My dad was a guy named Keith. It’s not one of the most common names but if you think about it you probably know at least one.  Keith is a Scottish name but that’s about all you find when you look it up, usually it says “unknown meaning” or simply “place name”. I know all about what Keith means because a Keith gave me my place in this world. I’m not referring merely to the fact that he was my biological father; I’m talking about the way he gave shape to who I am. Along with my precious mother, he gave me roots so deep, we’re talking center of the earth deep, that no matter where I go in this world I can be completely at home, grounded and fully myself. He also gave me a pretty substantial pair of wings that have, many times, lifted me beyond the mundane into realms of fulfilled dreams and amazing visions of futures yet to be visited. My Keith was a teller of story, a spinner of tales. As a very small girl he would play with my brother and I weaving fancies of a brilliant damsel finding her way out of distress and valiant heroes conquering all. He taught me that I could be both a princess and a scrapper. Every evening after dinner he would wrestle with us while Mom cleaned up. We would squeal and giggle and he wouldn’t let go until we’d either cried “Uncle” or fought our way out. He didn’t care if we failed at something as long as we had given it our best and he was quick to help us find ways to tackle the mountain again so that failure wasn’t our hallmark. He taught us to sing and to love music. He taught us to worship because it was our life’s call to worship God. He taught me how to change a tire, frame a wall and measure twice cut once. He watched Jane Austen films with me (he called them “bonnet movies”) and would tear up at the happy ending every time. He was strong but so incredibly gentle and he gave solidity to a fluid world. For what I thought was some inexplicable reason God called me to move home in my late 20’s for what I thought was a going backward. It was an intense internal battle to give up the perceived freedom of my “own” life to move back home but, thanks in no small part to my deep roots, I obeyed and returned to Keith and Bev’s roof. In what was God’s greatest gift to me so far, I had a season of precious time with my dad, the guy who called me “Baby doll” and “Punkin’ seed”. We drove to work together almost every day and talked about everything; life, family, God, hopes, disappointments, fears, faith. We laughed until we cried and cried until we healed. Twelve years ago, today, October 17th he died of a pulmonary embolism which was due to trauma from what the doctor called “one of the worst brain bleeds he’d ever seen”. He spent two weeks in the head trauma unit making miraculous recovery after miraculous recovery. He beat the doctor’s prognosis day after day. He sat up and started talking, he remembered us and, although he wasn’t completely in control of his faculties, he still had his sense of humor. I spent every day for those two weeks sitting by his bed. I would go in the morning before work and just be there. He always knew that I was there, even though I didn’t say anything and he would wake up and tell me he loved me. He reminded me that I had a purpose and that I had to pursue God no matter what. We thought he was going to make a complete miraculous recovery, that God was going to restore him but God had a different plan. He died 10 days before my 29th birthday and one of my most precious possessions is his final signature. He scrawled it for his therapist the day before he died and my beautiful grieving mother taped it into my birthday card so that I wouldn’t have a card unsigned by him on that day.  I still have the last note he ever wrote to me in my office so that I can see it every day. It’s a tiny yellow post-it that says “Have a fantastic day, Punkin’ Seed.” He tucked it into my lunch when I was 28 years old. When I was little he would carry me to bed, kiss my forehead, pray with me and sing me to sleep. The night before he had what would turn out to be a life-ending brain aneurysm he, for the first time in many years, came into my room, tucked me into bed, kissed me on the forehead, prayed for me and sang me to sleep. I still, after a dozen years, don’t understand why he didn’t continue in this life but his fingerprints are all over the framework of my life. I hear him in my brother Jon’s humor. I see him in my brother Joe’s hands. I feel him when my brother Ben leads worship. I know that the reason that I am who I am, the reason that I was able to stand losing him, is because he built me well. Those roots and wings all stretch toward a Heavenly Father that Keith spent his life pointing me to. I am an echo of a man who made a loud sound on this earth but I’m not a diminishing sound. I’m getting louder and stronger the farther out I go and when the sound comes back to where it started from you’ll get an awesome sense of a life inspired by a guy named Keith.