The Slips of Paper in My Father's Wallet

The Slips of Paper in My Father’s Wallet

Remembering Dad — his laughter, his love, and the two years we spent searching for “My Steffi.”

This morning my father has been on my mind. He used to carry little slips of paper folded into his wallet — punch lines, one-liners, the tag ends of jokes he loved too much to forget. I can still see him drawing out that wallet, pausing to run his eyes down the list, and then smiling quietly to himself as the whole joke reassembled in his mind. By the time he slid the wallet back into his pocket, he was already halfway to laughing.

I bought several cartoons to add to this blog in his memory — and in memory of the two long years our family spent trying to figure out what had happened to “My Steffi,” as Dad used to call me. What had happened to his happy, outgoing little girl? The one who used to be so full of life? So in his honor, I’d like to let a little more laughter into this blog. Thank you, cartoon-makers, for covering what I lack in the humor department.

His laugh was the best part of the joke

The jokes themselves were genuinely funny. But my favorite part was always watching Dad laugh at his own material. His laugh was contagious and completely without pretense. He’d pull his lips off to one side, fighting to hold it in until the very last word — and then he’d lose the battle entirely. More often than not, I was laughing harder at him laughing than at the joke itself.

Laughter was a huge part of who he was, especially when he was on the bright side of things — the boisterous teasing, the crackling energy, the sheer love of being alive. He was an amazing father. I miss him so much.

“Damn Show-Off”

One day during my high school years, I was at work lifeguarding at the pool when my boss came to tell me someone was there to see me. I walked through the office and there, waiting to greet me, was my dear, kind father. He had driven three and a half hours — just to show me how to throw the discus.

Dad had been a college athlete, a standout on the track and field team. So before my track meet, he’d gotten in the car and made the whole drive for the single purpose of teaching me proper form. He even charmed my boss into letting him borrow me for a few minutes and walk me over to a grassy spot in a nearby park.

I was still in my lifeguard suit, laughing, as my wonderful, bald-headed father — carrying a little extra around the middle by then — began his warm-up, set his feet, did the spin, and released the discus. It did not travel as far as he’d planned. We laughed until it hurt. Then I followed his instructions, wound up, and sent that discus nearly three times the distance his had gone. (Forgive me if the word bothers anyone, but I can still hear him: “Damn show-off,” he muttered, shaking his head, as he trudged off to go retrieve it.)

Oh, how I miss that man. Just now I closed my eyes and took a slow breath in — drawing in all the warm memories of him — and let a long breath out, releasing a little of the sorrow. My heart will probably never stop aching for that season of my life that held so much joy simply because Dad was in it.

Holidays growing up without a father in the home were a little dreary. He’d come to visit, but it wasn’t the same. Now that I have a family of my own, time has softened those dreary memories, and my own children fill the holidays back up in the most wonderful way. And yet — when we gather with family and exchange gifts — there is still that familiar loneliness of doing the holidays without my father.

Years later, when I was fighting just to finish college under the weight of more symptoms than I could count, it was Dad who came to get me. He and my brother packed up my things, and then my father quite literally carried me out to the car.
♥
A name for what so many of us are living

I once read that here in the United States, it can take years — sometimes close to a decade — for celiac disease to finally be recognized, while in parts of Europe, where it’s more common, it tends to be spotted and treated far sooner.

Celiac disease is a great imitator. It can hide behind — or tangle itself up with — so many other conditions that it’s genuinely hard to pin down. And here’s what I most want you to hear: “celiac disease” is simply the name doctors have given to one particular way a body reacts to gluten. Others get labeled with gluten allergy, gluten intolerance, gluten sensitivity, and on and on. Millions of us around the world are telling the same story: our bodies are shouting that certain foods — especially the gluten-heavy ones — are not the food God intended us to eat.

The what-if I carry

I miss my father so much. And I’ll be honest — I carry a tender ache, a quiet what if. What if I had understood back then what I’ve learned since about how deeply the body can be nourished or starved by what we put on our plates? I believe with my whole heart that how we feed ourselves matters — in body, and even in mind.

I’ve also come to understand that the mind is tender and complicated, and that the people we love who are carrying heavy, invisible burdens deserve every bit of care and compassion we can offer them — a good doctor, a listening ear, and hope held out to them until they’re strong enough to hold it themselves. I don’t share this to place blame on anyone, least of all my dear dad. I share it because if you are carrying a heavy load today — or walking beside someone who is — I want you to know you don’t have to face it alone. Nourish your body, yes. And please, reach out for help too. Both. Always both.
A gentle word, friend to friend: if your heart is in a dark place right now, please talk to someone today — a loved one, your doctor, your pastor or bishop. In the U.S. you can call or text 988 any hour of the day to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. You are loved more than you know, and this world is better with you in it.

The diagnosis I’ll give you

So for those of you living with a pile of symptoms, or a diagnosis, or just a body that keeps waving red flags — please don’t spend years waiting for someone in a white coat to name it. Let me offer you a name of my own. I think a lot of us have come down with what I’d call BREIM — “Bodies Responding to the Evil Intent of Men.”

Here’s what I mean. So much of what fills our grocery shelves isn’t grown to make you healthy. It’s grown to make a profit. The prettier it looks, the more addictive it tastes, the longer it survives on a shelf — the better, from a business standpoint. Our bodies simply weren’t designed for that. In the spirit of Dr. Fuhrman’s wonderful message: eat food — real food — to live.

Whatever your symptoms, whatever the label on your chart, look first to what’s on your fork. Real, whole, God-given food is one of the most powerful gifts we’ve been given for the health of ourselves and the people we love.

What I personally lean on

Even eating as cleanly as I do, I’ve added a few simple things I personally reach for: a whole-food vitamin, a trace-mineral supplement, and an omega-3 (I look for one that’s well protected so the oil doesn’t go rancid). I’m only sharing what has helped me — you and your health team know your body best. Whatever you choose, please make sure it’s certified gluten-free. Even trace amounts, taken quietly day after day, can undo the very good you’re working so hard to do. ♥

Thank you for letting me reach out, and thank you for taking the time to read. There is so much here on this blog — I’ve added a search feature so you can get straight to whatever it is you need. My prayer, with every post, is that the exact person who needs this will somehow find their way to it.

If there’s something you’re looking for and don’t see, or a question sitting on your heart, please don’t hesitate to leave me a note below. I’d love to start a question-and-answer section, so send me anything you’re wondering about.

Love, Steffanie