Last night was hard for me...not because it was any significant day in my life or Dad's life or anything like that. I just had a few moments of dark silence--just enough time for my mind to wander. The images in my mind switched back and forth between the night that Dad died and so many of the other wonderful days we had together. It was like there was no memory that could get me to stop crying. But, in a way, I was relieved to bawl, as I'd been struggling to feel--so many of the days since November 18, I've only felt numb--completely unable to express or work through the things that I cognitively knew I "felt."
Joe, of course, was wonderful. Hugs, offers of hot tea and the space and freedom to know that crying is perfectly healthy.
One of the things that people have said to my family is that our faith has been inspiring. Now, this is incredibly generous of people to say, because none of us is perfect--far from it--but it's nice to know that we're at least at places in our life (and even in his death, for Dad) where we've been able to rest as vessels through whom God can operate. But, then I got to thinking even more, and here's what I have to say: why shouldn't my faith be stronger than ever? People sometimes identify moments of struggle in their life as times when they felt God was distant, and I don't want to disclaim their real emotions or anything, but I might suggest that the experience of a person's death ought to cause us to grow stronger in our faith, and here's why:
In my case, I lost Dad. Now, if you've read my most recent blog, or talked to me, ohhhh, ever, then you know that my dad was, is, and will be my hero. And, since his death, I've only found more support from everyone else that, while imperfect, to be sure, Dad was pretty incredible. Losing him is sad. BUT, losing Dad had zero effect on Jesus' death on the cross, and zero effect on Jesus' resurrection and ascension. So, there's no reason to stop believing in it. In reality, the complete opposite is true: Dad didn't affect Jesus' death, but Jesus, in and through his death and resurrection totally changed the nature of Dad's death. If not for God's sacrifice of his son, Dad's death would be permanent and awful. But, thank God for loving us so much! God SO LOVED the world that he gave his only begotten son, that WHOSOEVER believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life.
Sooo....Dad's good. There's no reason to question that. There's no reason for my faith to be up for debate.
Also, I put "whosoever" in all caps because it's very significant that this invitation is completely open--it's not just perfect people, or learned people, or rich people, or 'deserving' people for whom eternal life is an option--in fact, for those folks--if they think they're somehow responsible for the entirety of their success and/or good fortune--have some work to do...but, God makes sure that we know that we're ALL invited to be a part of this eternal life business--and, that that's true NOW, not just after we've become a "good person" or after we've done all of the good deeds that we can think of. Perfection is not required--trust and humility, on the other hand, are.
Now, I want to back up for a minute, because I don't want to sound as if all death should be easy or whatever. I think it is a perfectly normal, healthy, good, reasonable thing to mourn. I think that we can honestly say to God, "Hey, I really don't understand why _____ had to die right now. Seriously...."
Especially when untimely deaths are concerned, the ability to understand is pretty much nonexistent.
Um, if you go back and read about what Jesus was doing just before his arrest, you'll see that he was pleading with God that his "cup be taken away". He was saying, "Look, if there's any other way...and I mean any other way that everything can be done, can we do that? PUH-LEASE?!?" But, then, without missing a beat, Jesus continues with this: "BUT...If you CAN'T change things up, and if I HAVE to be arrested, tortured, crucified, and the whole kit and kaboodle, then so be it. It's about what you want, and I'll do whatever that is."
And THAT is where having faith comes in. It's not about understanding. It's not about mourning. It's about knowing that, if God wanted to do things differently to accomplish at least as much for His kingdom, that he would and that,when things don't go as we hope, that we can be confident that God still can and will use them for the good of all those who love him.
Booyah.
12.08.2011
12.05.2011
How I Am Doing
So, it's been awhile...according to the calendar, I haven't actually posted a blog since the end of March and now, here we are, in December. But, even beyond that, the things that have happened make even late October seem as if it was eons ago.
November 18, 2011. At the urging of Joe, I decided to head to Ohio to spend some time with my family for the weekend, while kiddo and puppy stayed here with hubby. The goal was to be able to go through things that required limited interruptions in order to be properly managed. None of us expected that this would also be the day that Dad died. But, well, it was. And, I am happy to share all of the details of that experience at some point because, frankly, for being the crappiest, most tragic thing to ever happen in my life, it was a remarkably beautiful event. Also, I'll be spending time writing down all of the things that Andy has asked and/or observed since Dad died, as he has displayed equal parts imagination, wisdom and faith. Three year olds are pretty amazing, to be sure!
However, for today, I will seek to answer, at least summarily, the second most popular question that's asked of me these days: How am I doing. (The most popular question, is, of course, about how Mom is doing).
I have a lot of answers for this question, and I've discovered that they vary in proportion and strength with each passing moment. I'll try to explain some of that now...
1. I feel humbled.
I don't even know how to explain to you the way it felt to see so many people at Dad's funeral. And, even more so, to count the number of people who were there only because they wanted to support me. They didn't know Dad, except through my stories and pictures and whatnot--they know me. I have written thank you notes to all of those people, but I just feel as if my thanks yous aren't enough to convey how touching--and humbling--it was to see thirty-some people show up on my behalf--especially since most of them drove between 2 and 5 hours to be there. Add to that the 30-or-so cards I've received and the countless (over 100) facebook messages, wall posts, etc. that I've received, and the flowers that my Starbucks sent to the funeral just for me and, well, it's just unbelievable. It is so infrequent that I feel speechless, but, truly, I am grateful in a way that exceeds all explanation. So, for all of you who have taken the time to support my family and me, please allow me to express my greatest, most sincere appreciation.
2. I feel peaceful.
I am very fortunate to have had a dad whose faith was so strong that I am fully assured that he's "chattin' it up with Jesus" (as my friend Lisa said) and/or "playing baseball with God" (Andy's guess), or doing whatever it is that amounts to total worship and praise in Heaven. And, I know that Dad's healthy again, and that, in whatever form he exists, he is the most perfect representation of himself that he can be, and that he gets to be that way eternally....and so, I am blessed to experience regular moments of peacefulness--and was most blessed to be completely covered in that sense of peace even in the final moments of Dad's life and in the first moments of his death.
3. I feel sad.
Duh. My dad was so awesome. I miss him all of the time. I've had dreams that include him nearly every night since he died (at least, nearly every night that I've slept). I'm sad that Andy only got three years of life with Dad, and that I only got thirty, and that Mom doesn't get to celebrate her 38th anniversary in May, let alone the 40th, 50th and 60th anniversaries on down the road. I am sad that I can't call Dad whenever I want to, and that he won't be making business trips to my town, thus buying dinner for us and spending the night here. I'm sad that any future family pictures will be without him. I'm sad that he didn't get to go to spy camp, or publish his novels, or paint the masterpieces he'd envisioned, or invent something as lucrative as vel-cro, all of which he'd expressed an interest in at one point or another.
And, the things that really trigger my sadness are all of these little things that just make Dad, Dad. I cried the other day because "Top of the World" by The Carpenters was in my head, which made me think of when we were on a road trip and Dad sang along to that song in the car, and I was shocked to hear that he knew all of it. I will never, ever smell sunblock without thinking of Dad. I won't be able to order hot & sour soup, see anything involving West Virginia, drink egg nog, watch the Weather Channel, watch Jeopardy, read about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, or watch a whole world of movies again without thinking of Dad. Of course, this leads me to my next point:
4. I feel grateful.
I'll say it again: my dad was so awesome. The list of memories that Dad and I share is several miles long. The list of things I learned from Dad is even lengthier, as is the list of things about which Dad made me laugh. Longest of all, though, is the number of times that Dad told me he loved me, that he was proud of me, that I was his "favorite youngest daughter", that God loves me, and that nothing could ever change those things. In the eleven months since Dad was diagnosed with his cancer recurrence, I've heard/read countless stories from other folks whose lives have been changed by Dad--I always knew that Dad was my hero, but it has been absolutely amazing to hear that everyone else viewed him with the same level of regard as me. Most people aren't so fortunate to have a dad like that...let alone being able to say the same things about their husband, son, mom, sister, and other family members, too! And so, I feel grateful.
I know that there are more difficult days to come--I figure that the number of tears is directly proportional to the extent of my love for Dad and, so, it's pretty clear that those tears will be substantial, to say the least. But I also know that Dad is okay, and that, one of these days on down the road, we'll all figure out how to be closer to "okay", too. But for now, I'm content to grieve.
November 18, 2011. At the urging of Joe, I decided to head to Ohio to spend some time with my family for the weekend, while kiddo and puppy stayed here with hubby. The goal was to be able to go through things that required limited interruptions in order to be properly managed. None of us expected that this would also be the day that Dad died. But, well, it was. And, I am happy to share all of the details of that experience at some point because, frankly, for being the crappiest, most tragic thing to ever happen in my life, it was a remarkably beautiful event. Also, I'll be spending time writing down all of the things that Andy has asked and/or observed since Dad died, as he has displayed equal parts imagination, wisdom and faith. Three year olds are pretty amazing, to be sure!
However, for today, I will seek to answer, at least summarily, the second most popular question that's asked of me these days: How am I doing. (The most popular question, is, of course, about how Mom is doing).
I have a lot of answers for this question, and I've discovered that they vary in proportion and strength with each passing moment. I'll try to explain some of that now...
1. I feel humbled.
I don't even know how to explain to you the way it felt to see so many people at Dad's funeral. And, even more so, to count the number of people who were there only because they wanted to support me. They didn't know Dad, except through my stories and pictures and whatnot--they know me. I have written thank you notes to all of those people, but I just feel as if my thanks yous aren't enough to convey how touching--and humbling--it was to see thirty-some people show up on my behalf--especially since most of them drove between 2 and 5 hours to be there. Add to that the 30-or-so cards I've received and the countless (over 100) facebook messages, wall posts, etc. that I've received, and the flowers that my Starbucks sent to the funeral just for me and, well, it's just unbelievable. It is so infrequent that I feel speechless, but, truly, I am grateful in a way that exceeds all explanation. So, for all of you who have taken the time to support my family and me, please allow me to express my greatest, most sincere appreciation.
2. I feel peaceful.
I am very fortunate to have had a dad whose faith was so strong that I am fully assured that he's "chattin' it up with Jesus" (as my friend Lisa said) and/or "playing baseball with God" (Andy's guess), or doing whatever it is that amounts to total worship and praise in Heaven. And, I know that Dad's healthy again, and that, in whatever form he exists, he is the most perfect representation of himself that he can be, and that he gets to be that way eternally....and so, I am blessed to experience regular moments of peacefulness--and was most blessed to be completely covered in that sense of peace even in the final moments of Dad's life and in the first moments of his death.
3. I feel sad.
Duh. My dad was so awesome. I miss him all of the time. I've had dreams that include him nearly every night since he died (at least, nearly every night that I've slept). I'm sad that Andy only got three years of life with Dad, and that I only got thirty, and that Mom doesn't get to celebrate her 38th anniversary in May, let alone the 40th, 50th and 60th anniversaries on down the road. I am sad that I can't call Dad whenever I want to, and that he won't be making business trips to my town, thus buying dinner for us and spending the night here. I'm sad that any future family pictures will be without him. I'm sad that he didn't get to go to spy camp, or publish his novels, or paint the masterpieces he'd envisioned, or invent something as lucrative as vel-cro, all of which he'd expressed an interest in at one point or another.
And, the things that really trigger my sadness are all of these little things that just make Dad, Dad. I cried the other day because "Top of the World" by The Carpenters was in my head, which made me think of when we were on a road trip and Dad sang along to that song in the car, and I was shocked to hear that he knew all of it. I will never, ever smell sunblock without thinking of Dad. I won't be able to order hot & sour soup, see anything involving West Virginia, drink egg nog, watch the Weather Channel, watch Jeopardy, read about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, or watch a whole world of movies again without thinking of Dad. Of course, this leads me to my next point:
4. I feel grateful.
I'll say it again: my dad was so awesome. The list of memories that Dad and I share is several miles long. The list of things I learned from Dad is even lengthier, as is the list of things about which Dad made me laugh. Longest of all, though, is the number of times that Dad told me he loved me, that he was proud of me, that I was his "favorite youngest daughter", that God loves me, and that nothing could ever change those things. In the eleven months since Dad was diagnosed with his cancer recurrence, I've heard/read countless stories from other folks whose lives have been changed by Dad--I always knew that Dad was my hero, but it has been absolutely amazing to hear that everyone else viewed him with the same level of regard as me. Most people aren't so fortunate to have a dad like that...let alone being able to say the same things about their husband, son, mom, sister, and other family members, too! And so, I feel grateful.
I know that there are more difficult days to come--I figure that the number of tears is directly proportional to the extent of my love for Dad and, so, it's pretty clear that those tears will be substantial, to say the least. But I also know that Dad is okay, and that, one of these days on down the road, we'll all figure out how to be closer to "okay", too. But for now, I'm content to grieve.
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