Soldier. Adventurer. Father. Friend.

There once was a man -- a young, reckless soldier who was pretty darn amazing at baseball.  (So good, in fact, that his athletic skills diverted him to Italy during the Korean War.) He was a gregarious guy full of spunk, and loyal as the deep American roots of his Pennsylvania family, which was as old as the colony State itself.  Eventually, the man and his hometown bride had children -- one a son who was his spitting image -- and though that son had only daughters, the eldest became heir to a legacy of personality unrivalled among men.  One coupled with a deep, complex heart.

I am that daughter.  Like Clifford Henry Morgan, I ran away young to join the military, yearning for something more grand and exciting than what my small town had to offer.  I threw myself headlong into that career with reckless abandon, only to come out of it a bit early, having driven too hard, too fast, too carelessly.  I trusted  others and fate too much, and so I returned home battered and with deep scars that left me with a new life companion: great fear and deep anxiety.  I had failed the self-imposed expectations of that male legacy because of the unexpected implications of being a woman living a man's life. 

It was hard to face Grandpa after that tumble from grace, but I was still drawn in by the powerful refuge of his unfailing love.  Being with both he and my father in those later days reminded me that also in our blood and borne by family faith is the capacity for great compassion.  My grandparents are undeniably the most unconditionally loving people that I have ever encountered in my entire life.  And I say that without an ounce of hyperbole, having been one of the prodigal sons and daughters of such a Godly patriarch.

A few years ago I travelled from Korea with my new son -- also a Morgan boy through-and-through -- to support my Dad at his wedding.  Grandpa had Parkinson's Disease by that time, and he struggled to make his faltering mind keep step with his stern, fiery spirit.  He was still telling stories of his wild escapades of youth, and though he stumbled and faltered with frustration, I followed every word, sensing with my heart like his exactly what it felt like to be there in his shoes in that moment of the past.  There was, however, one striking difference now: the man who left behind his family home to settle like a pioneer in the Southwest, who thrived in the wild outdoors, who rode dirtbikes in the desert as a middle-aged man, and who stared over the jutting edge of the Grand Canyon in a way that dared it to take him -- that adventurer had faded away, leaving behind in his place a shadow who dared not leave the safety and comfort of his house.

"He is very anxious about going anywhere now," Grandma confessed to me. "Looking back, I see now that he's always had that anxiety in him. I just didn't quite understand it back then." In an instant, I understood. He was like me, after all: the same intense sensitivity managed the only way we knew how: by jumping right into what we feared most and attacking it head on.  We Morgans are like stags in the woods, hyper-alert and ready to throw down a shoulder to charge at danger head on, antlers out.  It is the sensitivity to danger and the necessity to tackle and possess it that drives us, whether it is balancing on the precipice of a mountain, jumping out of an airplane, hunting a great animal, going to war, or even facing the darkness within our own selves.  Grandpa thrived on Fear and made it his guiding companion on the expedition of life, growing in confidence with each step they took in tandem. It was precisely such an arrangement -- his choice to face the unknown and terrifying with boldness-- that made him truly brave.  When the physical strength and mental acuity to fight the good fight was gone, he had reconciled himself to the quiet, still hope of going home to his own unconditionally loving Daddy.

I love you, Grandpa, and I'm so blessed to have inherited both the seen and unseen aspects of yourself.  You have taught me that my God and even my fear are my greatest assets in this physical world, and I commit to living out the rest of my days emboldened, saying "yes" to new adventures and new challenges, while fighting valiantly against the ghosts that haunt. I'm so glad that you're home in the safety and calm your Great Father's arms now. Your body has passed, and your spirit has ascended, but your heart still beats inside my chest and will continue to live on through your children, who will "number as the stars in the sky."