brighter. bigger.

My father died when he was 39. The night before I turned 40 I dreamed a birthday party for me in the house where I grew up. The house was different. The same shapes, but brighter. Bigger. Full of people. I had redecorated the house by painting huge black words all over the walls and ceilings. They were terms of endearment for my wife, Tina. Kind. Beautiful. I answered the front door and the pastor of the church that exploded was there. He paced. Mute. Agitated. I greeted him and asked him in. He came in but still did not speak. He tried to set down his bible, but threw it across the room in anger. When I held out my hand to him he hesitated and then held out a sermon written on paper. He had prepared a message in case anyone asked him to preach at my party. He let me shake the sermon instead of his hand.

Later my wife asked me to say something to the guests. I wanted to tell them I was glad they came, that I had been sure I couldn't outlive my father and make it to 40, but I was too upset to speak. I would get to the word "father" and not be able to continue.