Empty Shoes/One Month

At five in the morning, the house is always perfectly still. Yesterday, I was in the dark browsing my phone before beginning a busy day. Out of nowhere, it hit: the mental image of your house shoes, sitting empty. I pictured them as I had last seen them, in the hospital by your bed.

"All of her little shoes are now empty."

The thought sucked the breath out of me and grief thudded its crushing weight on my chest like a herd of elephants. My gosh, you're so very gone! 

I was so afraid your shoes had been left behind when you died, but they haven't. Big Sis has them. I asked her for this lovely photo and she graciously obliged. This image will replace the sadder one in my memory of the hospital the day we said goodbye. I am so grateful to you and  Dad for starting our family with such a quality person. I have found myself hanging onto her for dear life.

We went to the orchard today, my little family of four. You know the one: *our* orchard. The one you, Dad, Jim, Karen, Baby Sis, and I first went to one happy afternoon in 2001. On the ride down today, it struck me that only Baby Sis and I are left alive from our original group. That joyous afternoon blossomed into our annual pilgrimages to document the girls' growth in the chestnut trees.

I am heartsick that we have been without you for an entire month already. It is such a sad occasion to mark on such a special and precious day, but that is life, isn't it? It is death itself that makes the lives we have so incredibly dear. The memories we are making with our children were born in traditions started with you and Dad. How fleeting are these moments! 

So today I celebrate my children and the ways they have grown, inside and out even as today I grieve for you, for Dad, and for the years I feel somewhat cheated out of. 

Every thought, sad or happy, brings me back to the Savior and the overwhelming sense that He is good. 

Thank you, Lord, for giving me the parents I had. Thank you for the time we spent together creating the memories that will have to sustain us. I am so grateful that Dad and Mom are up there celebrating with joyful abandon in the most precious of places. Comfort us as we hold them here in our hearts. Help us to create and carry forward their legacy of loving and serving you. Answer the prayers spoken by lips that no longer utter, and also those we who remain speak over our own children. In your holy name, I pray. Amen.

Eight Father's Days Without You

Christians have hope of seeing one another again in the afterlife. Any person of any faith that includes that element does, in fact.

This is not about that.

This post is about the reality of this world as we know it. 

You are missing from us right here in the present where we can't see you. Your arms that existed on this earth will never hold us again. Any time I need your advice, I cannot call you to get it. I don't get to hear your laughter or beautiful voice booming in song. 

I don't get to watch your face light up as you look upon your grandchildren. Their memories of you stop at young ages: for my youngest, at just four years old. That is not enough time to remember you the way she deserves to. Six of your grandchildren have become adults since you died. Six, and the other eleven right behind. You have a great-grandchild we are all so proud of, who will never know her Papa.

It has been seven full years but this is our eighth Father's Day holiday without you, and it feels like you've been gone simultaneously for just a few months and forever. 

I can't bear that you are just a set of cherished memories. I can't stand that you get farther away from us the longer we live. I remember the intense panic attacks I had daily after you died when I first became so vividly aware of that reality. You were farther and farther away from us every single minute of every single day. Your loss has been excruciating.

I know someone who likes to say that people are 'holding onto grief too tightly' or 'too long', as though she has any sense of what any person's process looks like outside of her own. Unsurprisingly, she also posts publicly about herself missing you usually within 24 hours of chastising one of us. I find that really gross, but I know that genuine conversation with her is useless, so I don't say anything. I'm just so sick of the emotional gatekeeping. I pray that she grows beyond the need to do this very soon.

Missing you so deeply that it steals my breath and throws me into tears randomly through the year doesn't mean I'm not healing in the spaces in between. It doesn't mean that any family members aren't, or that anybody is "grieving wrong". Certainly, none of us is qualified to claim to know what is healthy for the rest.

Your remains were recently interred in a place you've never visited: permanently laid to rest somewhere that was directly against your wishes. The intense amount of disrespect in not even giving you your final resting place about did me in, I'm going to be honest. I had to finally settle my soul on the fact that you were an easy-going guy and would likely have caved to the wishes and needs of those who love you. That somehow made me feel even worse. Still, Mom is alive and you would have wanted her needs to be respected. I can work on that. My final attempt at reconciling with this madness was the fact that the spirit who exists in an eternal state isn't concerned about where the ashes of your earthy body are laid. That settles it for me. 

Forgive my rambling, Dad. I know I am not actually talking to you but to the universe. That has to be okay for now. Thank you for loving us, and for investing your time in us. I will never forget the closeness we shared before you died: the way you made yourself available to us when you were already hurting and suffering. 

Thank you for being open about the darkness you faced. I've never seen Christmas the same since your last Christmas contained that confession, but I needed it somehow. I would do anything to go back in time and try to find a way to support you better or soothe your emotional pain. Knowing that you had these feelings inside helps me to give myself grace as I struggle through my own breathtaking depression. 

This year as Father's Day comes around and you are not with us, I will celebrate my hubs and his dad the way you liked best: a family cook-out. I will feel desperately sad and alone even as we are all together in the room, bc grief is like that. It is a very private journey. 

I miss you, Dad. 

Love,
      ~Lynn

Thoughts on "Comfort"

I think one of the least helpful things we Christians can do is to when it comes to the loss of loved ones is to tell each other that the body is 'no longer your loved one' because that person is now in Heaven. Bear with me a second and hear me out, please.

I am a Baptist pastor's daughter. I understand as well as anyone why saying that is *supposed* to be helpful. I really do. I heard this a lot when my dad died and, frankly, I cannot bear it. It is no longer a go-to cliche phrase that I inflict on anyone else. I also believe whole-heartedly that my dad *is* in Heaven and that I *will* see his glorified self someday.

That is beside the point. Why? His physical body had the arms that held me close more times than I can count, the knees I sat on, and the heart I used to listen to thumping. It had the big, strong hands that helped me learn to walk, tossed me into the air for fun, checked for bruises when I fell or wiped away tears when I cried. Every good and kind word was spoken from those lips: countless prayers in the middle of the night - even as an adult who called from miles away, waking him from sleep bc I needed that prayer support.

I found after my dad died that I wanted more than anything for the well-intentioned "that's not him" crowd to just back off and let me grieve! It does not threaten God's eternal nature to grieve the loss of the physical person. It no way negates the existence of what we refer to as Heaven to allow tears to spill over the arms that cradled you as a baby and which *are* now forever missing from this world.

You want to comfort someone, truly? Tell them that it is okay to grieve and then hold space for whatever that looks like. God is not unseated from His throne if we miss the man who nurtured us through life in this world.

Grief is not a declaration of defiance against God's plan. It is not a rejection of the notion that eternal life exists with a chance to get to know one another again in a new way. It is an expression of love, nothing more.

Even knowing that He would raise Lazarus from the dead, the man Jesus Christ took time to express profound sorrow over the loss of His friend.

If you miss your love one - the once real, physical representation of them - I validate that grief, and I will sit with you through it without judgement and without trying to take it away. The only way through it, after all, is through it.

I am sending my love, wherever you are on your journey.

Because it is May

I find myself sitting here in tears again, missing you. I tell myself that is because it is May. This month brings around the day we would have celebrated as your birthday. We always associate it with grilling out on the patio, because it so often coincides with Memorial Day weekend. 

The memories are so vivid. You, at the grill. My hubs and the other guys hanging out chatting around you. Mom, myself, and any sisters who are present all floating about alternating between food prep and tending the needs of the children. Oh, the children! Your seventeen beloved grandbabies! Each one a masterpiece blend of the generations preceding them. Each one unique! Papa's beautiful girls and handsome boys!

Gosh, Dad. How is it that you have been gone now for three years? I read my poem "Before You Sleep" this morning. I had been thinking about it for days now, maybe a week. There is this new show on television in which the lead is experiencing the decline and passing of her father. It is all too real, Dad. It is so similar in so many ways. 

I recall with visceral clarity the ache of watching you die. I still struggle with feelings of unfairness that I had a broken-down car at the time. I struggle with jealousy over sisters who got to see you, sing to you, love on you while you were awake. I was there, Dad. I was there! I am the one who showed up at night when there were emergencies. I was there in the dark hours where you weren't conscious and couldn't come to! Me, hubs, our babies... we were there for you, too! 

That seemed to define how I felt about your death. In fact, it still defines my life in a lot of ways. I am there for my friends when they are in the dark. I am there when nobody else is; when rays of light fail to shine through. Sometimes, I feel as though I have become darkness itself, so adept am I at walking through pain and grief. 

I wish you were here, Dad. I miss you every waking minute of every day. You do not show up in my dreams the way you once did. I dreamt so vividly of you those months and especially the days leading up to your death. I dreamed you were giving your final sermons in so many of the places you've preached in your life. The night before you died, I dreamed about a young soldier in a casket in the living room of our C.A. house. I promised myself that it wasn't you bc he was so very young, tall, and thin. I justified that by reminding myself that you did not get to be a soldier. And yet, he wasn't in uniform. He was in your suit. Plus, he looked exactly like you do in your college photos. I know it *was* you, Dad. I had to finally admit it when you went and died right after I had that dream. You always talked about being a Christian soldier. How fitting that my last dream during your life was you in the 'uniform' of a minister? God's soldier.

*sigh*

And you are still gone. All three years of learning how to walk with grief and breathe through the rawest moments have led to today: and today I am still sitting here in this house in this life and wishing you were alive and ten days away from a family celebration. I wish your nurse hadn't said "not tonight", so I could have been with you one last time. I wish we had gotten to sing you to Jesus the way you deserve. I wish I could rewrite history so that I had come up to visit the weekend before like I was supposed to. 

You couldn't bear for your girls to be hurting, I know. You said plenty of times that you don't want us to be sad. I feel sometimes that I let you down by grieving so hard. But see, Dad, it isn't a failure to move on. This is exactly how I *do* move on. Your love was as gigantic as your arms stretched around us. We still feel it, even now. So, please forgive my tears on the hard days, okay? I haven't lost faith in God... I don't cry because I cannot see the promise of Heaven in the distance. I just need to get out the everyday loss when it hits me the worst. 

You are such a beautiful soul, Dad. Thank you for everything you lent to us during your time on earth. Lessons learned, moments shared, love shown in action: all of it will continue to be cherished! So, for now, during this month which is yours, I will continue to get out these immense feelings of grief. I will wipe away fresh tears and tell my children that I am okay. I am just feeling melancholy and wistful...  

because it is May.

Father's Day

Just for today, I don't want to be comforted.

No platitudes about Heaven where he has gone.

I don't want to be told how happy he is,

Or that he wouldn't want to be missed.

Today, let me grieve the life that was lived.

Let me ache for the man who is gone.

Let me think of how he was - 

Don't make me force a smile instead.

My soul, he was so real!

My daddy was a giant.

His heart, his personality, his laugh was massive.

He had a smile to match.

I miss the hugs from arms like beams;

The thumping of life in his chest.

I miss calling him for his advice,

Because "father knows best".

My dad put time into each of us.

He called me and the girls when he passed by our town,

Just so we could yell out loudly,

"WE LOVE YOU, PAPA!"

Even when he wasn't here, he was close.

You don't get over that in a minute.

Remembering those sweet things

Makes it hurt worse... makes the soul ache.

So let me shed my tears.

Do not begrudge me this grief.

I will always cry about my dad,

And those tears will bring relief.

I have apologized my whole life

For having big feelings in response to things.

But this is how I was created, and

This is what such gigantic love brings.

There was never anyone like my dad.

He was the biggest, the strongest, the best.

There will never be another man like him,

Now he's entered into rest.

Taking this moment is for me and for him...

This moment, this space is for 'us'. 

I am not wallowing right now.

I am grieving, and that *is* allowed.

Today of all days - Father's Day,

It is hard not to be lost in tears.

I was so privileged to be so deeply loved

For my first thirty-five earth-side years.

Goodbye again, my sweet dad.

It isn't right that you are gone.

Yet, somehow I am jealous, too.

That you get to be with pain forever done.

I wish I could hug you a minute in Heaven,

So you didn't have to come back down here.

You got exactly what you wanted,

And I know that you are finally free. 

See? This is what grief does.

It moves in waves all on its own. 

It overwhelms the soul, as if to drown,

But moves through again to acceptance. 

This is why I say don't force it.
I don't want to hear the cliches.
I am a walking, weeping, living cliche.
I wouldn't ask my dad back down to earth.

He did not want to be here,
And he didn't deserve the pain he had.
Just for a minute... a single minute,
I want to go visit my dad.

Spiritual Rebirth, Death Anniversary, and Spring

Twenty-two years ago today, I called my dad home from church to talk to me about my need for the Savior. He came immediately, and spent time with me on our couch and on our knees. I asked the Lord into my heart that day. :) <3

I don't believe that I will ever forget my dad praying over me that afternoon. In fact, I remember him praying with and over all of us from the time we were little. My daddy's prayers are one of the things I most miss in this world.

Tomorrow, he has been gone for one year.

Last year, it was bitterly cold and frosty as we drove north to tell his earthly vessel goodbye for the last time. It was pitch black, and the world felt icy and empty. We talked to him, wept on him, kissed him, stroked his arms and face, and told him everything we could think to say. I remember telling him over and over how proud of him I was:

The very picture of peace,
just four days before he
passed into Glory.

"You did so good, Dad. You did so good."

Maybe it is strange to tell someone that they did a good job dying. I don't know. All I know is that we witnessed him face ALS and death with bravery and more strength than I have personally ever seen in any other human being. The time spent with him that night was precious. It is a set of hours to which I return in my mind any time my heart is overwhelmed by his passing.

Inevitably, it was time to let him go for real. It is easy enough to say to the world that 'this is just a shell... the man himself is in Heaven'. Even so, this 'shell' showed me love for my entire life. Those big fingers are what I held as I learned to walk. That big lap bounced me on his knee. Those massive arms enfolded me into a lifetime of hugs. Those lips, now silent, spoke my wedding vows. That heartbeat... oh, how I miss listening to the deep, comforting thudding of his heart!

We stood around him one last time, Mom and the four of us. (Thank God for video phone technology!) I was at his head. It struck me that we couldn't let him leave without a prayer! I asked if we were going to pray and everyone said yes. As so many times in the past, silence (well... weeping... no speaking) fell over the room. It hit me that we were all waiting for it:

We were all waiting for Dad to begin to pray.

The thought utterly broke my heart. I didn't know what else to do, so I began to pray. We thanked the Lord for this man and for the life he lived. We thanked Dad for his walk with the Lord and his testimony. To be honest, I am not sure what else I said. I know that it felt inadequate. I remember not wanting to stop praying. I knew that they would take him and he would be officially gone after. That night was both incredibly hard and incredibly beautiful. I will never forget how cold and stark it was that night.

Imagine our surprise the next day, when Mom and I opened her front door to balmy weather and buds on the trees! Spring had suddenly burst into life! The juxtaposition seemed to perfectly mirror what was happening in our lives! The noticeable change from the dark of winter to a sudden boom of spring reflected the way that Dad's spirit left his body of death, and rose to life everlasting in Heaven with Jesus, our Lord and Savior. <3 <3 <3

Dad Smiled Just for Me

This year, we are again in great pain. In some ways, it is like Dad is about to die all over again... we just know which day this time. In other ways, we look forward to tomorrow, eager to overcome yet another post-Dad milestone. We mostly look forward with hope. For, as last year, it has been snowy this week leading into the one-year anniversary of my dad's Heaven date. We have spent some time feeling dark and broody, in spite of our best efforts to live life happily.

Tomorrow maybe, just maybe, spring will bloom all over again.

Whenever it does come, we are ready. We are here, one year later. We still love our Lord and look forward to serving Him more fully. Our hearts are still with God and with getting into church. We continue to work towards happiness and the peace and contentment that my dad displayed right to the very end.

Overnight at 12:37 a.m., we will cross the one year mark of my dad's passing. We will step into a day which we intend to use to celebrate him and to honor God.

We love and miss you, Dad! This year has been hard, but we have made it through! We sure cannot wait to see you again! <3 <3

Day 19

My dad has been gone from this earth for nineteen days today, counting the day he passed (since he passed just over a half hour after midnight). I find myself in the emotional aftermath yet, as I am sure we all do. Lately, I've been a mix of depressed and hurt. 

Truthfully, I do not know what to do with all of the hurt yet. It wraps me up like the coils of a boa constrictor, tightening at times until all breath escapes me. Other times, denial sneaks in for a turn and I feel completely shocked all over again that this beautiful person has left the earth without us.

Anger has made an appearance a time or two, although not that often or for long durations. I've had a few moments where I wonder why my dad was chosen for this horrifying death instead of someone far uglier or horrible. It is an ugly thought; one which I strive to brush away as quickly as possible.

Sadness from the movie "Inside Out" seems to be running the story in my brain. Everything is tinged a slight blue or, more accurately, gray. I lose my colors when I am deeply sad.

I don't believe that I have any bargaining left in me at this point. I wouldn't bring him back to his degenerated body, even if I could. 

I *do* wish heartily that I could speak to him again. :'(

How do people get through this every single day? Where does one put all of the hurt? I don't know. For now, it is one foot in front of the other. I suppose it will be that way for a while.

Another Goodbye

I have been trying to figure out how to put this into words. Something happened yesterday which was both expected and an utter shock, all at the same time. :'(

Let me back up just a little bit. We received a phone call just around three o'clock in the morning. You can imagine that it was with no little fear that I startled awake. My first thought these days is, "Oh no! My dad is dead!!" My heart was instantly galloping out of my chest and my arms went weak.

To my surprise, Hubs' mom was on the other end of the phone instead of mine. She apologized for calling so late and then gently broke the news to us that Pappaw had passed away in his sleep shortly before. :'( :'( :'( Grief hit immediately, knowing that I was to break this news to my husband, who lay quietly waiting to know who had called.

Pappaw H was such a beautiful man. When we say in this world that someone is a 'good person', there is an expectation of what that means. To me, this means someone who is kind, generous, community-minded, thoughtful, fun or funny, caring, selfless and a friend to all. Pappaw not only fit all of those adjectives, he embodied each and a plethora more. I have never found and would never find a negative thing to say about him.

I entered his family, a stranger. When that happens, it is sometimes hard to get people to look at you, let alone speak to you. The awkward silence can be deafening. Not so, with Pappaw. I could see instantly that he was exactly like my mother, father, and brother-in-love. He was so welcoming, so rich with personality! He was interested in getting to know me as much as I was him. We had conversations and shared laughter immediately. He ended up being the grandfather in my life who loved me shortest but, in my opinion, dearest. 

Pappaw was safe, too. This is something that may not always be on someone's radar but which is *always* on my personal radar. You never know if someone is going to be safe around your children, especially in this world. Pappaw, like all of the other men in the family, was an incredibly gentle and safe person for my little girls to be around. Oh, how they cherish him! <3 

Pappaw had this sense of humor that never quit. He could always bring a laugh, from the littlest child up through any age. His jokes were often the kind designed to be light, easy and cheesy. My daughter has learned his sense of humor so I get to see him in her on a regular basis. :) :) :) 

Pappaw was also a fascinating man, whose life was rich in experiences that covered the spectrum from painful to great. In his time driving an ambulance and serving with the local fire department (and anyone will tell you, he practically *was* the local fire department, he means so much to his town), he had seen some things which left a mark on him. He told me about this one time, with tears in his eyes. I am sure that accounts for some of the wisdom with which he was so richly blessed. <3 

I will miss this great man. I will forever regret not seeing him more often, not putting more action to the love I felt for him in my heart. He graced this earth for over ninety years. The world has been so much richer for it. I have only been lucky enough to know him for a decade and a half of that. 

It is no stretch to say that he has personally touched, changed, and enriched the lives of far too many people to count. Everyone in his town knows who he is. In fact, the state fair holds roach races every single year; a concept he helped begin! haha He is connected to so many unique and interesting things! His hometown has surrounded him with love for many decades. I sincerely hope that they continue to embrace Mammaw as she moves through life without him. 

Yesterday was rough. In spite of his age and health problems, the loss of Pappaw was a complete shock. This was the first time that I have had to tell my beautiful children that someone dear to them has gone from this earth. It wasn't easy. They are little troopers, though. The last day and a half has been mixed with joy, tears, happy remembrances and more tears. They are made of some really tough stuff, apparently. I suppose this is something that you learn about your children the hard way, isn't it? 

I do not know yet if they are ready to tell him goodbye. My littlest is full of memories but also age-appropriate inappropriate thoughts and expressions. I only say 'inappropriate' because they would be greatly out-of-place blurted out at a viewing or funeral. They are the honest thoughts of a tiny human being. I answer all of her questions fully and gently. 

Right now, she is struggling with the thought that people die. She has been vocally struggling with this ever since visiting her sick Papa in the hospital last week. The idea of life and death are hitting home with her in a somewhat confused way. She questions the absence of absolutely every person now. For instance, last night when she couldn't get her grandparents on the phone, she began to cry and asked me if they had passed away. :'( :'( :'(  I know for a fact that she would not do well when confronted with Pappaw's physical presence but not his life to greet her in return. 

My oldest is also quite deeply affected. I have left the decision up to her about whether or not she is prepared for this last goodbye. I have had to forgo funerals twice in the past (which I so achingly needed to attend) because she had full-blown panic attacks about seeing a non-related loved one in that state. :( Having to go through this with someone she has cherished so dearly from infancy, well... I'm just not sure.

So, I have some hard decisions to make. I am rather desperate to see him and to tell him goodbye myself. Not only is he a very dearly loved member of our family, I will not get this same chance to say goodbye to my father when he passes. The thought of not getting a final chance to show love and respect to this man burns deeply inside of me. :'( :'( :'( 

It is also so important to me to be there for my husband. I cannot stand the thought of him walking through this alone when I should be by his side for support. We have leaned so heavily on one another through so much already.

We will figure this out, though. We will walk through this valley of the shadow of death together. We will hold our children and whisper promises into their hearts that they will be okay even though *this* is not okay. Our world keeps draining the light from our hearts but we are still standing. There will be more light and more darkness. We will keep holding on for dear life.