Every saint has a past. Every sinner has a future.

My father. My dad. My poppa.

He was, self admittedly, not a saint. He had his flaws and faults and could be short tempered. His younger days were spent careless and even a little reckless. He didn’t always do the “right” thing or follow the law. Some of his life choices could be considered questionable, at best.

But he was mine.

He was my poppa. He was someone who filled so many lives with light, laughter and love. I, first hand, witnessed him take the shirt off his own back to help others. I watched him battle demons and come out stronger and wiser because of the fight he put up. I stood by him when he learned heart breaking lessons but stood tall and faced whatever came. I was directly affected because of choices he made as my parent but he was never afraid to apologize or comfort me when I needed him.

One time, in an argument, someone (whose opinion means nothing on this subject) told me I hold him on a pedestal but I shouldn’t because he wasn’t perfect.

You’re damn right I hold him on a pedestal. The highest one there is, touching every cloud in the sky. I certainly don’t hold him on this pedestal because he was perfect. It’s the opposite quite honestly. I hold him in the highest regards because he wasn’t afraid to admit he wasn’t perfect, he didn’t hesitate to admit his short comings or wrong doing’s. He apologized with his heart. Made countless mistakes but grew and learned from them.

Father’s Day hits me a little different, every single year.

Some years I am filled with unexplainable sadness, wanting more than anything to hear him say “I love you, to the moon and back, LulaBug.” Others come with anger at whatever god there is, the universe and the pain I feel that he is not here, to answer every call, laugh at me when I say the dumbest things, or just wrap his arms around me when this life becomes too much to handle on my own.

& most years, I try to find the gratitude in me for the eighteen years I had my poppa rooting for me to be successful, teaching me to be confident, displaying what it meant to be kind, and inspiring me to follow every single dream I could imagine. The appreciation I have for the strength he instilled in me through his life and his death. The love he had for this world and those in his life. The encouragement he gave me to always surround myself with others I could lean on and go to when he couldn’t be that person for me.

This year, making the 18th Father’s Day since my poppa died, I am now at the mark of the same amount of Fathers Day’s I had with him as I have had without. . . And this one has come with the waves of a thousand mixed emotions. I will deal with them just as he taught me to: A little anger, a few outbursts but hopefully ultimately with grace and love because I have been utterly blessed with this life to know the man I got to call my poppa, and all the other men who have stepped in and stepped up when I needed them.

So while “celebrating” Father’s Day without my poppa physically being here stings and cuts deeply to my core, it is also a reason to be thankful and know I was blessed to raised by someone who was a saint and a sinner. & a man I will hold on the highest of pedestals for the rest of my life. Never because of his perfection, forever because of his grace, humility, and poise; all while being filled with imperfections.

Happy Father’s Day, to every single man out there who is a dad, poppa, influential male, step dad, bonus dad and every thing in between. The world is a better place because of the men who love and care enough to be there for a child (or adult) who needs them. 💙

& to my own Poppa; Thank you for being the best father I could have asked for in this lifetime & teaching me more life lessons than I could have realized in your short eighteen years here with me. I love you, to the moon & back. ♥️🌙