Ten years ago today my father, Jim Goslin, was killed in a car accident.
Earlier this summer I began thinking about him and about the ten-year milestone, and what all has transpired since then, what all has changed. I thought about how amazing the response was in Pataskala from family and friends, our neighbors, my father’s friends, the West Licking Fire community, our church community, and so many others. Though my parents had been separated they were still very close friends, and my mom and sister and myself remember that time mainly through the lens of the immense support we received. It truly carried us through a dark time. It was a testament as well to my dad's character, gregariousness, and constant service to others, that so many people came out to give their condolences, mourn with us, and honor his memory.
Since that time, much has changed indeed. I went to and completed college, I travelled many places doing relief/volunteer work, I backpacked through many forests and up many mountains across many countries, I worked hard and grew through many different companies and industries, and recently met and married the love of my life. Though it’s obvious to remember him on the anniversary of his death, I don’t otherwise think of him as frequently any more. It is when I am celebrating a special moment, or when something significant happens, that I feel the urge to reach out to him. It’s whenever I turn on the classic rock station and easily settle in to familiar songs that I wish we were enjoying them together. It is what I’ve always had with my mom and have sought from others in my parent’s generation; that I could run questions by him about car stuff, or job stuff, or people stuff, or whatever stuff. Not that he knew all the answers, but he had lived through many hard circumstances and had already lived a long life when his time here stopped. It is that listening I desired, and still desire, not his omniscience.
What would I say to a younger man ten years ago who was going through the most abrupt incident of his life to that point? I’d say that before you know it, 3000 and more days will pass and the person you can’t imagine not existing will continue to fade in your memory. He will not fade completely, but the richness of his presence will be muted and change into a different immutable state, where your memories will bend more often to fondness than to complexity or pain. I’d say to hang in there, and to ride the cycles of grief as they come in all their complexity, and let them pass as they will. I’d say cherish the memories while you have them and look forward to other ones that must distill with time. And I would certainly say remember your love for your dad, never doubt his love for you, and honor his life by being a gift to others, as he did the best he could for you.
Steve Goslin
10 November 2014