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The day had all the appearances of spring. The dogwoods were in bloom and grass was growing thick and green after a long winter lying dormant. There was a chill in the air, as an April day in North Carolina can be known to have.

My husband and I, still practically newlyweds, had enjoyed a lunch out earlier in the day before he had to work that afternoon. I was on my way to my parents’ house to do our weekly wash.

In the 16 months since I had married and moved out, not much had changed in the neighborhood I’d grown up in. A comforting familiarity greeted me each and every time I came to see my parents.

I rounded the curve, and as the driveway of my parent’s house came into view, I saw the ambulance and another rescue vehicle.

Concerned neighbors stood in the yard. I parked the car and was met in the front yard by our next-door neighbor. Get inside quickly, he said. Your mother needs you.

Panic swung into high gear as I entered the house. I did not instantly see my mother, so I went into the kitchen in search of her.

The back door was open. Through the screen door, I saw my father, James C. Holt, lying on his back in the grass, covered with a white sheet.
He had died instantly of a heart attack while mowing the yard.

I could not move or speak, though on the inside, chaos and screams filled the void of my mind. My mother was speaking to the emergency workers but came inside when she saw me. We went to my parent’s bedroom for some privacy and held one another close.

My mother called my sister and brother, and I called my husband. Later there would be time to call others, but, for now, these were the only calls made.

People from my mother’s church slowly heard the news and began to arrive. They brought a loaf of bread, some sandwich meat and some two-liter drinks, promising more for the following days.

My family went to the funeral home to make arrangements that evening. Decisions were made that no one wanted to make. This was not how things were supposed to be this spring day. Arriving back at the house, the emptiness was overwhelming . Someone from the church had finished mowing the lawn while we were out.

The church choir sang “Finally Home” by Don Wyrtzen — a song suggested by my sister, Dorothy — during the funeral a few days later. The song’s chorus stays with me to this day.

But just think of stepping on shore

And finding it heaven

Of touching a hand and finding it God’s

Of breathing new air and finding it celestial

Of waking up in glory and finding it home

The words seemed to be like healing ointment as they reminded me of the joy I knew my Daddy experienced as he laid his eyes on Jesus the first time.

To this day 21 years later, I still miss my Daddy. As of this April, I have now lived without my Daddy as long as I had lived with him here.

I do not think you ever get over the death of a parent, but I take comfort in knowing I am not alone. I have a heavenly father who reminds me that He is “a father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows.” (Psalm 68:5)

Contact Linda Vestal with comments or story ideas at lindavestal@triad.rr.com.