Missing you

This page is dedicated to my beloved Pappa – Ivar Øvergaard – Gone too soon

My dad was born on May 11th 1943 in Narvik in Northern Norway. He died suddenly and far too soon on February 24 2009 – a mere 65 years old.

This is the speech I wrote for his funeral. I ended up holding a speech in Norwegian instead, but this is what poured out of my heart when I sat down to write it the first time:

I am going to speak English today. My dad spent so much of his life in America, and so to have English spoken in his memorial service makes sense to me. When he wasn’t there he often wished he was. I was born in Brooklyn, New York. I guess you could say that I am his “American” child. I am the one who is raising his grandchildren in an English speaking home, and until recently he only spoke English with them.

Ivar Overgaard wasn’t my pastor. He was my daddy,  “Pappa”.

Over the years I have spoken to several people about my relationship with my dad, and I have come to understand that it was rather exceptional. Growing up my dad, above all others, was my best friend.

My dad was the one who woke me up every single morning for school. That poor man, what a job! I was no easy task. He would come in the room in his pajamas and his hair sticking up, turn on the small lamp by the door and tell me it was morning. He would scratch my back and talk to me about this and that until I started waking up. He made my breakfast and lunch. And as my mom often worked nights and understandably didn’t like making dinner ‘for breakfast’ as she woke up in the afternoon, my dad would make my dinner too.

My dad and I went on vacation together on several occasions. The most fun was when my dad got his motorcycle license. He arranged for me to have a full leather suit and helmet, we packed up the motorcycle and took off for several days. Along the way we’d stop and pick berries, throw swimwear on and jump in a particularly inviting looking lake, or just sit by the roadside, enjoy some sunshine, and eat an ice cream. We would stop along the way and spend the night with people he knew along the way.

My dad and I could talk for hours. We’d play games for hours. We are true Boggle addicts (Boggle is a game). When we first bought the game, I was maybe 9 years old, he would beat me just about every time. As I grew the score began evening out. The last times we’ve played I often beat him. He would be very verbal about his dismay, but the glimmer in his eye said something different.

The picture you see (on the left), to me, is my dad. When I showed it to my brothers the day my father passed they said “ah yes, that was in your glory days“ And it was. I took that photo on the beach in Halmstad. It was during a particularly glorious 2 week stay at the summer house we used to rent. My dad would ride the scrappy old bike he found in the basement, and bought fresh rolls every morning. He barbecued every evening, and spent hours, talking, playing badminton, and Boggle.

My dad taught me a lot. One thing is that he taught me to ride a bike or drive a car, but:

• My dad taught me to be unafraid by putting me on the platform from when I was a little girl and as a result, besides this moment, normally don’t ever have an ounce of stage fright.
• My dad taught me to be flexible and go with the flow by waking me up on Sunday mornings and telling me that the person reading scripture that morning was sick so I had to do it.
• My dad taught me how to love by loving me the way that he did… by giving me hugs every day, and telling me he loved me as often as he could. My dad showed his love, with words and actions.
• My father taught me to be confident by constantly affirming how able and capable I am, and letting me know that I was so special, yes one in a million. My dad was an incredibly proud Dad. He always told me that I was a cut above the rest. My brothers can attest to it too, we were golden to him, all 3 of us.

My father saw each person as unique, of infinite worth, priceless, and special. My father had an enormous heart, and it had a room for each person who came his way. My father never forgot a face or a name. It was remarkable.

When people write to me about my dad they say he was magnanimous and a giant. They say the world has lost a champion. I agree. But at the end of the day, for me, he was the man who read my bedtime stories and sang me to sleep. He was the man who scratched my back, and tickled my feet. He was the man who woke me up every morning and made my breakfast and lunch. He was the man who played games with me, listened to me, and occasionally of course corrected me. He was the man who forgave me when I broke his heart, and who walked me down the aisle when I was a bride. He was the man who was there playing japanese tourist with his camera when I gave birth to my firstborn. He said later he couldn’t help himself because he thought it was the grandest miracle of life 😉 He was the one who was always there when I needed someone to listen, or to pick up my kids 😉

The memory is so vivid it’s as if I can smell his scent, feel the rough skin of his hand, and the warmth of his embrace. I can feel the softness of his cheek as I kiss it. His freckled skin, thinning hair, and even how his eyebrow hairs were starting to get so wiry and thick… it’s so real to me. It’s just that when I reach out to touch him I realize that it’s only in my mind’s eye.

I want to have breakfast with him again. I want him to set up it up the way he always did, with his coffee cup, egg cup, a glass for milk, a glass for juice, a small bowl for his home-made (by him!) jam, and 3 slices of bread. One with honey, one with dark goat cheese, and one with only butter because he was going to eat it with the jam. That was the way his dad did it you see.

I’m not ready to live without him. In this service I will honor the man who was my dad, but I will not say goodbye. For I will carry him in my heart and speak of him often. When the grief overwhelms me I will do my best to remember that he would want me to live a full and happy life until I see him again.

Thank you Pappa for being the best Daddy any little girl could have wished for.