Someone I know lost a parent over the weekend. Her father’s death was unexpected. I can’t say I’m super close to this person, but my heart aches for her and her sweet family. The Bible teaches that in Jesus’s resurrection, death has lost its sting. Yet as I write, someone I care about is experiencing loss like nothing she has ever known.
This can’t be happening.
I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent unexpectedly. But I know grief, I know it well. I find it next to impossible to untangle what I’ve tasted and seen from what she’s experiencing today. After all, I’m an INFJ in the realm of Meyer-Briggs, heavy on the F which stands for feeling. I’m starting to think I lack the skills needed to set my feelings aside, at least for a while. I can’t seem to remove myself from the situation and focus on something other than grief, hers or mine.
Knowing that another family is experiencing grief is like an emotional tidal wave, as suffocating today as it was twenty-something years ago. I’m drowning in it as I fold clothes, unload the dishwasher and prepare an afternoon snack for the Tiniest Tiny.
I can’t stop thinking about dad.
Dad suffered six years. When his life came to an end we knew it was happening. There were no surprises. We had more than enough time to say good-by, everyone did. Sanguine to the end, his life wasn’t over until practically every one of his neighbors, friends and family members stopped by for one last visit.
The song If You Could See Me Now, not Eminem’s version or the 1980s cruise jingle, but the one by Truth, was playing on the CD player in the living room when he died. It was rather loud because these hard-of-hearing ears of mine needed help unraveling the lyrics from instrumentals. It was the middle of the night.
The song speaks of walking the streets of gold, of no longer being broken, of no more pain. It is a song about releasing a loved one from a place of suffering to come face-to-face with Jesus, strong and whole. I was seated next to dad, but almost missed that splendid moment when he took his last breath and slipped from his cancerous shell of a body into Jesus’ arms, victorious and cancer-free at last.
I’m thankful dad is with Jesus, I really am. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t want him back for a little while.
Dad knew I loved children and wanted to be a teacher. I would’ve given anything for him to see me graduate from college and set up my first kindergarten classroom. I wish he’d been the one to walk me to meet Greg at the end of the aisle on our wedding day, though I will always cherish the moment I spent with Dave. He was dad’s best friend.
And our three babies, his grand-babies. It kills me that our kids will never meet their Grandpa Steve. They will never hear his hearty laughter or sit through one of the many tall-tales from his childhood on the farm near Mt. Spokane. On this side of heaven, our son Steven will never know the one he was named for.
One Father’s Day, when Greg and I were newly dating, our pastor preached a moving sermon. He charged the fathers of our congregation to rise up, to be strong in the Lord and lead their families well. That’s the kind of dad I had. He loved the Lord with all of his heart and all of his soul, and oh, how he loved his family.
I’m a private person by nature. But even I could not contain the desire after church to ask Greg, my then boyfriend, to take me to the cemetery. Greg was as distant as any one of his Norwegian ancestors would have been. He kept his Oakley shades on and stood aside while I had myself a little moment. I’m not used to breaking down in front of others. The vulnerability of that afternoon was as new to me as our relationship.
Even though I shouldn’t have, I remember turning to Greg afterward and apologizing for the awkwardness of my crying fit, the grief that came out of nowhere.
“Yeah, that was awkward,” was Greg’s response. The cruelty of his statement was out of character with the man I knew so swell, or as well as I could after only a few months dating.
He then removed his sunglasses and revealed a face streaked with tears, tears for a man he’d never met and for a woman who really missed her dad. I knew for sure that afternoon that Greg loved me, and in his arms I could grieve.
I started a blog last June. I love to write. It’s the most tangible way I know to praise God and better understand my world. In my mind’s eye, I saw my blog as a place to write about life and to bring the hope of Jesus to others. An encourager by nature, it’s what I do best. I didn’t really want a mommy blog, but I knew I was going to sprinkle a few kid stories into my writing from time to time to keep things light and entertaining.
The thing is, I’ve been running from writing lately. I’ve been running because he (and by he I mean God) is prompting me to explore grief and write about the hard things in life. It’s not a fun subject to tackle. But I have to say, this little corner of the internet is serving its purpose. I’m learning to be brave in this place. I’m learning to air out some of the grief I’ve kept hidden all these years, grief I didn’t realize I had in me because everything was fine except it wasn’t.
I’m starting to think maybe, just maybe, I’m honoring God and giving him glory as I learn to take his hand and let him unpack the beautiful mess that’s called mothering in the midst of grief.
