My dad was a brilliant, funny, kind man who loved me fiercely in the ways he knew how. He is why I understand grace. He taught me to ski and to drive, to always carry a personal calendar, and to love animals and bawdy humor. He gave me his nose and made me a runner and an early riser. He loved dessert, golf, Stanford, basketball, and good shenanigans.
He had an encyclopedic knowledge of college sports. For 56 years he carried and prayed over the handwritten surgical records of his patients at the 24th Evacuation Hospital at Long Binh, Vietnam. He was beloved by family, friends, patients, and those he walked with in sobriety and faith. He called me Birdie. Holly Bird.
I am grateful to see his spirit and intellect (and, ok, that love of good shenanigans) in my daughters, Olivia and Audrey–Livvy and Audge to their Papa. Godspeed, Dad. See you on the shores of Kauai, whenever John Denver plays on the radio, in the back booth at Good Stuff waiting on your Greek omelette, and every time I take the long way home past the 17th hole at PV.