Lifeline...

I remember on long bus rides in junior high reciting every number you could think of, and see who could recite the most.

749-5341 = my mom's office number
749-2541 = Lexi Stangl's number
749-5531 = high school number
1-800-call-jenny = weight loss number

And I could go on and on and on. How many times a day did we dial any given number, especially during the summer? Calling a friends house, calling a friends house from a friends house.  Giving our friends' numbers out.

Of course, this was all before cell phones, where we could automatically store someone's number in our contacts, and then selectively call them simply by choosing their name. You always had to remember the phone number.

I'm not sure if it was fate, but I got a new phone a few months before my dad died. My parents phone number started with a (641) area code. I was sick of misdialing it with a (515) area code, which is the area code I live in. So while doing some random task, I attempted to enter it and save it, only I never got to the "and Dad" part, so I just entered "Mom." To this day, I'm thankful I don't have to look and see "Mom and Dad" when dialing home. Moreso, I'm thankful I didn't have to delete the "and Dad" part.

On the other side of this story, my very best friend had a baby almost 5 months ago. Combine that life with the fact that I have a 10 month old running around, and our phone dates have become few and far between. So we had a phone date "scheduled" for one night, and her name in my contacts list is "Courto Sporto."

The name and number saved directly beneath hers in my contact list is "Dad."

It had been awhile since we had talked, and I had to dig through my contact list to get her number, since of course, I don't have a need to memorize it and therefore don't. In my anxiousness to call her, I scrolled too quickly, landed on "Dad" and pushed send.

It was a rip-out-my-guts, sear-my-soul and stop-my-heart moment.

I pushed "end" not once or twice, but a half dozen times to make sure the call didn't go through. And it wasn't the thought of someone actually answering and then my having nothing to say that made me push the "end" button like a maniac. It was the fact that in my little-girl heart, I had the thought that he might answer. And then... what would I say?

I'm sorry. I miss you. I wish we would have had a better last conversation. Why did you have to go so soon? I wish you could meet James, he's getting so big! I hope you didn't feel anything. Do you hear me when I talk to you? I have a cold. It's snowing at the end of March, can you believe it? I love my job. Eric's been so busy, you'd be so proud of him. Our cat is still alive. We let him roam outside when he wants to, he loves it! We have a video monitor where I can watch James take every little breath and scoot around, he's such a restless sleeper! Can you believe the state America is in? It's gotten crazy! I haven't played cribbage since you died, I think I forgot how to? Haha, I could never forget how to whip your butt. Next big project is the deck, then hopefully the bathroom, if we have the time.

And so on and so forth. These are the thoughts that periodically race through my head when I think about my dad, and then some.

Courto and I talk, a lot. At least, we did. Now, we try to, but life doesn't always make sure that's possible. But we try. I've never had to sift through my contacts in order to call her, I've just had to look through my recent calls. But this time, I had to look through my contacts list.

You go through your year of "firsts" - first birthday without him, first holiday, first BIG holiday, first child, first baptism, first house, first first first. Then the year of "seconds" - second birthday without him, second holiday. And it's so. much. easier. But still tough. Still tough. And as you're coasting through that year of seconds, you come to another "first" that throws you off guard. In the third year, the same; another first which throws you off your game again. And although the time it takes for you to compose yourself gets shorter and shorter, it still throws you off. It's still tough.

After more than four years, I have come across yet another first. And it's almost a comical first. What should I name it? First-time-I've-accidentally-tried-to-contact-someone-in-Heaven? I can honestly say it takes the cake for "firsts."

So I can laugh at myself. I can talk about it with friends, Eric. I can laugh some more. But on the inside, I'm at a crossroads. Do I delete his number?

But in my little-girl heart, I still have the thought he might answer. So for now, I'll keep it. It's my lifeline to Heaven, I guess.