Twenty years. I’ve known this anniversary was coming for a while. That’s how anniversaries work, after all. They aren’t especially good at sneaking up on you when they’re attached to a date you know by heart.

October 6, 2006.

I’ve written about that date many times over the years. I’ve written about the phone call. I’ve written about driving to the hospital. I’ve written about sitting in an emergency room waiting for an ambulance that was carrying my father even though, somewhere in the back of my mind, I already knew he was gone. I’ve written about what happened that night enough times that I don’t think I need to tell that story again.

Twenty years later, I’m more interested in what happened after. I was 26 years old when Dad died. Today, I’m 46. That means I’ve now lived almost as much of my life without my father as I lived with him. There’s something unsettling about that math.

At 26, I was happy enough. I was living in Dad’s basement, supposedly helping him out financially, although I’ve admitted many times over the years that the real benefit of that arrangement was having an excellent cook upstairs. I was working as a counselor at Northside Middle School, and I was trying to figure out what having a career was supposed to mean. In some ways, I thought I had everything figured out. In other ways, I was certain I had absolutely nothing figured out.

I was considering graduate school. I was even thinking about seminary. I had ideas about where my life might go, but I didn’t necessarily have a plan for getting there. At 26, that somehow seemed okay. When you’re in your mid-twenties, there’s still a part of you that feels invincible. There’s plenty of time to figure everything out.

Then Dad died at 53. Suddenly, “plenty of time” didn’t seem quite as guaranteed. Twenty years later, I still don’t have everything figured out. I’m starting to suspect nobody does.

The Son He Never Got to Meet

There’s a strange thing about losing a parent when you’re relatively young. Dad knew me, obviously. In fact, during the last few years of his life, he probably knew me better than almost anyone. But he didn’t know this version of me. He never knew 46-year-old Aaron.

He never saw the career I eventually stumbled into. He never saw the jobs that nearly broke me or the ones that reminded me why I wanted to help people in the first place. He never saw me drop out of seminary after three semesters. He never saw me think I’d found my dream job, only to watch that dream fall apart.

He didn’t see me become a writer in any meaningful sense of the word. He didn’t see the books I’ve finished. He didn’t see The Confusing Middle. He didn’t see me somehow accumulate enough Lego that I’m pretty sure he would have eventually asked where, exactly, I intended to put all of it. Actually, I have no doubt he’d approve of the Lego.

He didn’t see my worldview change. I suspect some of my political beliefs would surprise him. Maybe some wouldn’t. If he could see the trajectory of my career and the people I’ve worked with over the last twenty years, he might understand exactly how I got from there to here. He’d probably be surprised that I’m still single. He might be even more surprised that I’m okay with that. There is an entire adult version of me that my father never personally knew. Sometimes that’s one of the hardest parts of realizing just how much time has passed. Because I think he’d like this version of me. At least, I hope he would.

Doing the Best I Can

Neither of my parents ever placed some impossible standard in front of me. They didn’t demand perfection. They didn’t insist that I become a doctor or a lawyer or president of anything. They asked me to do my best. That’s about it. And when I wonder whether Dad would be proud of the man I’ve become, I think that’s the standard I keep coming back to. Am I doing my best?

Not the best. That’s different. There will always be someone more successful, more accomplished, more disciplined, more generous, more talented, or better at assembling Lego without somehow losing the one piece I need when it was literally sitting in front of me thirty seconds ago. But am I doing my best? I hope so.

I’m still a work in progress. I imagine I always will be. Aren’t we all? Anyone who thinks they’ve reached the point where they’ve got everything figured out is probably fooling themselves. I’ve changed a lot over these twenty years. Some of those changes were difficult. There were years when I wasn’t doing well emotionally. Eventually, I reached a point where I knew I needed help, and I found a good therapist. I went from seeing her every week, when I was trying to claw my way out of a very dark place, to seeing her once a month now because what I’m doing these days is mostly maintenance. I’m a healthier version of myself than I used to be. I think Dad would be proud of that.

I’m also proud of the work I’ve done. My career has taken turns I never could have predicted when I was sitting in his basement at 26, wondering whether graduate school or seminary was supposed to be the next chapter. My current role has been something of a trial by fire. There have been times when I’ve wondered whether I was capable of doing what was being asked of me. Somehow, I’ve made it through mostly unscathed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned. I’ve become better at what I do. And what I enjoy most about my work isn’t recognition. It’s knowing I helped somebody. I think that’s one of the pieces of Dad that traveled with me.

Dad never needed applause for helping someone. He didn’t need his name on a plaque. He didn’t need everybody to know what he’d done. He just did what he could for people when he could do it. I understand that better now. The pleasure I get from my work comes from knowing I’ve done everything I can to help the people I’m able to help. Sometimes the result is obvious. Sometimes I’ll never know whether something I did made any difference at all. But I did my best. That’s enough. I think Dad would understand that.

I Am My Father’s Son

There are certain things about myself that make me stop and think, Yep. I am definitely Lee Peck’s kid. The dry sense of humor is probably the most obvious. Dad could be incredibly quiet, especially around people he didn’t know well. But once he was comfortable, that sense of humor emerged. This was a grown man who would randomly make a bird noise, look around innocently, and pretend he had no idea where it came from. That’s the genetic legacy I’m working with here. Could be worse.

I’ve also inherited his tendency to tell stories more than once. This is particularly amusing because Dad did that constantly, and I’m sure there were times when I thought, Yes, Dad. I’ve heard this one. Now I catch myself doing exactly the same thing. Apparently my greatest hits are available in syndication. But Dad repeating himself taught me something I didn’t appreciate until after he was gone. There are people in my life today who tell me stories I’ve already heard. Sometimes more than once. I try to be patient. Because I’d give anything to hear one of Dad’s reruns again. Without hesitation. Without complaint. Tell me the whole thing, Dad. Start from the beginning.

The Moments When I Still Need Him

I don’t spend every day thinking about how much I miss my father. That may sound strange in a post commemorating the twentieth anniversary of his death, but grief doesn’t work the way people sometimes imagine it does. At least mine doesn’t. I’m not consumed by sadness anymore. Mostly, when I think about Dad, I smile.

I remember the things he did to make me laugh. I remember his cooking. I remember watching SportsCenter and Star Trek with him. I remember competing with him while watching Jeopardy!, which he usually won despite whatever revisionist history I may occasionally attempt. I remember his voice. Especially his singing voice.

But sometimes missing him still shows up without warning. There have been so many moments during the last twenty years when I’ve wanted to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him when I dropped out of seminary. I wanted to tell him when I got to sing the national anthem at a minor league baseball game. I needed him when I hated my job and hated the person I felt that job was turning me into. I wanted his advice when I thought I’d found my dream job. I needed his advice again when that dream fell apart. I’ve wanted to talk to him when I’ve been torn between two decisions and couldn’t figure out which direction I was supposed to go. I’ve wanted to tell him about the books I’ve finished. I’ve wanted him to see how much I’ve grown in my career. And sometimes I’ve just wanted him to make something good for dinner.

That’s the thing I understand about grief after twenty years. The things I miss aren’t grand. I miss conversation. I miss time. I miss being able to tell him about my day. I miss asking what he thinks. I miss hearing his laugh. I miss hearing a story I’ve already heard. I miss the things that made Dad Dad.

Getting Closer to 53

Dad was 53 when he died. For most of my life, 53 was simply Dad’s age. It was a number attached to something terrible that happened when I was 26. I’m 46 now. Seven years doesn’t seem particularly far away. Being this close to the age Dad was when he died hasn’t changed the way I see him, exactly. But it has made me think more about my own mortality.

At 26, 53 felt older. At 46, it absolutely does not.

I understand adulthood differently now, too. I understand how much responsibility comes with it. I understand that sometimes you’re making decisions without having any idea whether you’re making the right one. I understand that adults don’t magically reach some age when everything clicks into place and suddenly makes sense. Dad didn’t have everything figured out. Neither do I. He wasn’t perfect. Neither am I.

I’ve written before that I don’t want to turn my father into a saint just because he died. He was a human being. He made mistakes. He had flaws. But he did his best. And he loved me. That’s the standard I’m trying to live up to.

Keeping His Memory

Dad used to do something I thought was strange. He remembered dead people’s birthdays. He’d tell me it was his grandfather Popi’s birthday and tell me how old Popi would have been. Popi died before I was born, so younger me couldn’t understand why this information mattered. Okay, Dad. Happy birthday to the guy who’s been dead for decades.

I get it now. Of course I do. Every June 16, I know exactly what day it is. Dad’s birthday. He would have been 73 this year. And I understand now that Dad wasn’t remembering those birthdays because the information mattered to anyone else. It mattered to him. Remembering was an act of love. I’ve inherited that from him, too.

There will eventually be fewer and fewer people who personally remember Grayson Lee Peck. That’s simply what happens as time moves forward. But I remember. And I write. I tell the stories. Dad was here. He could sing. He could cook. He was painfully shy until you got him on a stage with a microphone. He made ridiculous bird noises. He watched Judge Judy, and yes, I absolutely gave him a hard time about it. He told stories more than once. He loved his family. He served people even when his health made doing so difficult. He mattered.

And I’ve realized something else about memory over the years. I’m not terrified of forgetting some tiny detail about him. Most of him is still remarkably vivid in my mind. But if some little piece slips away, that’s okay. Because sometimes someone who knew Dad will tell me something I’d forgotten. And for a moment, I get that piece of him back. It’s almost like discovering something new about him. After twenty years, that’s a pretty wonderful gift.

If I Could Have One More Evening

If someone offered me one more evening with Dad, I wouldn’t need anything spectacular. I wouldn’t need some dramatic reunion on a mountaintop. I’d want dinner. Specifically, I’d need him to make his homemade pizza. I’d want to sit down afterward and watch Jeopardy! with him. I’m sure he’d beat me, even though he’s now missed two decades of pop culture and history. I suppose after twenty years I can finally admit that publicly. Then I’d show him the new Superman movie. He’d love it.

Mostly, though, I’d want to talk. There are twenty years to catch up on. I’d tell him about the jobs. I’d tell him about the writing. I’d show him the books. I’d tell him about the mistakes I’ve made and the things I’ve learned from them. I’d tell him about the people I’ve met. I’d probably show him pictures of Krypto. I’d explain the Lego situation. Actually, maybe I’d ease him into that one. And eventually I’d want to ask the question that sits underneath so much of what I’ve written here.

Dad, are you proud of me?

Twenty Years Isn’t Forever

Dad’s faith was central to his life. It’s central to mine, too. He used to say he would be here for as long as God wanted him here. I don’t think any of us imagined that would mean only 53 years. On the last night of his life, Dad was volunteering at North Roanoke Baptist Church. He was running sound during Judgment House, and the sanctuary had been decorated to represent Heaven. Before the night was over, I believe he saw the real thing.

I’ve been a Christian for most of my life. I was raised in church practically from infancy, so belief in Heaven wasn’t something that suddenly appeared when Dad died. But something did change. Before October 6, 2006, Heaven was something I believed in. I didn’t particularly look forward to it. Why would I? I was 26. I had a life to live. After Dad died, Heaven became something else. It became a reunion.

I still have a life to live. Hopefully, I have a lot of it left. There are things I want to do. Books I want to write. People I want to help. Movies I want to see. Lego sets I apparently need to find room for. I’m in no hurry. But when my life eventually reaches its end, my faith tells me there is someone waiting on the other side whom I haven’t seen in a very long time. That means October 6, 2006, was the last time I saw my father. But I don’t believe it was the last time I will ever see my father.

Twenty years ago, I was 26 years old, trying to figure out who I was going to become. I’m 46 now. I still don’t completely know. Maybe that’s okay. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve changed my mind. I’ve taken wrong turns. I’ve fallen down. I’ve gotten back up. I’ve needed help. I’ve learned to ask for it. I’ve written things I’m proud of. I’ve done work that I hope has made someone’s life a little better. I’ve tried to be kind. I’ve tried to accept people for who they are. I’ve tried to make people laugh. I’ve tried to do my best. And through all of it, I’ve carried pieces of Dad with me.

Twenty years is a long time to miss someone. But I’ve learned that absence and influence aren’t the same thing. Dad has been absent from my life for twenty years. His influence hasn’t been. It’s there when I help someone without needing anyone else to know about it. It’s there when I make some ridiculously dry joke. It’s there when I patiently listen to a story I’ve already heard. It’s there when I remember someone’s birthday simply because remembering matters to me. It’s there when I try to do my best.

So maybe I don’t really need to wonder what Dad would say if he could see the man I’ve become. I knew him well enough to hear his voice. I can picture the look on his face. And I think I know exactly what he’d say. “I’m proud of you, boy.”

I miss you, Dad. Twenty years later, I still miss you. And I’ll see you again.