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Domain > mail.remembermits.com
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AlienVault OTX
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Yes
No
DNS Resolutions
Date
IP Address
2019-07-12
69.89.22.113
(
ClassC
)
2025-01-28
162.241.218.103
(
ClassC
)
Port 80
HTTP/1.1 301 Moved PermanentlyDate: Tue, 28 Jan 2025 19:35:38 GMTServer: ApacheLocation: https://mail.remembermits.com/Content-Length: 238Content-Type: text/html; charsetiso-8859-1 !DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC -//IETF//DTD HTML 2.0//EN>html>head>title>301 Moved Permanently/title>/head>body>h1>Moved Permanently/h1>p>The document has moved a hrefhttps://mail.remembermits.com/>here/a>./p>/body>/html>
Port 443
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left: 510px; top: 515.5px; width: 19px; min-width: 19px; height: 13px; position: absolute; background-image: url("data:image/svg+xml;base64,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"); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position: 0px 0px; border: none; display: inline; visibility: visible; z-index: auto;>/span>/p>!--p>small>strong>XHTML:/strong> You can use these tags: <a href"" title""> <abbr title""> <acronym title""> <b> <blockquote cite""> <cite> <code> <del datetime""> <em> <i> <q cite""> <s> <strike> <strong> /small>/p>-->p>textarea namecomment idcomment cols50 rows10 tabindex4>/textarea>/p>p>input namesubmit typesubmit idsubmit tabindex5 valueshare memory>input typehidden namecomment_post_ID value3>/p>/form> h3 idcomments>49 memories shared/h3> ul classcommentlist> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Mits was truly a man of quiet strength and kindness. Several years ago while living briefly with his family, my car broke down. He took me to a parts house, I bought the parts, and he installed them in my car. It was such a loving act of caring, as I was in no position to pay for repairs at a regular car shop. I also remember the fantastic meals at New Years that Mits would prepare. His children and friends are truly blessed to have been a part of his life. I am sure that his loving care toward all who knew him is a special joy to the heart of the Lord. I look forward to seeing him in Heaven!/p> /blockquote> cite>Susie Ford on May 16th, 2008 at 11:10 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>We are very sorry that your family has lost Mits. Our thoughts and prayers are with all of you./p> /blockquote> cite>bob and debbi faust on May 16th, 2008 at 2:39 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>What a great loss! Uncle Mits was really the only uncle I had and I always felt great love for and from him. It is so easy to be sad about his death. However, I find it just as easy to be so happy about his life. He was a man that got to share 30+ years with the woman he loved. He got to have 4 wonderful kids and see them grow up into adults anyone would be proud of and all get married. He then got to share some time with some beautiful grandchildren. He got to fish and travel and spend time with the many friends who also appreciated him. What a life! If only I should be so lucky! He will be missed by many everyday, but his life will be fondly remembered!/p> /blockquote> cite>Jessica Whiston on May 17th, 2008 at 9:59 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Mits was an amazing man! I remember growing up with Najt & Josh as we would sit out on the tree house all the time looking for UFO’s and staying up as late as we were allowed to just starting at the sky convincing outselves we saw something. The first time I ever went to church, Mits and Donna were the ones who took me. We went to VBS during the summer and i was baptised not too long after the first time I attended church with the Iwata family. Mr.Iwata was always smiling. I don’t recall a single time i didnt see a smile on his face. I had the honor of meeting him when I was 3 years old and spending most of my childhood on 90th ave spending it with the Iwata family. Playing with the boomerang in the field across the street and playing catch. Riding bikes along with so mnay other great things i did with the family. I am now and always will be honored and privlaged to say I knew one of the greatest men I could have ever had the privlage of meeting. Rest easy Mits, enjoy your eternal fishing trip. We love you./p> /blockquote> cite>Brandi Calkin on May 19th, 2008 at 12:15 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Mits will surely be missed. I’m sorry for your lost but I’m sure our father in heaven is enjoying his company. He always reminded me of Mr. Miagi. He’s always jolly and seems very wise and a great dad. I always had fun spending time with your family when me and Emiko were in high school. I miss those days. I love all you guys.br>With Love and Prayers~Myra/p> /blockquote> cite>Myra Brock (Hongel) on May 19th, 2008 at 1:04 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>This memory is the forefront of my mind… Dad playing with the curls on my head, teasing me by tickling my nose and ear as I laid my head on his lap during Sunday sermons…br>Oh, how we grow up too quickly… prohibiting that security to embrace us again./p> /blockquote> cite>Emiko on May 21st, 2008 at 11:32 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>One of my most vivid memories of Mits was the powerful way his dinner prayers always stayed with me. How for years and even sometimes still whenever anyone says Amen I hear Mits’ voice say Amen and the voices of the remaining Iwata family following. Mits and Donna both were able to teach me things I could not have learned from my own parents, without even knowing at times they were doing so. Setting an example of faith and persistant love that i could never forget or truly fully express my gratitude for. I love the Iwata family and I love Mits. I love the memories I have with him and his family. He was a very important part of my growing up, you all were. I love you beyond words./p> /blockquote> cite>KATIE GONZALEZ on May 23rd, 2008 at 2:05 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Being at Mit’s memorial I couldn’t believe the lvoe that was expressed for him. Being his neighbor around the corner for 10 plus years I got to know and really care for him. I left my card with Sarah and if there is anything I can do to help the family financially feel free to call me at 360-891-9407./p> /blockquote> cite>Alton Warren on May 27th, 2008 at 10:29 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>When Mits was diagnosed I invited him to go sailing. It was all I could think of to do, let’s go do somthing, perhaps build some fellowship and a memory. He seemed to really enjoy being out on the water with the wind filling the sails. He even drove for awhile. It was a serene time and he seemed quite at peace. That remained his countenance during the months to follow. What great strength and faith. He was fun and loved to laugh a lot. I will miss him./p> /blockquote> cite>Kevin Deuvall on June 8th, 2008 at 5:28 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Happy Father’s day Mits/p> /blockquote> cite>Katie on June 15th, 2008 at 11:35 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Today I sprinkled my father’s ashes into the cool, shaded water of his favorite lake. Just being there brought so many memories to my mind, bittersweet in their ability to bring both comfort and the dull ache of knowing that no new ones will ever be. I loved my father. Love my father, and the thought of being with him, sitting in his little aluminum fishing boat, surrounded by a wall of fir trees, the tinny sound of water lapping at the sides of our vessel, makes me long for days when a day at the lake with him was an available option. Now there will be no more fishing trips, no more camping in the rain, or poems written in the wee hours of the morning, while his babies slept in tents not far from his still beating heart. I know that we are not to mourn as those without faith, but tonight, on my first father’s day with my son, and my first father’s day without my father, I just miss him./p> /blockquote> cite>Nathanael on June 15th, 2008 at 11:53 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I loved how Mits and Donna shared with us (those who go to The LIghthouse) about what they have gone through over the last few years. (and this was just weeks before Mits died). It was honest, encouraging, hopeful and yet real. Mits said that sometimes people would say “why is this happening to you, you are such a good guy, etc. And Mits would answer “why not”? He said something about how we look for miracles…but they don’t always turn out the way we want them to. And that what Mits wanted was whatever God had for him, and to be able to live with it graciously. And he and Donna have. I am thankful for that example./p> /blockquote> cite>mona on June 17th, 2008 at 1:56 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Mits had a way of making one feel that you had known him for years – at your first meeting. There was an immediate rapport with him. He didn’t hesitate to correct you – I mis-spelled his name ONCE. He was always ready to greet me with a smile and a warm hug./p> /blockquote> cite>LesleyMae on June 20th, 2008 at 2:26 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Hiking, camping, fishing and a snowy cabin. Bowls of fresh strawberries, squid soup and rice balls. A gentle hand, a caring voice./p> /blockquote> cite>Katie on July 6th, 2008 at 6:19 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I live just above Klineline where I met Mits perhaps 10 years ago. We would bump into each other, exchange small talk about the fishing.Not planned, just I would see him or he me and we would talk a bit, but just a wee bit. I mean we were there to fish, or rather Mits was there to fish. I was there to escape. I could tell he loved fishing. I knew nothing else abouts Mits. We were “regulars” at the pond…a convenient meeting place of happenstance. His demeaner of quiet confidence and “for the moment” presence was sometimes what I needed after a long day/week. I will miss standing next to him wetting a line.br>Skip, the fly fishing guy.br>a hrefhttps://web.archive.org/web/20161004120246/mailto:skipenge@yahoo.com>skipenge@yahoo.com/a>/p> /blockquote> cite>Skip Enge on July 23rd, 2008 at 7:15 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I remember holding my father’s hand. Holding it and knowing that in a very short time I would never hold it again. I tried to capture in my mind everything about it; it’s warmth, it’s weight, every line and wrinkle, the way it felt in mine. I kissed it, cried into it and told him I loved him. I miss his strong hands, I miss him./p> /blockquote> cite>Joshua on August 7th, 2008 at 10:26 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>i want to remember you as you were for the last 39 years of my life. to me you were strong and manly, in your plaid shirt with the sleeves partly rolled up. I want to picture you sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper–holding it with masculine hands and hairy forearms. or pleasantly smug coming home from fishing. i want to see you sitting in the car next to me, mostly silent or coming across the floor with a goofy expression to give me a silly kiss. (Ho-n-ney!)br> but i don’t.br>instead you’re frail and fading and already in the process of leaving me. sitting at the kitchen table, yes. but vague and starring past your family at a place you would soon go, but i couldn’t come. or stepping on air as we nearly carried you because you insisted on making it to the bathroom. or the worst. lying breathlessly asleep in your hospital bed, looking for all the world like you would soon wake up and hold me again, but knowing that you never would.br> maybe those memories will eventually fade and be replaced by ones of you robust again, my friend, lover, husband. but will it help? i don’t see how. we were one and now the best half of my heart has been torn away and i am not a whole person anymore./p> /blockquote> cite>mrs. mits on August 16th, 2008 at 11:57 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I miss you daddy./p> /blockquote> cite>Half pint on January 16th, 2009 at 12:37 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Remembering Mits today and thinking about all the dinners I shared with him and his family. Mits thanking God for our meal, all of us responding in a simultaneous “Amen”. Eating fried cornmeal mush and thinking Sarah was crazy for not liking syrup on hers. Everyone talking together about different things. School, band, art. No thoughts of the future or the pain that comes with growing up and becoming an adult. Just a wonderful dinner, a wonderful memory./p> /blockquote> cite>Katie on May 12th, 2009 at 10:20 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I wonder if you celebrated the anniversary of your arrival in heaven yesterday…though I don’t suppose you think of time like we do anymore. We all got together yesterday to remember you. I miss you dad./p> /blockquote> cite>Nat on May 14th, 2009 at 12:22 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Life has changed a lot since you left us dad, now over a year ago. It seems fitting that you left in the early morning, quietly slipping away while we slept like you did so many mornings in my childhood. I still see you, holding your lunch, gently opening the closet door, getting your hat and coat on and leaving for work./p>p>Becca is pregnant again. We announced it on the anniversary of your passing. It’s ironic to celebrate life in the midst of mourning death, but life is like that isn’t it? I’m so sad you’ll never meet our baby, never hold your grand child, and even more so that she’ll never meet you. We’ll all meet some day though, won’t we dad? We just have to be patient./p>p>MeeAe still knows you. She points to your photo, says poppy, makes a hugging motion and smiles. It hurts my heart and I kiss her and tell her I miss you. There isn’t a day that goes by where you don’t cross my mind even now. Many days I fight back to tears on my way to work. I see those final days so clearly still, the hospital bed, your sleeping face, our family’s tired eyes. We all miss you so much. Just wanted to say hi./p>p>Love,br>your son/p> /blockquote> cite>Josh on May 15th, 2009 at 10:10 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Hi Daddy. I know I try not to think about you too much. I hope it doesn’t make you sad. Please don’t mistake trying not to think about you, as being forgotten. You are constantly on my mind, but I miss you so much, I can’t function if I spend time thinking about you… remembering you. It’s not fair. You should be here. Life is upside down without you./p> /blockquote> cite>Half pint on May 24th, 2009 at 3:50 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Seems we just keep going, but really nowhere. It’s hard to move forward, Dad, when one of the wheels is missing./p> /blockquote> cite>Emiko on June 15th, 2009 at 8:44 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Happy Father’s Day/p> /blockquote> cite>katie Gonzalez on June 21st, 2009 at 6:21 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I was thinking about you tonight, I think about you a lot. On the radio they were talking about mainframe computers, and I thought of you. I thought how if you were still here you might be working on one of them, an old technology, once full of potential and new, now outdated and being phased out. You left, but the world keeps turning and churning, mostly unaware of your absence, yet I am not unaware, and those that loved you and that were loved by you, are not unaware. We daily feel the emptiness left by your departure, an ache sometimes rolling down cheeks in hot, wet streams, but more often burried in the back of minds, hidden in the memory box of our hearts. /p>p>Erin and I are having another boy, due Christmas day. I so wish that he could meet you when he gets here, be held by you, see where he came from, where I came from. But I suppose we’ll all have to wait be held by you. Wait until our quiet times arrive, and we journey past our present and into the eternal future where you are now. To walk those yellow bricked roads, and reminisce about our times in that shadow of a life. I’d imagine you’d want to show us around, give us the tour, and we’d be glad for it/p>p>Things are so different since you went away. The family’s different, you always anchored us with your quiet strength, quiet, yet always so present. I miss the moments of stealing away to find you sitting in the living room, or upstairs at the pool table. Those moments were always precious to me, an oasis in the sometimes chaotic hub-bub of countless family gatherings. Just to sit next to you again, and feel that presence. I miss you, and I don’t think that’s going to change, any more than if I were to lose my arm. I’d learn to get on without it, adjust as needed, but never be quite the same in how I viewed the task before me. I love you and am so thankful for the time we had together./p> /blockquote> cite>Nat on August 1st, 2009 at 2:15 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you so much./p> /blockquote> cite>half pint on August 25th, 2009 at 3:10 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Happy new year dad, I miss you very much tonight./p> /blockquote> cite>josh on January 2nd, 2010 at 1:03 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Thinking of you tonight dad. Thank you for loving me like you did. I miss you everyday./p> /blockquote> cite>Nat Iwata on April 7th, 2010 at 9:11 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Tonight I thought of you, and the commitment you have to your children, even after they were grown and moving on with their own adult lives. Thank you for being an image of God to me and giving me an idea of what a father is./p> /blockquote> cite>Katie Gonzalez on April 20th, 2010 at 10:15 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Today is harder than most days. I still look out in crowds, half expecting every middle aged man with a goatee to be you. Accepting that you’re gone is something I don’t think I’ll ever quite grasp. I miss you, daddy. Thank you for visiting me the other night in my dream. I just want to sleep today away, in hopes I might see you there…/p> /blockquote> cite>Sarah on May 12th, 2010 at 9:22 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I am alone tonight. The boys are asleep, Erin is with a friend. Watching videos of you, each one a treasure, a memory that I can return to whenever mine begin to dim. I miss you, I love you./p> /blockquote> cite>Nat Iwata on May 12th, 2010 at 11:19 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>It was nice to see your face today, to hear your voice. I remember making this site. Peering at it through tears as I added the elements that reminded me of you – the diet coke can, the fishing lure and the quote you asked to be put on your grave, “Gone fishing”. The days after you left us were so hard dad. I remember the emptiness, the darkness of each morning and the blackness of each night. A blackness that would swallow me up and make me long for your company, punishing me with the reality I could never have it again. /p>p>We gathered today to remember you. We watched the slideshow Becca put together for your funeral. I see you more in me now than ever. Your face and posture, even your silliness. As time pulls us into the future it becomes easier with each year to see you young, to see you more as a person and not just dad if that makes sense. /p>p>The weekend before, when we went to Bush Gardens, I remember sitting and asking you if you could help me come over and install our baby gate this week. You had a far away look in your eyes, you said “sure” and nodded your head slowly. You knew. You knew it was close. But you couldn’t tell me could you? Of course you couldn’t, I juts wish I would have seen it more clearly. /p>p>I think a lot about those last few days in the house. I wish so badly we would have given you oxygen when you were beginning to fade. I cry over it. I know we couldn’t have known, but maybe we could have kept you with us, kept your mind with us, just for a few more precious hours. But by friday night, you were drifting. Sometimes when I think back to that period where you seemed to be transitioning and I picture your soul like a balloon, lazily drifting into the atmosphere. They told us you had weeks left, you half jokingly said you’d be gone in a few weeks. I scolded you and told you no, told you not to say that. I couldn’t comprehend that you could really be gone in weeks, in days. You were there – sitting in front of me, warm and alive. How could it be? It didn’t seem possible./p>p>I miss you dad. I miss you every day. I still think of you every single day. I don’t know if that will ever change. I know the pain is less intense than it was, but it’s there still. It’s a dull ache that we just live with now. Watching mom see the videos of you tonight was heart breaking. She watched with such intensity, leaning in as if she was looking for something. Like she was trying to find you in there…/p>p>I love you dad. I miss you. I remember you./p>p>-Josh/p> /blockquote> cite>Josh on May 12th, 2010 at 11:49 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>You didn’t need or want much, which made gift giving (my love language) difficult.br>Wishing I could give you something you didn’t want or need on this Father’s Day./p> /blockquote> cite>Emiko on June 20th, 2010 at 10:49 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>In a large pot near my front door, there is a large mass of black bamboo happily making its home there. I planted it in honor of you, my friend. Partially hidden among the leaves is a porcelain figurine of a Japanese fisherman with his catch- I was happy to find at a yard sale. It seemed so fitting to place it among the branches. When I water each morning, I often think of you and how you left this world a better place for having given yourself away to so many-in the name of the Lord. We are all blessed for having known you. We miss you, Mits…/p> /blockquote> cite>susie ford on July 14th, 2010 at 11:59 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Hi Honey. I haven’t written here because my thoughts of you are so deep, personal, and painful that I don’t know how to put then into words that others will read. I talk to you a lot and I don’t think that I ever don’t miss you, not even for a minute. I’ve done a lot of stupid things since you left me, trying to avoid the crushing pain, and pretend that I could, somehow, be ok without you my Darling . But my heart has a “Mits shaped” hole no one or nothing can ever fill. I, too, try to push you to the back of my mind , because I still haven’t reached that point where I can think of you and still be able to breath. I’m so sorry for the mistakes I’ve made to avoid mourning. I’ve added pain for our children that I think they’ve not been completely able to forgive. I know if I could talk to you that you would understand me, and your only sadness would be at how much I’ve suffered. You would never judge or condemn me. You never did. I’ve learned since your leaving me, the depth of your love and how much I was the center of your world. My biggest regret is that I can’t go back and do a better job of loving and cherishing you. I don’t know what God has in store for my life. Sometimes I hope I can have another chance for a degree of happiness here, and sometimes I just want to honor him, and you, by living the rest of my life faithful to you until I can be with you forever. Anyway, my Love, I know you’re singing (and even carrying a tune) with the angels, and waiting for the time that you get to greet us and show us around your Heaven. Until then, you’ll always be the best gift God ever gave me./p> /blockquote> cite>Your Swetheart on September 8th, 2010 at 3:14 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I wrote this a few months ago…/p>p>It’s quiet now. My sons are asleep, my wife is with a friend, and I am alone, sitting in the dark watching videos of you. Some grainy, or out of focus, they are the closest thing I have to seeing you again. And it is good to see you again, if only in an unchanging reflection of who you once were, at one point in time. In one of the clips, I let the camera roll after you think I’ve turned it off. Even then I knew that I would want this, need this footage of you, candid, not documented, but captured in the wild. I remember filming you, unaware of my doing so, several times at family gatherings or just around the kitchen, wanting in some way to make sure I had enough to remember you by, to revisit when you were no longer with me./p>p>Tonight we remembered you together, sitting and watching a slideshow of your life, at least your life with us. Smiling and frozen in a past that is still blissfully unaware of your future absence. All of our eyes full of tears, only a few letting them fall. Seeing no one but you in each picture, as if gazing longingly enough at your image might bring you back to us. In our own ways, we have all been lost since you left our family, and tonight we were reminded of what it was like to have your quiet presence bringing us all to a common ground, as it so often did. We watched together, each reliving a different set of memories, from different points of view with one constant as the focus. We all knew you differently, loved you differently, and have missed you differently./p>p>I have missed those moments of stealing away to be alone with you, out of the noisy din of the party. Just to sit, or play pool, it didn’t matter. I miss seeing you in the front window when we arrived at your house to visit. I have missed the way you would sit at the head of the table and hold your hands out to say grace. I miss your puns and jokes, the way your eyes squinted when you smiled. Your strong hands, slippered feet, flanneled shoulders and bearded face. I miss your smell. I miss calling you at work to see how your day was going, and even dropping by for lunch sometimes. I miss your off key singing in the car, and the oldies station we used to listen to. I miss you dad, I remember you, and I am the man I’ve become because of you. Though it hurts to have lost you, it was such a blessing being with you while you were here, and I am grateful for that./p> /blockquote> cite>Nat on September 18th, 2010 at 11:14 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>On some days, your absence is so palpable it’s almost it’s own tangible entity- much like the way someone’s presence is. It’s a weird thing to describe and I’m probably doing a horrible job. It’s like there’s a ghost following me around, only it’s not you, it’s the LACK of you. It’s the ever present hole that I can’t avoid, fill or ignore. I love the picture of you in the hall. I look into your face every morning as I walk downstairs to make breakfast for my family. I whisper goodnight every night as I head up to bed. I touch your cheek as if it will feel bristly under my fingertips. I ask you to come see me in my dreams almost every time I drift off to sleep. I miss you every second of every single day.br>It’s also kind of weird that I come here to see you, because it’s not YOUR words on this page. It’s a dozen other people with things to say, yet it makes me feel more connected to you. I love how loved you are.br>New Years Day this year was really hard. I really just felt the reality of the fact that another year had passed and you were not a part of it. Well, you WERE a part of it. You were a part of every single moment./p> /blockquote> cite>Half pint on January 6th, 2011 at 8:54 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>We love you/p> /blockquote> cite>Anonymous on May 12th, 2011 at 3:15 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Can’t believe it’s been three years now. Seems in many ways like you were here yesterday but also a lifetime ago. We miss you still dad. We’re going to a pizza pub tonight to be together as a family, we’ll watch the kids dance, eat pizza and drink beer. We’ll smile and remember, and try to not shed tears. You would have liked that, you would have liked seeing your grand babies dance. I love you dad. You’ll be missed tonight. Happy anniversary./p> /blockquote> cite>Josh on May 12th, 2011 at 3:58 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Happy fathers day. Thinking about you and the many examples you set for me today. I can remember many times as a little girl that you guided me by your parenting of your own children without having to say anything. Thank you for your quiet wisdom that I still carry with me today. You are missed and loved./p> /blockquote> cite>Katie on June 19th, 2011 at 12:00 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Happy Father’s Day, daddy. I wish I could call you up or take you out to dinner today. I miss you so much and days like today are especially hard. I love you./p> /blockquote> cite>Half Pint on June 19th, 2011 at 6:20 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>It’s late on father’s day night. The girls are all asleep in their beds; the house is quiet. I missed you today. It was a good day, the girls made me a wonderful breakfast, gave me hugs and kisses. We went to the park and played together. I’m a father now, hard to believe isn’t it? I told Bec the other day how odd it is to think that the memories we’re creating right now, right this moment in time in our daughter’s minds, will be the blurry memories of their youngest remembrances. When they dig deep into the dustiest corners of their childhoods they will find today. They will find wrestling and tickles. They’ll find cuddles and french toast in the morning, and walks to the park in the afternoon. I hope that they find a sweetness that only fades with age. But they will also find troubling memories like we all do. Crying alone in bed. Lashing out and being lashed out at from time to time. Right now their tiny minds are forming what will be the foundation for their utmost being for the rest of their lives. It’s incredible, magical and terrifying all at the same time./p>p> I always thought that when I became a father I would have things figured out. I do have some things pretty well understood I suppose, but there’s so much unknown. There’s so much gray space between right and wrong. It’s not a thin line, it’s a vast chasm and it’s up to me and Bec to help our children make sense of it. I’m desperately trying everyday, everyday to do what I think is right for us, but it’s not easy. The mind changes, grows and shrinks like the tide and things that seemed so clear growing up begin to loosen and blur. Things that seemed ambiguous begin to become defined. And to some degree we’re all left making educated guesses and hoping that we’re right, and if we’re not that there is forgiveness in the universe./p>p>I miss you dad. Thank you for sharing your time here with us, for teaching us by example how to love like Jesus. Happy father’s day./p> /blockquote> cite>Josh on June 19th, 2011 at 11:07 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>i don’t have anything profound to say…i just miss you so much. Last night i dreamed you were still here, but in the last stages of cancer. we were talking about how and when you would die. i had leukemia and would die about the same time. we wanted to just cling to each other and go off to Jesus together. i awoke with such a longing to do that. in my not quite conscious state, i felt like i had a realization that i should’ve just continues mourning and living my life as a constant memorial to you until i could come to you. fully awake i knew you would’ve hated that. but know my darling, that i won’t ever truly move on.we were such a part of each other and that doesn’t end with the separation of death. you are still the best part of me. i have trouble forgiving myself for some of the stupid mistakes i’ve made trying to fill the void you left, but i know you would fully forgive me and your sadness would be that i’ve suffered without you, not that i made those mistakes. i don’t know how it works, since the Bible says there’s not marriage in Heaven, but i know one day i will come to you and you’ll be waiting. until that day my love…/p> /blockquote> cite>Mrs. Mits on June 29th, 2011 at 9:33 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Just missing you and thinking a lot about you today./p> /blockquote> cite>Anonymous on January 2nd, 2012 at 6:44 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>The day of your passing came and went this year, Dad. I’ve been trying harder to remember you here lately, rather than the fact that you’re gone. I miss you daily and feel a little guilty that you weren’t visited on Saturday. I think the kids must have subconsciously known the date was near because on Friday they asked when we would visit your grave again. I hate that place, though. I think of you everywhere but the ground. Sometimes it still feels so surreal that you’re gone./p> /blockquote> cite>Half pint on May 14th, 2012 at 1:06 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>I miss you today. I think about you often, an image, a glance backwards into the parts of your life I was part of, or sometimes a look at what would be if you were still here. I love you, and wonder what you would make of the present,/p> /blockquote> cite>Nat on October 28th, 2012 at 12:47 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Been 1 year and 10 days since anyone has written. I’m in India now, I was in India on the 5 year anniversary. Memories fade over time, the details of our loved ones become mental interpretations, fictional creations our brains replace reality. This anniversary I watched videos and everything snapped back into place. Your skin, your reyes, your smell, your bald head and the imprints from your glasses on your temples. The videos don’t fade and they’re triggers for the mind. Everything is so different now. You exist in the time that is gone now, gone but not lost. /p>p>You would have been proud of MeeAe today. She was a model in a fashion show. She looked so beautiful dad. I wish you could have seen her. I hate that you’re not here anymore. I love you. I miss you./p> /blockquote> cite>Me on May 23rd, 2013 at 1:53 pm /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Tonight I came across something I wrote shortly after you left us. I was back in those moments of hurt, loss and confusion, but the pain was buried, down somewhere in the quiet places of my heart, like a fish in the deep, deciding whether to take the bait and be pulled up to the surface. /p>p>I miss you. The boys are turning 2, 4 and 6. You’d be such a proud grandfather, seeing your 8 grandbabies, happy, healthy and so full of life. I’m so glad you got to meet Hiro, and you would adore Judah and Kai. They talk about you. You’re their point of reference for death, heaven and loss. I think they will, and do, lament not knowing you. I did when I was young, never having known either of my grandfathers. /p>p>Gosh, it’s been so long. So much has changed, so much will continue to change. Things are starting, ending, moving, always moving, and we’re all just swept along. I wonder if you feel it, the current of time, the undertow of the present. I love you, wherever you are, not just the memory of you, but your timeless, and eternal self, that somehow still feels present, when I’m still enough to sense it. Good night dad./p> /blockquote> cite>Nat on January 3rd, 2014 at 2:16 am /cite>/li> /div> div classbubble> li> blockquote> p>Heading to Korea tonight; late flight. Everything is muddled and I wish I could with you again, pat you on the back, give you a hug and say goodbye./p> /blockquote> cite>Me on March 26th, 2015 at 8:51 pm /cite>/li> /div> /ul>/div> div classnavigation> div classalignleft>/div> div classalignright>/div> /div> /div>!-- FILE ARCHIVED ON 12:02:46 Oct 04, 2016 AND RETRIEVED FROM THE INTERNET ARCHIVE ON 20:25:21 Jul 03, 2019. JAVASCRIPT APPENDED BY WAYBACK MACHINE, COPYRIGHT INTERNET ARCHIVE. ALL OTHER CONTENT MAY ALSO BE PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT (17 U.S.C. SECTION 108(a)(3)).-->!--playback timings (ms): LoadShardBlock: 135.864 (3) esindex: 0.01 captures_list: 154.35 CDXLines.iter: 13.157 (3) PetaboxLoader3.datanode: 47.518 (4) exclusion.robots: 0.32 exclusion.robots.policy: 0.308 RedisCDXSource: 1.851 PetaboxLoader3.resolve: 59.132 (2) load_resource: 99.618-->div idweava-permanent-marker date1562185523355>/div>div idweava-ui-wrapper>div classweava-drop-area-wrapper>div classweava-drop-area>/div>div classweava-drop-area-text>Drop here!/div>/div>/div>/body>/html>
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