anniversaries

This morning

A friend from high school now leads a Lutheran congregation in Alaska. She posted this poem on her Facebook yesterday.

The pains of the world:
There are many.
The joys of the world:
There are a multitude.
To hold one while avoiding the other:
A human struggle of distraction.
Both are vital.
Give both the attention they request.
Your soul demands tending of both.

This is what I’ve been doing. Tending both.

Today, it has been three years since I was introduced to sorrow so deep. Three years since he died. Man, it still sucks typing those words.

In the last 365 days I’ve been flirting with joy, allowing it to tickle my toes and tempt my heart as we begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, we’ll get used to this pain.

This morning I will write a letter to my father and I may weep. I’ll head to work and have my people on speed dial should panic attacks decide to knock on my office door.

I’ll breath deeply and drink Pike’s Place coffee and mostly, this morning, I’ll remember. The sparkle in his eyes. The badly dancing hips, the sound of his laugh. The way he would get out of bed on Saturday mornings when I was in high school, making room for me to chill with my mom. I’ll remember waffles, his Einstein hair, plaid pajamas and encouraging texts and bad jokes from yahoo. I’ll remember how it got worse before it got better and how far we have come. And I’ll listen to this song by JJ Heller on repeat.

Thank you to all who have walked with us this far.

Dad, we miss you.


I see the tears sitting on your cheeks
I know you’re tired, fall now to sleep
Stop fighting so hard, it’s time to surrender
Raise your white flag and always remember
Your heart will feel lighter
Everything will be brighter
Find peace in knowing
That all will be well in the morning
In the morning
All will be well
All will be well in the morning
It’s been a long day, and you did your best
Let go of the past, it’s time now to rest
The weight of the world is getting too heavy
Give it to Jesus, His arms are steady
And your heart will feel lighter
Everything will be brighter
Find peace in knowing
That all will be well in the morning
In the morning
All will be well
All will be well in the morning
Close your lovely eyes
Can you feel the sunrise
Your heart will feel lighter
Everything will be brighter
Find peace in knowing
That all will be well
And your heart will feel lighter
Everything will be brighter
Find peace in knowing
That all will be well in the morning
In the morning
All will be well
All will be well in the morning
In the morning
All will be well
All will be well in the morning

 

Growing Joy

It has been a few weeks. I haven’t been writing.  The end of May is approaching and I’ve been swirling between the weekly grind, remembering birthdays, softball games, late night dinners, and ukulele lessons. We are filling up our days and nights. When I lift my head I inhale a smile and think, “We did it. We are living again.”

This weekend we focused on our backyard. The sunshines strong rays threatened my sensitive skin and ants bit my legs. From under our deck we dragged outdoor furniture into the light. Didn’t we just put this stuff away? How did six months of hibernation pass so quickly?

Filthy, mucky water sat stinking and stagnant, pooling on the tarp covering my two-seater lounge chair.  While meant to protect our seasonal seats, the synthetic material wasn’t able to do its job. Instead the water soaked through, warping wood, causing paint to fleck, and chip. The original surface exposed.

Got out the hose. Found a sponge and some soap and changed my shoes to sandals.  Washed off the muck. More paint chips fell to the lawn growing at my feet. Clean water kissed my toes.

Our attention shifted towards our garden plot, four bags of dirt anxiously waiting for something to grow on its center. Poured fertilizer, placed water lines, tucked seeds in rows with potential one inch under the ground. Sweat poured off our faces and into the dirt. We rubbed each other’s backs and sat down to rest. Grass tickled my legs and held me close – grounded me as my skin graced the Earth.

She whispered, “See, I’ve got you. Look how far you’ve come”

Two years ago, the summer after Dad died, we would go to my mom’s house and sit in her backyard. We’d lay in the grass and feel Mother Earth, and squint as the sun glinted off our tears mingling with dirt on our cheeks. Many, many days laying in grass because nothing else seemed manageable.

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I can’t believe how far we’ve come.

Dad’s 61st birthday was two weeks ago.  It felt awful and funny and sad. I posted this on Instagram.

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This birthday felt like under the surface, seeds planted long ago were growing.

Seeds of joy. God planted them in our darkness – tiny little buttons composed of Dad’s memories and life and love for us – organic materials.

They told me this would happen.

That grief would soften to joy.

I didn’t believe them.

Yet, if someone told me flowers were growing under all that dirt in my back yard and I’d never seen blossoms before, I probably wouldn’t believe them either.

It’s true.

Under all that dirt. Washing off muck, and flecks of paint that cover the pain, we are still here. Our original selves.

Without him.

Growing joy.

A beautiful thing.

 

 

 

Floral Arrangements

When we were planning my dad’s funeral, I remember my mom being so concerned that there would be no flowers at the service. She made my aunt go pick out a few nice arrangements at the local florist. It was a taxing decision at the end of a long list of taxing decisions. Some greenery, a bushel of something or other to go inside of his fishing creel. She slept only a little bit better knowing that my dad’s alter…. is that what you call it? Ugh. The table with all of the things to remember him by. That table. It would be decorated with a few things fresh and beautiful.

Yet….. When someone dies people show up and send flowers. Lots of flowers. Beautiful, big displays of color and fabulous scent.

My dad died the week before Easter and every room in my mom’s house was filled with the smell of Easter lilies. My aunt bought us trees. Actually, several people sent us trees. Things to stick into the earth to remember him by. People want to give life when a life comes to an end.

 

These floral arrangements, while lovely, also start to grow stale in old water. The blooms start wilting, petals turn brown and scum coats fancy vases no matter the shape or the size. You have to disassemble them. I think it’s kinda morose to give someone who just lost a loved one a mixture of things that are going to, in a few weeks time, wither and die.

I remember taking this photo and naming it Grief Disassembled. At this point, the family had left, the casseroles stopped showing up on our door steps, and it was me, my mom, and my brother disassembling numerous arrangements. Combing through branches and thorns and dried leaves to see which lilies would last another week or two.

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And then we took the remaining roses, daisies, marigolds, greens, and hung them on the stairs to dry. Reminders of the extension of love and support that came to us in the middle of March during the worst month of my life.

Reminders that even though things die, we can keep, treasure, and handle with care the essence of intentions that radiate love.

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Just a few weeks ago, my mom took these arrangements down.

We reached the first anniversary with tears and cheeseburgers and a trip to the bakery.

I wrote him a letter – three pages long.

Lots of you reached out with texts and cards and phone calls. I am so pleased to know that my dad touched your lives too. Sometimes I forget his reach was so broad, so big, so full of inquiry into who YOU are because my own loss of him lives with me in my heart pocket each day. To those of you who felt his void, I’m sorry you had to lose him too.

I was most touched, however, by the simple gesture that someone (two someones in fact) chose once again to send me flowers.

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I received this bouquet last week and spent a few days pondering what this little arrangement symbolizes for me. A remembrance of a man so spectacular yes, but also the beauty of surviving our first year without him. Of turning our heads to the light. Of reclaiming the scent of the Easter lily. Of looking for fresh beauty, fresh extensions of love, new beginnings.

This arrangement will die too. But disassembling these blooms won’t be nearly as painful. Healing can be found in the most wondrous of places. Today, I see the glimmer of hope bounce among the stems, reaching up in the unfolding tulip petals, dancing on babies breath.

And all that was given to me in the delivery of flowers, a beautiful thing.