I’ve always said that people need people; people need certain people, at certain times, in specific places and spaces in the sequence of their lives. As of late, and especially today, that truth has hit me harder than before. I’ve realized once again that I’ve needed someone I just can’t have yet. My father, Preston Coleman, has been gone for thirteen years. I had the privilege to exist with him for two-thousand five hundred and fifty-five days. This equates to exactly seven years of glory. The downside of this is that I got to have those seven years at an age where I wasn’t cognizant of how great it was, and of who exactly I got to do life with. This makes me sad. And it took me until today, truly, until I was almost twenty-one years old, to realize that when my body goes in the ground and comes out the other side, I’ll receive something that makes everything worth it.
Each empty spot and broken piece will have meant something, and will have given me this in return: the fact that the first experience I will be aware of with him, truly aware, will be with the dew of the Savior on his person. My first taste will be through Christ-colored glasses. And there will be nothing to compare it to. My sister and I will be the only two people in existence to have this, our first meeting with him at his freest. He will be a blank slate in our minds, slates that throughout eternity will be filled by the strokes of God’s hand. Filled up with talks and laughs and maybe a few cries, but the good kind. The kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes crinkle up on the corners, the kind that as it’s happening makes you grateful to be alive and grateful that such good things get to happen to you.
You see, that’s the most exciting thing in the world, the knowledge that when I get to make eye contact with him again, we’ll both be the best versions of ourselves. There’ll be nothing to compare me to; he’ll see me through a pair of Christ-colored glasses. He’ll meet me at my freest. So here’s to a few more years. I can wait.