Love Always Protects

This Week's Story

After Steve died, my dad stepped in as protector. We were close before; we got closer after. Not just for me — for my kids. He helped Noah and Susie haul everything up three flights of stairs from a twenty-foot U-Haul in Dallas in July, in 104-degree heat, no elevator. He fixed things at my daughter's house and made sure she was safe. He stood at Navy boot camp graduations bursting with pride and tears at the same time. He was my son Paul's obvious pick for best man. He was always a phone call away, there when I needed him, there just to be there.

His recipe for a long life was half a banana with oatmeal every morning and a glass of red wine at night. He went to mass every morning with his brother, fixed appliances for shut-ins, and bought them new ones when the old ones were too far gone. Always ready to give the shirt off his back, typically flannel.

Then his beloved Navy gave him one last gift. Years of sleeping directly under asbestos became mesothelioma, and six weeks after the diagnosis, he was Home. My brothers and I tag-teamed staying with him, and I tried to take the lion's share, to be with him for as long as I could.

That's what love that always protects looks like. It shows up. It carries boxes up the stairs in July. It throws an arm across your chest when life slams on the brakes. It's got your back — all the way to the end.

This Week, Day by Day

My Prayer This Week