Too sacred?

I am not sure this is appropriate for 'the world's' availability, but I want to use my blog as a journal, for it seems to be less lost than a scrap of paper that will eventually lose itself in a box full of memories along with dozens of other random scraps of paper with random thoughts or memories.
I poured my heart out to Sarah tonight, keeping her up 'till almost 1 am talking about my dad. Besides the time two weeks ago where I cried like a baby over the inescapable, almost unbearable pain, I don't remember sobbing like I did tonight since I received personal revelation and an answer to my prayers as to whether I should go on a mission, over 9 years ago. Like then, the tears flowed like through a crack in an awesome dam, relentlessly pushing outward until the reservoir had reached that point where the pressure was relieved. It started with mom's call, then Alex's call, then Tiffany's conversation, and yes, lastly with Bryan's talk about my dad. That was the last of the conversations, I was just warming up with the waterworks though. I couldn't stop talking about my dad, perspective, how he is too young to die, and how, quite frankly, I don't think one of us is ready, truly ready, for him to die. I am jealous for everyone around him now for a number of reasons, but for this current thought for the fact that they can see him and feel his pain more than I can and allow him relief in death when it comes. I cannot so easily allow him that. But even with mutual suffering and prayer for his relief even if it means then end of his mortality, I doubt anyone is really ready for that man to die.
I did a junior high project that highlighted a hero from the students' life. Anyone was vulnerable to be posted up on a 'cute' posterboard of the eighth graders in this history class (I believe, maybe english). I nevertheless remember vividly the poster I made of my dad, the sole receiver of the larger-than-life status I put on anyone I thought I wanted to be like. Sure there was Neil Armstrong, but I could achieve astronaut status if I wanted, and I could possibly do it with more 'glory' than Neil, for he despised physical fitness and did it only because he enjoyed being a test pilot and astronaut. How could he despise physical fitness? How could he think it is a waste of the allotted heartbeats given at birth? Yeah, I could, if I wanted (thought this junior high kid) achieve and best his status. What about Barry Sanders? Same story. He was a harder one though. He was the greatest, and he was the humblest (that I could tell) at his profession. He never danced in the end zone and he never traded to another team for more money or more status or glory on a winning team. In my book he was the greatest back field player to ever grace the field. But I could do that too if I really wanted. I was fast. Andy told me more than once that I was a natural runner (ego boost). I could run down any forward in soccer and take the ball away (or at least stop him from scoring). I also thought I did pretty good in our little football games with friends. Not always but often I could out maneuver and out run opponents for a touchdown. Barry Sanders lived among the stars, but he lived in our milky way.

When it came to David Skelton, his status was unique. He could make me mad and put me in awe at the same time. He was, in my young eyes, more glorious than Lance Armstrong or Greg Lemond on a bike. He was more awesome than Michael Jordan in the rare instance you could catch him playing church ball in his multi-colored, clashing outfit that distracted more than served a purpose as athletic apparel. He had the moves on the basketball field, baseball field and any other field I played with him or watched him on. He epitomized 'hustle' for that was his word. He would tell mom after a day on the field that I was a hustler (sorry andy, your 'natural' comment, although big coming from an older brother, has nothing on dad commenting on my 'hustling ability, even though I am sure he said it about every single one of us).

Ball playing aside, his status was still unique. Dad was the ultimate. He could circumnavigate the world on a bike if he needed to. I am confident the miles logged on the few bikes he frequently rode will testify to that in the afterlife. But oh the adventures we went on with dad! I never knew that such a small town such as Bountiful Utah could have so many secret roads, alleyways, connecting paths and other secrets bike maneuvers that only he knew about. It was awesome to spend so many hours out touring the city on a bike, yet that makes almost no sense. I could tell story upon story of the things we hauled home on our bikes (mostly my dad). We built a treehouse out of what he carried home (which is another story in and of itself). Dad was my Lance Armstrong and nothing in the world can knock him off the podium labeled 'best biker in the world, for all time, infiinity plus one.'

Ah the treehouse. Dad was a smart man. He knew (although we did our best to hide it) when one of us would get home and run inside. Alex would somehow get reeled in in helping him weld some crazy addition after school and I would mutter 'sucker' under my breath and go hide in my room ( I never remember using homework as an excuse for I rarely had it and when I did, I finished it in under an hour). But in hindsight we all (I think) had a blast helping dad. I am also sure we all have a story where they, like myself, was certain death was staring them in the face as the dared climb out on the non-supported bar to weld another non-supported bar with the likely chance that hot metal will be dropping and hitting your hand or arm for you are not only holding in the only place that you CAN hold on to, you are holding on where it will be warming up to a comfy million degrees Fahrenheit and it is directly under the place that dad is spot welding, as he levitates on the other side, where there is nowhere to stand or hang on to. Sorry, hero status is automatic with a dad that can levitate.

On a more sober note, my dad solidifies the awesomest man in the world through the gospel. Let's go right to the top of the list of mortals who may deserve our label of hero. Joseph Smith undoubtedly represents hero status for millions in a million different ways. Yet I find him quite absent in some defining moments that I needed a hero. He was not there in those subtle, precious moments almost everyday of my life where I grew up in a house of love. Love for me, love for the gospel and love for others through living it. Yeah, I know Joseph had this. I know it not just from words in a book, but from the Spirit. But it cannot come out of the shadow of my dad as he lived it right in front of my face, giving me this love and showing me how to do it. Okay, lets move to living prophets. Are you kidding me? In my book, Joseph trumps all other prophets, so how can they trump my dad? I won't go into my logic or reason or whatever you call this dribble, but there is no way that I see anyone in the same light I view my dad when it comes to teaching me the only thing worth learning in this life (Mom, you were there too, but you know this). Can any of my siblings still remember the way he prepared for talks in sacrament (not even to mention the actual anxiety attack the bishop called his talks?). Pulling out books for quotes, yelling across the house asking where a reference is to Hawkeye (mom). What an inspiration, just to prepare for a talk! I know that influenced all the prep. time I spent in my farewell, every mission opportunity, and my homecoming tour in the stake.

I do not offer any sort of profound truths here. I don't even know if you will walk away grateful for having wasted your time reading this. All I know is that we all need to prepare for this milestone in our lives, no matter when it comes, and this is one way I think I can prepare. I have come to a realization that some things I write need to be seen, or at least I need to think they are being seen, instead of hidden away in a memory box. My dad will always be my hero. Who could I trust to be there everyday? Who showed my that enduring love of a father, of a man who emulated the Savior the best way he knew how? Who taught me how to play, live, love and have faith? My dad. David Milner Skelton. His legacy started a long time ago. He then went on a mission to South Africa where he planted a small seed whose fruits currently cannot be counted. Then he sent 100% of his mission force through his sons whose young fruits cannot be counted. Let us not even mention the success rate of children married in the temple for time and all eternity. No matter how you weigh that success, it is a legacy that few can count in their pocket.

I can even say that my dad is my hero because of his temper. Right now dad looks like a stalk of celery that has hugged up against the plastic drawer of a 'crisper' in a fridge for over three months. He may very well be physically beaten, mentally worn out, and emotionally and spiritually distraught to the point of giving up. Yet I would not count that flame put out. Damaged beyond repair, yes. Warped and disfigured for life? Of course. But the flame burns like a trick candle on a birdthday cake, I am sure. How is this translated? Passion. My dad had passion for life. He had passion for raising his children. He had passion for creating. He had passion for biking, the gospel, reading, culture, knowledge....My dad lived. His life was and is full. Whether it is his time or not, David Skelton lived with passion. I mention his temper, because that is what we defined as passion growing up coming from him. He didn't just live life. he didn't just go through the motions or turn into a bringing-home-bacon machine. He lived and if I may speak for others again, I may say that it may be better to live with a short temper than no temper at all? Yes! he IS alive! He has spirit! Sorry mom for possibly trivializing any of the fights you found it hard to forgive him for or over.

Mom's story is just as long and just as heroic. Behind every great man stands a great woman and vice versa. Dad could not be my hero without my mother. Mom has equal status and gratitude from us all for the legacy that is us. I just needed to say something of my dad today. Thank you for reading. Sarah got her earful and she didn't have a choice to stop mid-story and take a break. Thank you dad for teaching me love, teaching me faith, teaching me strentgh and how to access it within. Thank you for showing me God. Thank you for bikes and all that that implies. Thank you for mom and for my wife and learning where to find her. Thank you for Wiley and her undying love for you. Somehow that taught me a lot - the love of a faithful dog. Thank you for the treehouse and the trips to get sand for the two sandboxes. Thank you for never having a lawn to get after us to mow. Thank you for camping. Thank you for my love of education, learning, books and the gospel. Thank you for my relationships with Andy, Bryan, Alex and Marne'. Thank you for baseball. Thank you for my truck with a top and carpet. Thank you for the jack you got for my birthday. Thank you for wanting to fix everything in my garage and driveway. Thank you for camping. Thank you for camping with hot water. Thank you for our camp trailer. Thank you for never buying a tarp that kept us dry on every trip. Thank you for teaching me how to ride a motorcycle. Thank you for spending the money on that Fuji that still works and sits proudly in my garage with all the original parts. Thank you for teaching me how to listen to the Spirit in more ways than one, but by being still. It is no small thing to call it a still small voice. Thank you for Andy. In some way you will be passing the torch to him and I thank you for passing it to someone that is worthy to carry it. Thank you for my Eagle scout award. Thank you for learning to ride a bike at 3. Thank you for the countless trips taken not only for the first merit badge I got (cycling), but for the man it helped build within, enduring the heat and cold, hitting the wall...Thank you for owning a motorcycle and a mustang and a truck. Thank you for being able to write this list. Thank you for everything I still want to be. Thank you for passion, thank you for being my hero in the fullest sense of the word.

As I enjoy writing and jotting down mindless dribble, I am sure there is more to come. For now, that has eased my spirit and calmed my soul enough to maybe stop thinking about my dad, not being there (for me), and wishing I could get to Utah in any way possible. I can concoct some crazy scheme tomorrow.