time to breathe

It's starting to hit home. We've been grieving for three months, even though he's been gone just a week, but since the beginning of February we've been going a million miles a minute non-stop. Ever since my dad received his diagnosis my mind and heart have been agonizing with him and for him, and then when he finally passed there were so many preparations to be made and details to work out, that I have hardly had time to really tell myself that my dad is gone. Not annihilated gone, but intangible gone for now.

'Are you kidding? He is gone?'

For a while it was almost like he had simply taken a trip out of state or out of the country. Since I live out of state it wasn't so different than that at first. But now that we've left him at the cemetery and the memorial service is over, I know that it could be a long time before I get to see him again.

All week as we finalized the plans for the service I have had split-second thoughts with the desire to contact my dad. Oh, we need to tell Dad about______. When is Dad going to get here? I better call and make sure Dad wouldn't mind us telling this joke. Even at church last Sunday morning, just a few hours after I heard he passed away, my pastor presented an excellent message that I knew he would love, and I had the split-second idea to order the sermon tape for him. And then I was like, 'Oh, yeah....'

I know I will probably one day think I see my dad in a crowd, or start to bawl at the slightest memory of him. This is just the beginning of missing him, and while I stand upon the resurrection with all my might, I already know that the missing will never go away.

I am just new at this grieving stuff.

Surprisingly, the most difficult photos to look at are not those of my dad most recently, looking skin-and-bones and dreadfully ill and weak. The most heart-wrenching photos are the ones from just a couple years ago, photos from approximately 2000 to 2006. It is difficult to see him healthy and full of life. Makes it hard to believe that the last three months happened at all. Won't I wake up from this nightmare and jump into that photo of my dad playing catch with my brother? Or the one where he's sharing a pleasant conversation between relatives? Or how about the one where he's sitting behind a clean dinner plate and offer him some coffee and dessert? Can't I go share some of these moments with my dad just one more time?


We just arrived back on the East Coast this afternoon, and I find myself a little depressed to be here. Nobody here knows my dad. Nobody can nod with understanding when I share a story of him. Nobody catches on when I interject a phrase he was known for and then afterward ask, 'Who always says that?' Nobody can think back with me. Nobody can offer up a statement like, 'Hey, remember the time...?' Nobody here can share my sorrow.

They know me. They can sympathize with me or even empathize with a loss of their own. But they can't share my dad with me like his family and friends can. The memorial service yesterday felt like a dream. Everything went smoothly and beautifully. All of these people showed up because they love and miss and knew my dad! They wanted to talk about him and look at pictures of him just as much as I did. They wanted to cry over him and at the same time rejoice for him just like I did! That's why we were there. And it ended far too soon. As I left out of the church I wished that the day would never end. I wanted to keep on sharing and hugging and laughing and crying. All of these things collectively just seemed to make my dad come back to life, even though where he is right now he's far more alive than any of the stories we could ever tell about him.

But now I am a thousand miles away from even an acquaintance of his, and I am left to grieve alone as I attempt to resume my daily responsibilities. I know I am truthfully not alone in this. Christ himself is with me, and he is enjoying my dad's presence as I type. My rock-of-a-husband Jeromy is so incredibly quick to provide abundant support as we walk this new road without my father. Of course, my family members and others who experienced life with my dad are just a phone call away. We spent some rich time with my aunt Beverly, my dad's sister, and also got re-acquainted with their half-sister, Karen, who traveled from Florida. These last few days with family were immensely therapeutic, and I know they, as well as my immediate family and other extended relatives are all a phone call or email click away. And of course, my friends, including some of whom have recently experienced pain of their own, have enormously encouraged me with their love during this time.

So why am I depressed, again?

My "normal" has since taken on a very different appearance. Life has to go on, and I just can't blubber all day. God's hand often brings change, and while I recognize the good these changes are designed to effect in my life and in the lives of my family, I remain helpless to regard them and embrace them but for his strength and grace.

I'd give anything for a root beer float.