I cannot believe it's already been 13 years. This year marks the 13th anniversary of my father's 74th birthday, which happened to be the day he passed. It seems like just the other day that I and 3 of our children went to visit him, bringing birthday balloons and his favorite candy. His large eyes got even bigger as he saw us enter the room. We talked, we shared, and I took pictures of him cuddling with my children. They created birthday cards for daddy while he and I sat in silence. It was a safe silence; the kind where you both smile, knowing things are as copacetic as they will ever be, and words are simply not needed.

A few minutes later he perked up, looked at me with uncontrolled excitement, and declared, "Things happen so fast!" Somehow in the middle of that moment, I knew unequivocally that this seemingly reminiscent statement meant so much more. Oddly, my reaction was to watch it all unfold, because in my heart I knew there was a vital message here. Intuitively I knew there was so much more meaning to those four innocent words.

Inside of only a few short minutes, daddy breathed his last. Like a well-rehearsed play, I stepped back as he journeyed to where he will grace the heavens forever more. I held the kids and softly shared how "death can be beautiful. He is now at peace."

What I didn't share with them was why his death was especially amazing. You see, when I finally removed myself from the top of my mother's "abuse list," daddy took my place. For him, death was a glorious gift of mercy; it offered him a permanent escape from the hell he endured at mother's cruel hands while he was still in her clutches and had no strength to run. He died with not one iota of the will to live; she took that away, too.

I couldn't save him from her. I had finally just learned to save myself.

Since his death, I have strived to make daddy's spirit proud of me. At times I want to believe I feel his presence surround and envelop me in a clear, warm breath filled with contentment. In my mind I hear his voice guiding me to know he is amazed at all I have become.

I think back to the time I moved out at the tender age of 16; he hugged me and we both cried as he mused, " It's so hard to grow up." I think he completely understood my leaving. In my heart I believe that on that day, he wished he could have left, too. Poor daddy seemed inconsolable as he watched me go. Mother wasn't there to offer him comfort; she left to go clothes shopping...

I often wish he could come back. Were he still here, he could do the right thing. He could once again tell me how sorry he is to have condoned and even participated in mother's horrible abuse of me. He could finally acknowledge that while he worked non-stop and did everything he could to escape her constant wrath, he left me in the jaws of a hungry lion. She was ravenous, and had an insatiable appetite that she satisfied by devouring my sweet and tender soul. While taking out her frustrations from her mysterious past on me, she greedily took all of me, apart from a tiny spark.

I'd like to believe that it was that little tiny spark that implored me to call my husband from the 5th floor balcony ledge when I didn't want to exist past nightfall. That spark became a guiding light while seeking my path to becoming a loving momma who never learned love from her own mother. That same tiny flicker knew to warm my heart when it felt alone and so very cold. That stunning incipient flower that knew just when to bloom. And bloom, it did. For here I am.

Since that day back in 2003 our children have grown and almost all are off on their own, each making such a beautiful difference in our world. Each autumn since daddy died, the colors of fall have become increasingly even more splendid. In a bittersweet way, the fading of the summer fields, the scent and taste of Honey Crisp apples, the sound of the drying corn stalks as they sway in the cool breeze, they remind me of the changes that are all a part of living. I am reminded every fall that the end of a season brings the beginning of a new one.

As I look at this life I live, thirteen years later, I wonder what daddy would think of me now? His death inspired me to do and become so much more than either of us could have imagined. I believe he fully knew that the end of his life was actually a beginning for us both. He was departing to grace the heavens as an unencumbered, healed soul, so deserving of peacefulness and serenity. I no longer felt responsible for leaving him to take my place in line for mother's abuse. Together, daddy and I experienced how the ending of his life brought a new beginning; a purposeful, hope-filled healing in my life. Although he felt tremendous guilt for not protecting me from mother, he finally understood the price I paid. In the end, he chose me and our children to be there as he breathed his last and met his peace.

Still, I wonder. But mostly I wish... If only daddy could be here to see all the things I have learned to do to find healing- so that I wouldn't turn into a mother like the one I had.

Would he like that we incubated chicken and duck eggs, and now have a silly rooster that has feathers even on his feet?

Would he have enjoyed eating the colored eggs I gather from our chicken and duck coops each morning?

Would he love that I share his passion for planting flowers?

Would he be proud of the fact that I have turned our home into a canvas and even paint "rugs" on our floors?

Would he be proud that I grind wheat to make wholesome bread?

Would he love my cottage where I spin wool and paint? In winter, when the outside is frosted with snow but the inside is warm and cozy, I believe his spirit is abundant with joy.

In the midst of my healing I made a pact with God that eventually led to my writing a memoir. I knew, deep down inside, that my healing could prove to others that there IS hope. Beyond survival is a life well-lived, filled to overflowing with such beauty! I do believe that daddy would embrace this. It is the legacy I wish to leave for all who have been abused and face the daunting task of healing. While it is my story, it is his, too...

So here I am, thirteen years later. I am so much greater than the challenges I pushed through in the aftermath of his passing. I never got to be "daddy's girl," but I became the wife, mother and nurse I know he'd be so proud of. Together daddy and I learned what happens when a soul is crushed almost beyond recognition. Without him I faced the pain of learning to love myself through the excruciating process of healing. Only one of us found that healing while here on earth. The other was too browbeaten to endure. He let his flag slowly fall, and surrendered far too soon.

Dad, you haven't really died. You remain alive and safe in my heart. What really matters is that eventually we both found our healing. I am still here and will carry your flag. I will make sure no one else ever has to cry alone again. I love you. Rest peacefully.