Phone Call to Heaven

I bought a cantaloupe at Kroger because it seemed ripe. I’m not very good at choosing melons. 

It turns out, I’m not very good at cutting them up either.

My dad loved melons, but he especially loved cantaloupe. He would buy them from a local farm stand on the side of the road. The farmer, David, would help him pick a good one. And he had this method of seamlessly slicing the melon into long slivers, and then cube-sized pieces from the slivers. 

“I can’t elope, I’m already married!” I can hear my dad saying this in my head. I know exactly how he would say it, and he said it probably any time the word “cantaloupe” was mentioned. He was the king of dad jokes.

I tried to cut my cantaloupe with my dad’s method, but my knife was dull and the cantaloupe was still a bit under-ripe. I missed him in that moment.

The next morning was father’s day. I got up to make coffee in the Mr Coffee drip coffee brewer. 

I’m fairly certain my dad made drip coffee every single day of his life for at least the last 10 years, if not longer. When we went on vacations, he would pack up the coffee maker, just in case there wasn’t an adequate one available at whichever condo or home we stayed. 

As I measured out the coffee grounds for my morning cup on Father’s Day, I imagined he was there with me, in my goofy little kitchen with the slanted floors and exposed hot water heater. I think if he could be there with me, he would tell me he’s proud of me for moving to the dinky little house that’s basically a summer cabin and starting over in this sleepy southern town.

In the week and a half following father’s day, I was faced with two big decisions: where to live and whether or not to accept a full-time job. 

At some point during that time, I felt a wave of grief, seemingly out of nowhere. 

But then I realized—until then, I had never made a big decision like this without consulting my dad. 

My best friend and my brother were busy, and I had already called my mom. I wanted to call my dad. I can’t think of a time I couldn’t reach him to discuss the pros and cons. We could mull over ideas and opportunities for hours together. He never doubted my decisions, and always supported me. Even if deep down he doubted, I think he must have given that worry to the Lord because he never put it on me.

Since I couldn’t call my dad, I called my mom. I told her how much I wished I could talk over the job opportunity with him. The next day, when I accepted it, I wanted so badly to celebrate with him. She told me to write him a letter.

So I did. I wrote a letter to my dad in my journal all about my new job and how it happened and why I’m over the moon about it. 

I wish I could make a phone call to heaven. The letter in my journal will have to do instead. 

I still know the sound of his voice. I don’t even need the single saved voicemail, which I have memorized at this point, to hear it. Thank God for that. 

But I’d love to hear him say, one more time, “You’re my sweet pea girl.”