What My Father Told Me After He Died

One morning, I received a call at work from my wife, telling me my father had passed away in the night. Many of us lived in the same house, including my mom, who was my dad’s main caregiver. But on that day, I had left for work before anyone else was awake. As I drove away that morning, I didn’t know my dad was already gone.

We were not prepared for his death, neither mentally nor financially, and there was an incredible amount of emotion involved in every step we undertook to give my father a funeral back in our hometown. For me, it was a non-stop whirlwind of decision-making. There was never a time for me to grieve for him properly. Before I knew it, everything was over, and I was back home and back to work.

My family had been taking care of my dad for the previous seven years. My dad had been paralyzed on his right side due to a stroke eight years earlier. He had lost his ability to speak and could only make a few one-syllable sounds. It was hard on all of us, doing our best to take care of him, but I know it was hard on him, too. I could feel it.

One day after work, I had gone into his room to visit with him. I told him about my day, and the whole time, he nodded his head, listening. When I was done, he started talking to me using his one-syllable word “my.” He repeated it over and over again. He became excited, nodding his head and gesturing with his left hand.

I looked into his eyes, and I could tell for a moment he really believed he was making himself understood to me. Then suddenly he stopped. He forced out a little laugh and shook his head. His “mys” came out slower, and then he lifted his right hand with his left and let it drop onto his thigh. He looked up at me, shook his head again, and slowly let out a single “my.”

I got up out of my chair and walked over to get closer. I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke to him.

“It’s okay, Dad. I know what you were telling me before.”

But I didn’t.

My dad had been an alcoholic for at least the first nineteen years of my life, and he had a tendency to be verbally and mentally abusive. The rest of my family figured he would never change, and they all left when they could. I stuck around him the longest, partly because I could compartmentalize the mean things he had to say, and because I thought someone should be there so he would have a little bit of purpose. But mostly, it was because I was young and foolish with a big heart.

It wasn’t always bad times, though. Sometimes we had electricity and running water in our house, though we never had a telephone. And sometimes we had just enough to eat. Not more than enough, because if we had that, then he could afford to get beer. But just enough was usually good. We would split a can of beef stew or ravioli, and that was dinner, but it was enough.

During those lean times, Dad would talk to me about his life. He talked about growing up with his brothers and about his short time in the Air Force. We talked about current events, history, and sports. As I got older, we would get into discussions on politics and culture. He had a lot of knowledge on many subjects, but too bad money management wasn’t one of them.

We talked about me as well. He said he wished I was a little more aggressive in the things I went after and that I would speak up for myself when it was necessary. I believed I already did this, but maybe I didn’t do it enough. I’ll admit, during those conversations, I felt like a disappointment. Perhaps I spent so much time filling myself up with the plight of my living conditions that it never left room for confidence in the outside world. I did my best to make it through my teenage years living with him, but some stretches of days were tough.

About six months after my father’s funeral, I was driving home from work and listening to a movie soundtrack. I would listen to my favorite songs, but fast forward through the rest — good, old cassette tapes.

For several months I had been listening to this cassette on my drive to and from work. It was relaxing, and I enjoyed the quiet time with the music. After listening to one of my favorite songs, the next song would begin to play, but I wouldn’t listen to it. When the first few bars of the song played, I always thought about my dad, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to think about him. I wasn’t ready, so I would immediately hit the fast forward button.

This had been going on for a couple of months, but it was starting to weigh on me. Why do I always think about my dad when this song comes on? And why am I so afraid to listen?

On this day, it became too much to ignore. I decided to take a moment and listen to the song in full. I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. I chose a spot close to the edge near a wall in the hope it would provide some privacy.

I parked, rewound the tape, and took a deep breath before pressing play.

Are you trying to tell me something, Dad?

The song began to play, and my father was with me instantly. It was breathtaking but not overwhelming. I closed my eyes and absorbed as much of the moment with my dad as I could. I tried to focus on the song, hoping to hear him speak, but the words went through me without landing. I grew anxious because I knew this second chance to spend time with my dad wouldn’t last much longer.

What are you trying to tell me?

My heart raced as I took in each word in the song. Nothing at first, but as it continued, the meaning began to take shape right at the edge of my mind. The message hovered there, waiting for me to accept it. I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it, but then in a sudden rush of clarity, I heard the words.

One day all your efforts will flower.

I was immediately floored, and the grief I had about my dad’s passing, which I believed long contained, flooded up to the surface. It leaked out, poured out, and exploded out. Six months of bottled up pain, anger, regret, and loss welled up into giant tears and began streaming out of my eyes. My sobs were loud and powerful, and they didn’t stop. They shook my body, and my body shook my car, yet I didn’t care if anyone should see. I seized the moment and spoke to my dad. I told him I missed him, and despite the hard time he had given me, I still loved him, and I still wanted him to be proud of me.

The words, the music, and the meaning of the song continued to infuse me. The power of it punched through time and reality, allowing me a few more moments with my father. Towards the end of the song, I was overwhelmed with the grief of his passing. As the song came to an end, and the next began to play, the time with my father faded away.

But my mind, my heart, my body, and my soul all felt lighter. I was finally relieved of the unexpressed pain of missing him for so long.

After a long time sitting in my car, I collected myself and my thoughts. My sobs were less, but not completely gone. I turned off the music, and sat there in silence, clutching with all the strength I could to the words my father told me.

One day all your efforts will flower.

It was a couple of years before I dared to listen to that song again. I was afraid my dad would be there once more, yet more afraid he wouldn’t. When I finally had the courage to listen to it again, it was as I thought it would be. Absent of him.

The song no longer commanded the power to connect us through the unknown, but I accepted it and merely sat through the playing of the song — an audience of one.

There was something interesting about that second listen. The sentence, "One day all your efforts will flower”, appeared nowhere in the lyrics of the song. I listened to it again, believing I had missed it the first time, but no. The words were not there.

I sat there in disbelief for a moment, my logical brain in a battle with my experience. Did my Dad really say those words to me? Or had I imagined it?

For the previous two years, I believed with all my gut that my father had given me that message. But now I wasn’t sure. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t know what to think.

I decided to listen to the song once more, to hear and interpret the actual lyrics. I listened to it several times. If you’re curious, the song is called Bright As Yellow by The Innocence Mission. From what I’ve interpreted, it’s about a person examining another’s cheerful disposition. About appreciating how this person is warm, friendly, and embracing to the outside world, and about the examiner wishing to be the same way.

Was this another message my Dad was trying to give me?

Despite my rough upbringing, I always kept an optimistic view of the world while growing up. I rolled with the punches thrown my way, but I believe it’s something my Father had a hard time doing. He met many of his challenges with pessimism, distrust, bitterness, and blame. I know my Dad noticed the happiness I carried with me, but I always believed he saw it as weakness.

So why this song? Could it be my Dad was telling me something different?

The song still has a strong, positive message, but it took me a while to come to terms with the true lyrics. It didn’t say what I thought it did. But I also couldn’t discount the message I believe I received from my father, even if it came in a less than traditional way.

The truth is I needed those words. It’s tough when you’re going through life feeling like you aren’t measuring up to some made-up societal standard.

Those words helped me focus on the individual within me. Doing things just like your parents or doing what your parents say isn’t always what is best for you, your family, your society, or for humanity. Because life isn’t just about following instructions or living out the dreams of others. And it certainly isn’t about gaining excess or attaining perfection.

Life is about maintaining balance in a constantly changing world. And that’s okay. The world changing keeps life interesting, and what you’re doing as an individual may be more important than what the rest of the world is doing.

A person isn’t always lucky enough to get the encouragement they need at the right time, from the right person, in the right manner. But I have accepted the message I received through that song over those two and a half years.

Some may disagree, but is acceptance really that hard?

This may not be the right time. I may not be the right person. And this might not be the right manner, but let me tell you what my father told me after he died.

It’s okay to look at the brighter side of things. Endure what you must, but continue on, and one day, all your efforts will flower.

Thank you for reading. You can subscribe to my future content here. I share my articles on Leadership and Management and their application to your world on my publication, The Endeavor Perspective. You can also check out my fantasy and fiction publication, A Bit of Madness, as well as its non-fiction counterpart, A Bit of Genius.