There are more sunbeams breaking through the dark storm clouds now, and there are more days when I think of Dad and smile while keeping the sadness at bay. But I can say with confidence there is no magic in five years of learning to cope without my dad. My therapy is the same- the blank screen and my fingers pounding the keyboard. The words tumble out with the tears.
I silently scold myself sometimes for the surge of grief on the milestone dates. Five years today. The circumstances of today are not different than every day for the last five years, but there is something about the anniversary that forces you to remember- the phone call, the shock, the details of the day.
The week after Dad died, I asked my friend Cabell whose husband Mike went to be with Jesus several years before— “Will it always feel like this?” I was sitting at our dining room table, the one where we ate countless meals together and laughed a thousand times, and I wanted so badly to know that I wouldn’t always feel such intense heartache and piercing pain. My eyes, swollen and fountains of tears, were blinded beneath the curtain of grief.
Cabell’s answer stuck with me and as the years go on, her wisdom abides like balm in the deep crevices of my healing heart. She said grief will always be with me but it won’t always be so crushing. Right at first, grief is this huge boulder that presses on your chest and makes you feel like you can’t breathe. It is so cumbersome and heavy that you feel like you can’t carry it. The boulder is so consuming it is all you think about.
After a while, the boulder becomes a big rock that still takes such effort and pain to carry, but you can begin to move through life while you tote it around. It is still obvious to others you are carrying it, but it starts to feel manageable.
Then finally, grief is like a pebble in your pocket. It may not be so obvious to others, but it is always with you. You constantly carry it and are aware of its presence, but you can breathe and start to live life.
Five years ago, I was crushed under the weight of the boulder. Today, I have a large pebble in my pocket.
Five years ago, grief was absence. The absence of the hugs, the laughter, the love, the long walks, the rides in the truck through golden pasture, the absence of baseball on the TV, the vase of roses in the kitchen, and the missing notes of encouragement.
Somewhere along the way, grief becomes presence. The presence of memories that I took for granted before, the presence of love from friends and family, the presence of the pebble always in my pocket. The presence of his absence.
There are still many moments that pierce me straight through- like when my daughter takes the softball pitching mound for the first time, when my youngest cries because she doesn’t remember him, the anniversary of his death, his birthday, Christmas, well, every holiday really.
But five years later, my same tear-filled eyes see more clearly through the grief. I see God’s goodness in the presence of hope in my life. Not the kind that says in five years, I will feel better. Not the Americanized version that thinks, “I hope he can see my kids grow up.”
It is the intangible kind of hope grounded in faith that the Scriptures talk about. The kind that says God will wipe every tear from every eye and death will be no more.
Hope is the cry of the Christian heart.
Hope is the reason the angels proclaimed good tidings of great joy for all people. Not only because the Savior would be born, but because He would die and then raise from the dead. He would conquer death for all of us who place our faith in Jesus for our salvation. Without the hope of Christ, I would still be suffocating under the weight of the boulder.
Charles Spurgeon once said, “I have learned to kiss the waves that throw me up against the Rock of Ages.” Learning it is the key, and it doesn’t happen overnight, or even after five years.
The white caps in my life have felt unmercifully unrelenting at times in the last six plus years. The waves have pummeled me, crushed me even, but God has lifted my face to the hope of the Resurrection, that on the last day, we will be with Him. Heaven is so much sweeter to me now, partly because my dad is there, and mostly because God is there.
I love God so much more than I did before. I kiss the waves.
Five years later, I am no less sad about my dad dying. But I can tell you that Jesus is bigger, His grace grander, His mercy sweeter, His sacrifice more beautiful to me. And I can tell you that it is all true. Every letter of the promises of God in His Word are true- they speak to His goodness, His love, His abiding presence, His tender care for those who love Him and who are suffering.
He is my Rock- the same one I was bruised against and the very same solid Rock I stand on now.
Five years sad. Ten years sad. Lord willing, fifty more years sad. I am somehow learning to be content with the sad knowing that Christ has made me eternally glad. Christ suffered and died so I can have everlasting joy. Not a bad trade.
Thank you God for your mercy in my life, for your mercy toward my dad. Thank you for taking Dad home to be with you forever. Thank you for making a way for me to see him again. Thank you for not leaving us here in our grief- that you Yourself are well-acquainted with grief and sorrow. Thank you for suffering more than any person has ever suffered because you love us and desire for us to be with you. Thanks for someday turning all our mourning into dancing.
I’m so looking forward to that day- because my dad sure could dance!
And thanks to you reader- for your love and care for me and for my family over these five years sad. You have in many ways been the hands and feet of Jesus to us. We will never forget it.
