For Jim Riebock

My dad had all these funny nicknames for me when I was little.  The one he called me the most was "Loop" which of course has to have a story behind it.  Well, it's nothing like you think, no hilarious story about me getting lost in the Chicago business district. It is much simpler than that.  My dad was nose-to-nose with me, pulling me into a bear hug, and saying in a silly voice "I love you" and he accidentally said "I loop you" and the nickname was born.  He called me Loop till the day he died.  It was his affectionate way of saying he loved me, his "as you wish" a la The Princess Bride. Man, my kids would have loved him.  He would have been 75 years old this January.

I've been missing my dad a lot lately.  Something fierce.  And it has nothing to do with him having a January birthday. Oddly enough, I've thought of him every time I have handed someone an oil to try. Sounds weird, I know, but there is this moment where a bottle of an oil passes from my hand to another's, knowing the potential for what it can do for someone else -- the little scrap of hope it creates when someone has an option they didn't have before.  THAT is what has made me think about my dad.  Not because he used oils himself or because his perfectly sculpted beard smelled like cedarwood in the morning (it actually smelled like stale AquaNet since he sprayed that beard with an admirably consistent ferocity every morning).  No, I have been thinking of him because I wish I could have given that little scrap of hope to him.

The man had a heart transplant the summer after I graduated from high school and all the meds he had to take caused so many side effects which then required more meds which caused more side effects. And his life and world slowly started to shrink.  He didn't go out as much, shuffled around with a cane, stayed in his room on a lumpy love seat watching Sally Jesse Rafael and countless Bears games, and wore the same over-sized purple polo shirt for days in a row.  When I would visit him, he would stumble over so many apologies for his unkempt beard and how he couldn't make it to see some show I had directed or for the state of his room (stacks of newspapers, nonsensical piles, haphazard Pepsi cans and fast food wrappers -- think Sanford and Sons).  His skin was dry and loose, his sleep interrupted by pain and grief, his breathing at times labored, his immune system shot.

And I'm ashamed to say that I didn't want to visit him very often.  I didn't like to walk into his room and be smacked in the face with his illness and his mess and his palpable lack of options.  It was overwhelming and suffocating.  I often felt like I was flailing in a sea of helplessness, and, stupid me, I hadn't packed a life preserver.  There was nothing I could do and it made me angry at him and at God and overwhelmed by the smells and conditions and leveled by the reality that my dad was slipping away.  I didn't want to face that -- so I ran from it and tried to cling to what he was like before....

When I was small (Little Loop), my dad was there for every birthday party and performance, wrapping me in his arms and telling me how much he loved (looped) me.  On hot summer days, he would climb into the baby pool with me.  He would take me on pirate adventures in a canoe on Camp 12 Lake.  He was safe and consistent and accepting.

And I didn't know how to be that for him once he got sick.  I was afraid, a coward.  Not sure how to help him, I often felt like I had nothing to offer, so I would typically lean away rather than into the mess of sickness and pain and fear.  I would hesitate in the doorway of his room, and mumble something about how busy I was and that I couldn't stay.  I didn't know how to get to him, desperate as I was to do so. Sigh. It is hard for me to admit all of this.  I loved my dad more than I can say but I was not always good at it.  And I wish I could do it all over again.  I tell you, regret can be a very dark place to spend your days.  There are times that I drive by my parents old house on Rosewood Drive, and it takes everything in me to not turn in the driveway and run through the door into my dad's room to say, "I'm here, dad.  This time, I'm here."

Here.

Regret is dark, people, but grace....grace is not. Grace is the do-over, the try again, the take your time, the you can do this, the redemption piece we all need time and again (meaning every moment). That's right, it's the unconditional loop.  And, as I've been sharing oils with people,  I've had this crazy moment of sitting with someone, listening to them talk of their struggles, their mess, their illnesses, and realizing that this, THIS, is the do-over I wish I had. It's the walking into that room. It's the choosing to step in when before I didn't. It's the leaning in instead of away. It's giving options where before I had none to offer. It's getting to do what I should have done then.  For my sweet father.

It's for Jim Riebock, from his little loop.

Loop you, too, dad.