I don’t remember hearing the phone ring. But I did hear my husband slam the phone down.
Then after some confusion, I made a phone call. Just pushing numbers. Then ringing. I don’t remember speaking.
Then, I’m standing in my closet. Trying to decide what to wear. This shirt is too big. This one needs to be ironed. This one has paint on it.
I’m sure the girls were crying. I’m sure I mothered them in some way. And obviously time passed.
Because my in-laws arrived from twenty minutes away. And then they disappeared with the girls.
I don’t remember what I chose to wear. Which is curious, because it seemed I stood in that closet for an hour trying to make the right decision. Trying to focus. Trying to force my brain to stop repeating the question, “my father is dead?”
Because here’s how grief worked for me: Shock and function attempted to inhabit my brain at the same time. My need for death to be a lie, my need to maintain control, my need to do this part right for my kids, and mom, and even do it right for Dad all sat in my thoughts together accomplishing nothing.
making no progress. And I’m sure I cried. But I can’t remember the tears.
In the next scene, I’m pouring wine into a travel mug and driving to my parent’s home.
And then we were there. My husband and me. And a scene on the lawn- surreal.
Cut grass. EMT. Covered body. Manicured flower beds. And I wonder if I can see him.
If I smell like wine. If Mom has wine. And I’m ushered inside. Not allowed off the front walk.
And then time both slipped by and stopped.
We were the first phone call. But we seemed to be the last to arrive. The house seemed full.
The evening sun lingered and then suddenly disappeared, and hours had vanished.
I worked the room grieving and greeting simultaneously.
Trying to swallow reality of the moment while attempting to make sure each person felt appreciated, to ensure they knew their value as they arrived to show support. To shake hands and embrace and smile lovingly as each guest attempted to swallow their own bitter bite of sad shock.
And sweet church ladies set the table with coffee and treats. And I remember thinking the spiritual gift of hospitality must be some kind of super power. Do they just have paper goods and cookies on stand-by? Sugar cookies for death? Chocolate chip for celebration? Peanut butter for something in between?
I said churchy things each time I shook a hand. Thankful God gave us the time we had with Dad. Thankful God allowed Dad to serve. Thankful Dad shot a great golf game earlier in the day. In the 80’s, I think? I’m not sure. And the dear man who told me Dad’s score has long since passed as well. There will be no fact checking this post.
In my head I screamed at God, “What the hell? How dare you! I’m not done with him here!”
And all the time more hands, hugs, and spoken words. Thankful for your friendship. Thank you for being here for Mom. Thank you for knowing what cookies to bring. Has anyone seen my travel mug?
That horrible night always floats to the surface of my mind this time of year. A therapist might say I’m not letting go. But honestly, I’m not dwelling or wailing or wasting time in a wallow. I just believe some moments – even well-adjusted moments- leave a forever time stamp on our calendars.
The night of my dad’s death remains a dreamlike memory holding both sadness and hope. While Grief worked hard to assert himself a tyrant that night, Love filled the room. Where darkness intended to root and take over, the goodness of God and His people held me tight and refused to be banished. I was not only comforted by close friends. I reconnected with many others. And without knowing it at the time, I met people that night who would walk with me even through darker days in the coming years.
The most important thing I’ve learned from death is the truth that God wastes nothing.
I believe God works all things for good according to His plan and purpose. Yes, people we love die and that sucks and hurts and leaves shadows over the empty places at family dinners, celebrations, and comfy chairs. But our creator refuses to leave us sitting in those shadows alone.
He offers Jesus. Hope. And something more than loss.
While He isn’t available in the physical world to fill in for my father doing father things – carving turkeys, giving hugs, fixing faucets, or drying tears, God has never left my side. Some of the struggles I’ve been through, would have broken my dad’s heart, possibly even driven a wedge in our relationship. Heaven knows, my circumstances haven’t been easy and not all my choices have been good. But God stood close and leaned in when I needed a father’s advice and love.
He reminded me of Jesus. His son. His loss. And His love.
God used a heartbreaking moment to get my attention and renew my focus.
And then, He used the years after a horrible night to straighten out my priorities and teach me about love, grace, and transparency. Almost none of it has been easy. He just doesn’t work that way.
But there has been comfort in the valley of the shadow.
So maybe one day, this time of year will drift by my thoughts and I won’t feel compelled to write about my dad, or my grief, or what God has done with it along my journey.
But I absolutely hope not.
Because the Lord took a life-changing moment – and then used it to truly change my life.
I keep writing about the dark, hard parts because I know someone will read, hear and understand my story.
But above all, I want people to read, hear and understand that because of Jesus and God’s great love– my story doesn’t end in the dark – and yours doesn’t have to either.
It can be the beginning of something beautiful.