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Today marks the
third anniversary of my dad’s death. While, as my husband says, I don’t want to
dwell more on his death than I remember his life, it’s hard not to note this
date on the calendar: November 16, 2019. It was a Saturday morning, and
although I had the opportunity to sleep in a little bit, I woke up around 6 as
usual. I looked at my phone and realized that I had missed two calls – one from
my mom and the other from the hospice worker who helped my dad. I knew.
I went into the living room and sat
there for a few moments, looking at my phone but not wanting to call my mother
back. Those few minutes allowed me to live in that liminal time between my
belief that my dad was still living and when I would know officially that he
was not. But I could not put it off any longer. I called and heard what I knew
deep in my bones. Daddy had died.
I thought, naively, that my grief for
my father would be strong at first then lessen over time. I thought that missing
him would change from a sharp pain to a dull ache. I was wrong. I think what I have
learned about grief in these past three years is that not only does it not go away, but it also actually grows stronger
as time goes on. Time does not necessarily heal all wounds. Time just builds a
layer of scar tissue around them. They are still there.
Does this mean that I am mired in grief
and depression? No. I have experienced tremendous joy over the last three
years. I have laughed and celebrated and given thanks. But something else that I
have learned about grief is that it grows fuller and richer and deeper as time
goes on. There is a strange beauty in grief. If grief is, as someone said, the
price that we pay for loving, then I love my dad well – not perfectly, but
well.
I know that I told my dad again and
again how much I loved him. I know that I hugged him every chance I got. I know
that he knew I loved him, just as he knew that my mother and my sister and
brother loved him. But I can’t tell him that anymore, so I grieve.
When I needed advice and guidance, I
turned to my dad. Over these last three years, I’ve longed to pick up the phone
and talk to him about the challenges I’ve faced. But he is no longer on the other
end of the phone line, so I grieve.
My dad was a wonderful grampa. He
loved his grandchildren with a fierce devotion. I want to tell him how my kids
are doing. I want to share with him their joys and struggles, but he isn’t
there to hear, so I grieve.
I am a person of faith which for me
means that I don’t walk through life blindly believing, but that I struggle
with doubt. The more I believe the more I doubt. “I believe, Lord, help my unbelief.”
But I put all my hope and faith and trust and expectation that one day I’ll see
him again. I suspect that my understanding of heaven is flimsy at best. None of
us can know what’s on the other side of death until we pass through that veil.
But I hope that when I close my eyes for the last time in this life that I will
open them in the next and see my dad.
If love and grief walk together,
then no wonder I’m still grieving. My love for my dad did not die with him. If
anything, my love for him grows stronger every day that he is not with us. Doesn’t
that make my grief a gift? Doesn’t that make my grief a reminder that I was
lucky to have a dad who loved me, encouraged me, pushed me, comforted me, and
never let me give up on myself. I will always miss my dad, but how blessed I am
to have been his daughter. How blessed I am for this gift of grief.
