1,825 days

The day is approaching. I sense it in my spirit at various times throughout the day. In the midst of an utterly ordinary task I feel it. A dread in the gut. A wisp of heartache. A swiftness to anger. Life these days has a number of things that might be contributing, but this particular feeling I begin to recognize as the pangs of grief, gripping me like a vice.

The father wound is a big one. It's been 1,825 days since he left but today it may as well be 18. I've come to realize that there is nothing that quite compares to the grief experience. Those of you who have lost a parent immediately understand me. Those that haven't will. It's an inescapable burden, unpredictable in its attack, curbed only by denial or complete and utter surrender.

I'm in a season of need. I ache for Dad often these days, what he might say to encourage me during this time. I long for the gifts he gave so freely: loving care and ever-present confidence (in me); his loving way and heart of kindness; his shining pride and affection. As I persevere amidst adversity I'm reminded of the trials he faced in life, and comforted to recall how he always kept a sense of optimism.

I understand with greater empathy the enormous role of husband and father, provider and protector. I look in the mirror and no longer see me -- but him. His eyes stare back and I'm comforted knowing that I am "of him", and like grief, there is no escaping that he is with me all the days of my life.

So Dad, in your honor, please know that I've never stopped needing you, wishing for you, dreaming of you, watching for you, remembering you, and face the longings knowing one day to be reunited. Thank you for the gift of adoration. I always felt treasured by you. What more could this son ask for?