Today marks two years since Papa’s passing. I recently rediscovered these musings in my Google Drafts. I wrote them while employed at IEC and bits and pieces after his passing. He often told me that he wanted me to write about my experience working with him (very Jan of him). “You could call it Working With a Dying Man!” After he would make a comment that he found particularly profound or insightful, he would tell me, “You can put that in your article” or “Write that down.” However, whenever I sat down to write, I felt the words and syllables could not contain the essence of everything he was and still is. How do you even begin to describe Jan Cespedes? While not my biological father, he took me under his wing and provided me with love and affection as though I was. He somehow ingrained himself into my heart as “Papa.”  I still find myself hoping I’ve made him proud or think of him when I see a unique plant, knowing he could identify it.

He was also a foundational influence in encouraging my love of writing, pushing me to publish my book, and inspiring a belief in myself and my abilities. It was my most profound honour for him to live to listen to my first book. While he heavily doubted my landscaping skills, he never once doubted me. This gift of writing he helped to foster is the only gift I know how to give back to each of you. Even though my attempts to express my gratitude or memories of Jan will never feel good enough- one thing I learned from him was the importance of just going for it with as much enthusiasm as possible, so I wanted to offer you a simple compilation of memories. It’s not perfect, but few things in life rarely are.

“This must be weird for you.”

I tentatively glanced at him as I removed the mini fridge’s radiation-riddled contents with gloved hands into a large black garbage bag. 

“What do you mean?”

I asked with a hint of understanding in my expression but required further clarification, as I had learned to do with Papa. He often left his communication purposely vague and mysterious for dramatic effect.

His no-subject emails or elusive one-word text messages often contained hieroglyphics such as: 

“???”

Or

“.”

Or 

“!!!!”

Or perhaps a combination of all three:

“!?.???!?..”

Then, it was up to the receiver to translate such symbols’ urgency and meaning. I quickly learned that translating his written communication was quite a skill, and I found myself outsourcing screenshots to family members to understand this foreign language. Surprisingly, I discovered almost anything could be communicated within those three characters(!?.)

Now he sat on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and shifting to take a rickety breath through his fatigued lungs- eyes staring straight ahead. 

“This must be weird for you.”

I tentatively glanced at him as I removed the mini fridge’s radiation-riddled contents with gloved hands into a large black garbage bag. 

“What do you mean?”

I asked with a hint of understanding in my expression but required further clarification, as I had learned to do with Papa. He often left his communication purposely vague and mysterious for dramatic effect.

His no-subject emails or elusive one-word text messages often contained hieroglyphics such as: 

“???”

Or

“.”

Or 

“!!!!”

Or perhaps a combination of all three:

“!?.???!?..”

Then, it was up to the receiver to translate such symbols’ urgency and meaning. I quickly learned that translating his written communication was quite a skill, and I found myself outsourcing screenshots to family members to understand this foreign language. Surprisingly, I discovered almost anything could be communicated within those three characters(!?.)

Now he sat on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and shifting to take a rickety breath through his fatigued lungs- eyes staring straight ahead. 

“It must be weird for you to watch me die.”

In the year to follow, for some reason, this simple conversation ingrained itself deep into the consciousness of my mind, foreshadowing what inevitably was to come and the mirage of grief and memories that would linger behind. He was right; I did just that: watch him die, but more importantly, for a tiny sliver of eternity, I watched him live. His existence was a testimony not to expect anything less than an extraordinary life. Adventure followed him like a moth to a flame. Each ordinary day morphed into one brimming with possibility. Perhaps his perspective was rooted in the sobering awareness of the brevity of life. I was often struck by the candidness with which he spoke about death. It wasn’t taboo but rather an impending reality.

There was no tiptoeing or euphemisms but rather a directness that I grew to appreciate. I become overwhelmed by the realization that the only difference between him and the rest of us is he knew he had a timeline, but the reality is death is unavoidable. He mastered the art of savouring the shortness of life, squeezing out every ounce of joy possible. When his health steadily declined, I would spend time with him (in the name of “work”) at the first beach apartment, completing small tasks he would give me, listening to his endless stories and sharing meals. These mundane moments are now ones I replay and cherish. He often asked me not to make him laugh because it hurt his lungs, and then he would laugh anyway. And scold me each time. The act of laughing through his pain was his simple rebellion. He taught me that your legacy is less about you than about leaving something meaningful for those you leave behind you. Everything he did was for his family- the people he brought into the world courageously guided him out of it. The day he passed, in the shocked stillness, Momma hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Never stop talking about him.” So I wanted to do just that in reliving an ordinary day in his extraordinary life…

One of Papa’s many trademarks was his love of walking, whether one block or one mile- you could count on him getting his steps in. It was on one of these particular walks that by the time Giana, Jan and I had gotten back to the house, he had found us both husbands (by that, I mean he had catcalled some poor construction workers on the street as Giana stood mortified) and found me a job.  Somehow, within the period of leaving the house and returning home, I was hired as his “personal assistant at his landscaping company.” My job description was- well, quite vague. No work week was the same. One day, I would respond to emails and make phone calls in the office; the next, I would shoot bows and arrows, wrangle goats, hit golf balls, learn (with a thick “gringa” accent) Spanish, and ride a four-wheeler on the ranch. Despite the lack of structure, it quickly became a job where I got a front-row seat to Jan Cespedes’s extraordinary life. (Spoiler alert: I quit.) Even so, Jan remained more than just my hefe but a father figure and mentor. He would lovingly refer to me as his “favourite white girl,” I would beam with pride as he claimed me as his 6th daughter.

The day before his last radiation treatment, we spent the day “working” at the ranch office- at the beginning of the day, he presented me with a lengthy 23-point to-do list. It was a jumble of vague phrases and words followed by several combinations of “???” and “!!!” at the end of specific tasks. Midway through the day, we had checked off 3 out of the 23 boxes on the paper.  One of my tasks was to watch YouTube videos of a specific Bobcat mower, which I completed against my will (to this day, I’m still not quite sure of the purpose). He found it much more interesting than I did as he giddily watched over my shoulder, making animated sounds as brush and trees were crushed by this miracle machine.

As his assistant, I took my role very seriously, and like any good employee, I often had to keep Jan on task. Beginning to feel like a prisoner, I couldn’t stand being forced to watch another obscure machinery YouTube video against my will; I held up my to-do list and pointed at it,

“Come on, we got things to do.”

He turned up his chin, let out a classic Jan laugh, and raised his hand, swatting away my anxiety with his Cuban flair,

“Put that down and live a little bit. There is more to life than to-do lists.”

And so, the rest of the evening, Bri, Giana, Ellie, Papa, and I sat in makeshift chairs as we drank contraband coronas (snuck in by Bri) and smoked Cuban cigars (let the record state that Ellie did not partake in either). We laughed, teased, and prayed, and I listened, smiling ear to ear as father and daughters retold stories and shared hopes underneath the vast Southern California sky as it faded from clear blue to dusty hues of pink and orange. The sunset reminded us that nothing in nature is stagnant; everything constantly shifts and changes as dusk engulfed us in the cool darkness. As I reflect on the memory two years later, that is how I remember Papa: laughing, teasing, praying and retelling stories, surrounded by the people who loved him most as he transitioned from daybreak into the darkness. Unafraid. We do not fear the night because we know the sun will rise again. I am sure that if God allows Coronas and Cuban cigars in heaven (if not, Bri will have to sneak some in), he’s enjoying them even more there than he ever did here (I have no Biblical evidence for this, but I am positive that there will not be lawn mower videos in heaven). And while we will still exist on this side of eternity, we cling to the audacious hope that when each of our sunsets fades into the bright hues of eternity, we will all be together again, daughters, sons and the Father in perfect unity, laughing, teasing, praying, retelling stories, smiling ear to ear.