Well, I'd be happy to

My Papa died very recently. He was one of those very rare people who always meant what he said. There is so very much about this man that I miss. Grief and I know each other well and while this type of grief is clearer I know that the ache will never leave.

But unlike with Damon's death I can look back on my memories of this man with a mixture of the ache and the joy. His last name was Lovejoy and never in all of human history has someone so embodied their name. I wrote for his memorial service "to me, Papa was walking, talking, whistling, smiling unconditional love" and he was. To be the focus of his attention was to be in a place where you were protected, safe, and loved.

There are a million of his characteristics that I hope to embody. His incredible kindness. His unabashed generosity. His smile. His organizational skills! (seriously, his garage is a thing of beauty). And my mind overflows with memories of him, often accompanied by the smell of fresh cut grass (my sister-in-law calls his ability to keep a perfect lawn one of his "spiritual gifts").

Among all of this, something I heard him say every single time I saw him sticks in my mind.

"Well, I'd be happy to!"

I can hear his voice.

If you ever asked Papa to do anything this is how he would respond.

From my boys asking him to get out his stash of toys to me asking for much bigger favors that was always his answer; he would be happy to.

Every single time I heard him say it I made a conscious effort to answer my family this way. I wanted them to feel as loved as this man always made me feel and this phrase, to me, embodied so much of who he was. I failed... miserably.

In my defense it's really hard to say "Well, I'd be happy to!" to the 47th "Mooooooooooooooommmmmmm!!!" Nevertheless, I kept trying, and I kept failing.


In the past few weeks, however, I've found this answer creeping naturally, unconsciously, into my responses. I don't say it exactly the same. I say "I wouldn't have it any other way!" when my Rainbow wants to help make pancakes. I say "Sure thing, love!" and occasionally I manage a "I'd be happy to, baby."

The point isn't the words exactly. The point is that I had the rare good fortune to be loved by a man who meant what he said and always said "Well, I'd be happy to!" I knew he was happy to and I want my babies and my husband to always feel some of the golden warmth my Papa radiated filtering down through me.

I consider this the last of so very many gifts my Papa gave to me.

Papa with the eldest

Papa with Damon

 Papa with my Rainbow