Am I willing?

The pace of life maintains it's warp speed. Everyone around me seems to pass me by. I'm like the granny in the Buick in the right lane unsure of just what speed I can go. Slow then fast - then stuck. Immobilized. Dad is everywhere sometimes, and then he disappears. I want to cry out to him, "Dad, wait for me, please wait. I see your arms open wide." I think it's the tedious parts of life that have taken on a fresh challenge. I sat down on a recent Saturday afternoon to balance my checkbook, easily one of life's joys. As I reviewed the transactions around the time of Dad's escape, I noticed the ledger was fraught with errors, wrong transaction amounts entered, receipts that had disappeared, just a mess. It took me quite awhile to reconcile, and afterward, I thought to myself, "This is how grief is to me. I want to reconcile it and be done." Oh how i wish.

We all know the saying about time and how it's supposed to heal. I don't buy it. This is why: for my entire life, whenever Dad talked about his Dad, he would cry. Always. Every single time. It was a fresh and painful place for him, even forty years after his dad died. I recall thinking on more than one occasion that he must have really loved his pops, that they must have been close friends. And I'd often wonder, will it be the same for me when he's gone? Will it plague me or will it be a sweet sadness? Sometimes I couldn't tell the difference for him, and so far for me, forty-five days later, I'm engulfed in the pain part of remembering.

All that I'm reading tells me that I need to be willing to grieve, willing to feel it, willing to enter into that place. If I don't, the "experts" say, I will face a deeper pain further down life's road. "Hmmm, interesting," I think. Does it make me more receptive to going to the dark place? Sometimes. Always. Never. Too soon to tell, I suppose. And life goes. I've got to get to the dry cleaners today.

progress?

A sustained mystery to me within this process is how to define progress. Perhaps it's not even necessary, but I seem to be pointed in a preferred direction when I feel like I'm doing "better." Maybe I didn't cry quite as hard today. Or as often. How about this one: I could remember you, Dad, and smile, laugh a little bit, rather than weep. Is that good? Better? Healthier? Not sure why I have this preoccupation with progress regarding the grief-thing, but it does seem to be a persistant desire. And yet, the more I read, the more I study, the more I allow myself to feel, the less I understand, and the less confidence I have that true progress is something that's even attainable. Life moves on, that's a given. Driving to the airport in crazy traffic on a recent morning, I was struck by how many aspects of life expect me to be back in the game so quickly. Can I screw up at work fo awhile because my Dad has been ripped from my life forever? Not likely. Maybe I can just be a rotten, disengaged father for some time. Nope. How about a vaction from husbanding, or being a friend, son (to Mom), or brother? No way. If you saw me as I was boarding that flight, you'd chalk me up as just one more young executive-type with great shoes climbing up the ladder of life. Don't be fooled! On the inside, my heart is crushed, my eyes water oh so often, and my soul aches for the loving and tender grip of my father's hands in mine once again. Look a little more closely next time. I do. I see different things in strangers eyes now. I wonder, and often, I know. They are struggling too. And I'm reminded that I am not alone on this journey, and for a moment, I find comfort in that. But I'll always miss you, Pops. Always.

oh it's hard

This is some tough stuff. My heart has a dull and chronic ache. There are moments, even hours, when I am able to see that I will survive this, even thrive emotionally again someday. Then there are the dark moments, hours, even whole days when I am captured like a prisoner in a cell, gates firmly locked, no key in sight. I was telling a colleague this week how mysterious death is, how it grips and releases then grips again. I wish you were here Dad, sitting here by side, so I could look in your eyes, feel your hands, big and rough as they always were. You'd always hold them, and me, whenever I wanted. As my mind has been returning to moments from years gone by, I recall how treasured, how cherished, you always made me feel. Seemed so ordinary to me as a kid, I never knew anything else, and yet now as a parent myself I see the challenge of delivering unconditionally the way you always did. How you gave - tirelessly - for all the days in my memory. I think often about what you're up to, who you had lunch with today, and what your favorite discovery is so far. Is it the view? Is it the blooms of the trees, brighter than they ever were here on earth? Perhaps it's the smile on Jesus' face that greets you warmly each and every morning. Maybe it's getting to throw the unsnagged line into the pristine beauty of a mountain lake with your dad by your side. Are you talking about the years he missed? What's it like to catch that many big fish? How is Gram? Bet she was thrilled to wrap her arms around her precious son again. Do you remember what it is I hope to hear when I arrive? "Scott, your mother and father are waiting for you." I can not wait.

Sunshine

Every morning when I wake up I'm eager to see if the sun is shining. It almost serves as a barometer for how I'm going to experience my grief for the day. I feel more hopeful, brighter, even brave when the sun is out. Bring clouds or rain, and oh boy am I troubled. I often feel like a little child, trying to find my way in this unfamiliar world of heartache. Perhaps the most unusual aspect of this experience is that my will, my actions, can have no impact upon the outcome. I can not bring Dad back. Unlike a difficult marriage, (let's get counseling or go on a vacation) weight gain, (I must get to the gym and stop with the bread!) a dead-end job (better call a recruiter), or virtually anything else in life, death locks you out. Suffering is my only option. Ugh. My relief is primarily through distraction, solitude, or knowing that one day, I will feel Dad's hugs again when I arrive in heaven. I know it, and there IS some comfort in that, but it's not sufficient. Psalm 69:1 says it best for me right now: "Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck." That sound you hear is me grasping for air.

too much too soon

It was the day that I'd always new would come, and somehow could never quite prepare for. I can recall imagining this phone call's reality for years prior - even when I was a kid and Dad was struggling through a fresh heart or other ailment. He could seem so frail when ill - and yet the epitome of strength when well. Strange how that could be. Dad died on December 15th at 5:03 p.m. with his beloved family surrounding his bed. (Perhaps nine of us?) I was hoping for a Spielberg-like viewing of his soul passing before our crying eyes as he transitioned from one dimension to another - but there was none. Instead, there was Dad, seemingly asleep, full of color and hair combed just right, albeit in the ICU unit of a top neuro unit. How could it have come to this? How could my precious, all-powerful, loving Dad now be dying, and dead? I still had so much to tell him, so many things, so many plans yet to make. So many more memories to create. This sucks, I thought to myself. A new day begins - me - without a father. Can I make it? The journey starts now.