. I told him how much I loved him and how much he  meant to me. I said the words I hadn’t.

He passed the next morning.

The  last two months have been the hardest I’ve known. I’ve had moments  where I completely lose it. I’ve sat on the floor of my shower and cried  for hours. I’ve driven 1,000+ miles searching for answers.

I write this to say one thing: don’t let the elephant stay.

You  never know when the last day is gonna come. Tell the elephant to leave.  Fight back. Say the words you haven’t. Do the hard stuff.

I wish I would have started fighting back sooner. I let fear tell me I was drowning.

You’re not drowning.

Fear is a liar.

My dad said it best, “Seek more, Run less”

There’s hope. Stop running.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I  believe my dad is the greatest man to ever live. He was the strongest,  most honest, caring, and loving human being I’ve ever known. He faced  opposition every single day, yet still held his head up high. He saw  beauty everywhere and chose to embrace every part of life. He loved  others well and believed the best in people.

Thank you Dad for  being my best friend. Thank you for learning me and being patient with  me. Thank you for loving me at both my worst and my best. Thank you for  pushing me to try harder. You always brought out the best in me. Thank  you for being my #1 fan. There is so much I could say of your character.  You were a role model for so many. I wish I could tell you I love you  one more time. I miss you. You’re my hero, Dad. ALS didn’t win. ALS will  never win. You gained Heaven. You’re body is healed and glorified. The  victory is in Jesus.