I Have An Angel In Heaven I Call Him Dad

You know, we all have that mental image of heaven, right? Billowing clouds, golden gates, harps playing, maybe even a buffet line that never ends. But me? I picture my dad up there, probably still arguing with St. Peter about whether the putter he’s using is regulation.

Because let's be honest, calling him an angel is...aspirational. Don't get me wrong, I love him. He's my Dad. But on Earth, he was more likely to trip over a halo than wear one. He was the king of dad jokes (the kind that make you groan so hard you almost crack a rib), the master of mismatched socks, and a walking, talking encyclopedia of obscure sports trivia.

And now? Well, now I have an angel in heaven I call him Dad. It sounds all sentimental and Hallmark-y, I know. But the truth is, it's more like having a slightly exasperated guardian angel with a penchant for giving terrible advice from the afterlife.

For instance, remember that time I was debating whether to dye my hair bright purple? Internally, I had a little chat with my heavenly advisor. I swear I could hear his voice in my head: "Go for it! What’s the worst that could happen? You’ll look like a grape? Big deal! It’s only hair!" Turns out, the worst could happen. I looked less like a grape and more like a bruised eggplant. But hey, at least I had a good story to tell, courtesy of my eternally optimistic dad-angel.

And dating? Forget it. The mental image of my dad hovering around my dates, offering unsolicited advice on everything from their handshake to their choice of appetizer, is enough to keep me single for life. I can practically hear him now: "She seems nice, but is she really laughing at his jokes? That laugh seems a little…forced." Thanks, Dad. I'll just be over here, talking to my cat.

Finding the Funny in Grief

The thing is, grief is hard. It's heavy. It's a giant, suffocating blanket that you can't seem to shake off. But remembering my dad, with all his quirks and foibles, makes it a little lighter. Instead of dwelling on the sadness of his absence, I can chuckle at the thought of him trying to teach the other angels how to parallel park (a skill he never quite mastered himself on Earth).

It's not about disrespecting the seriousness of loss. It's about finding a way to keep his memory alive in a way that feels authentic to who he was. He wouldn't want me moping around in a black dress, reciting mournful poetry. He'd want me to be out there, living my life, making questionable decisions, and laughing about it later.

So, yeah, I have an angel in heaven I call him Dad. He probably has no idea what he's doing up there. He's probably lost his wings somewhere between the pearly gates and the celestial golf course. He's probably causing all sorts of divine mischief.

Embracing Imperfect Angels

But that's okay. Because he's my dad. And even an imperfect angel is still an angel. And even a slightly embarrassing angel is still better than no angel at all.

And you know what? Maybe that's the whole point. Maybe angels aren't supposed to be perfect, ethereal beings. Maybe they're just regular people, with all their flaws and quirks, who loved us unconditionally and left us with a lifetime of memories to cherish, even the ones that make us cringe.

So next time you're missing someone you love, try to picture them in heaven. Not as some flawless, saintly figure, but as the person you knew and loved, with all their imperfections. Maybe they're still wearing mismatched socks. Maybe they're still telling terrible jokes. Maybe they're still trying to give you unsolicited advice.

And maybe, just maybe, that's exactly what makes them your angel.

Because sometimes, the most heavenly thing about them is their humanity.