May 16

May 16 Why I Get Up Every Morning

Why do I get up every morning?

Have you ever been so depressed you can’t get out of bed? I never understood the struggle until my baby girl died in her sleep at ten-days-old. A word I recently heard stirred my thoughts and challenged me to “go there” in my quest to figure out why I get up each morning. On the Japanese island of Okinawa, the people have a term, loosely-translated, expressing why they get up each day: Ikigai (eek-y-guy). These people live longer than most.

The word, according to some, incorporates four elements: passion, mission, vocation, and profession. Passion is what we love.

It’s nighttime now. The sky is dark, and stars blanket the heavens, each giving off the light only that star can give.

The night-sky speaks to me of gifts given to each of us and the inner-spark we see in every person’s eyes, no matter their age, creed, or color. No one can take their place. When the light dims and disappears from our sight forever, we can’t forget them.

I remember my dad’s eyes — how they twinkled. His eyes told me he cherished me. I knew it, even though his words were few.

I think about my dad’s Ikigai. I wonder what got him up every day — his passion.

He loved the land and the animals he cared for. He loved his bride until the end of his days. He loved his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. His commitment drove him — his faithful love burned like a steady fire. He loved his God, even more after he lay on the floor trapped—his leg gripped by the iron blades of an auger and his lifeblood oozing from his wounds. That day could have been his end.

He showed up day-in-and-day-out for his bride. He served her in ways that mattered, giving her breaks from cooking and caring for us, even changing diapers at a time when a good many men refused to do so. He showed up in ways I will never forget as a father, driving us to every school event and even coming to pick me up once at a movie theater when I decided the movie was way too scary. He showed up for his grandchildren, taking them on his rounds in the early morning foggy hours to feed baby calves and kittens. He showed up for his great-grandchildren while his mind was fading with that same twinkle that spoke the language of cherishing. Even in his later years, he showed up for the Bride of Christ until the day his hands were no longer steady enough to do so, serving those who had little means meals at his church’s soup kitchen. He loved his savior well as he lived out his final days in a retirement center, although he rarely spoke. In the last hours, the staff — young and old — came to say their goodbyes. He gave them something precious, maybe just the twinkle in his fading blue eyes.