Grief Part 2: Sludge and Grace

 

     Grief is a permanent tattoo I didn’t choose. Like Florida muck fires in summer, the flames of grief aren’t always seen, but the stench and smoke from the underground compost burning is ever present.

     Muck fires are ignited by lightning strikes. The powerful force of nature reaches depths instantaneously. My grief, like the muck, ignited when my dad died. It still smolders as I navigate life without his voice and his tangible love.

     Nothing feels right. Not work. Not workouts. Not special moments. My feet feel weighted in the sludge. Grief has left me exposed like freshly pruned crepe myrtle trees when all I want is to be shielded by a thicket of intertwined vines.

     I cry when the tears come to own my grief. The tears are a balm that soothe the ache.

     I listen when people try to comfort me and comment, “He died well.” “Wasn’t it great that we all got to say goodbye?” “Weren’t you lucky to have such a great relationship with your dad?” “You were blessed to have time with him at the end.” Even when the words aren’t exactly what I need to hear, I know people say them with the best of intentions. 

    But he’s still dead. All the lovely sentiments won’t bring him back or soothe the ache in my heart.

     Nonetheless, the grace in their words is not lost on me. It’s their way of letting me know that one day I will breathe again. That God still sees me and holds me even when I can’t see or feel him. That one day a heavy rain will finally put out the muck fire of my grief.

     God made me to be resilient. God gives me grace to keep walking in the sludge. No one has found the perfect remedy to unlock what is next, but I know there is a next. I can feel it and there are hints that I may even want it.

    The path of grief is the only way to get there. So I’ll put on my wellies and keep walking one day at a time until God lights up my next path.

Life’s a journey. Pay Attention.

Grief Part 1: Smash and Grab

      They took my journal. They took my healthy snacks. They took my phone. All while I worked out at 6:45 a.m. I have so many questions: Did they think my lunch bag was a purse? Did they use that safety tool from ‘As Seen on TV’ to break my window? Why was my car targeted?  

     I’m still finding tiny cubes of broken glass in the car. The police officer used his special gloves and brush to kindly wipe off the seat for me, and a car wash vacuum sucked most of the remaining bits away, but as I find remnants of glass I’m reminded of what the thieves stole from me.

 

     The smash and grab happened just three weeks after purchasing that car and a mere month after my father’s death. The timing of this unexpected invasion further disrupted my already fragile sense of security.

 

     Flash back to a Friday afternoon last November when my brother the doctor texted me,  “I need to talk to you.” I called him from the parking lot of my apartment complex. I heard the words so many others hear about their loved ones – the cancer had metastasized to the lungs. Barring a miracle, our dad was dying.

 

     I couldn’t breathe as I made my way to my apartment door. Once inside, the tears came hard and fast. I crumpled into my bed, doubled over as months of worry escaped in guttural cries and tears.

 

     Over the next four months, I swallowed my tears and navigated trips from South Carolina to Missouri to Tennessee and back. To help my mom and dad, yes, but mostly to stay busy and try to soothe the ache of losing him.

 

     This time it was a different thief shaking my foundation. Cancer smashed the glass of my secure world leaving little shards of grief everywhere I turned. They prick me at the oddest times. One shard exposes anger and another tears. Most leave me sitting in thick clouds of sadness. 

 

     The journal that chronicled my devastating loss was in the lunch bag stolen from my car. I hadn’t even had time to process cancer’s own smash and grab before a similar invasion took place in the gym’s parking lot.

 

     I grieve the immense loss of my dad. As a writer, I also grieve the loss of the journal that helped me through his death. It helps to know that grief is universal. Not one of us is immune to loss. I hold on to that. 

 

Life’s a journey. Pay attention.   

 

 

 

 

Dixie Cups and Slider Buns

      I don’t want my daddy to die. The two tracks we chose to believe after his cancer diagnosis were the miracle track and the reality track.

     Reality is winning.

     The only man I ever let call me darling is leaving. I check my phone every morning to see if the scripture he sends out to his kids and grandkids is there. When I see it pop up on the screen, it says that I have one more day. Lately he chooses the Psalms for comfort or New Testament calls to be strong in the Lord. You might think that it’s for him, but it’s for us, the readers, who send our little heart and thumbs up emojis to let him know we see him and his love for us.

     He is always, always, always bringing us back to Jesus.

     A month ago, he started giving blessings to his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Many of them drove a long way to come and receive words from our patriarch. When unable to make it in person, they listened over the phone or on FaceTime.

     

     One Sunday in January, a large group of us gathered around his hospital bed in the middle of the living room as he spoke words of encouragement. My mom filled Dixie Cups with grape juice and my brother Jay broke slider buns into bite-sized pieces for this beautiful Christian ceremony that asks us to remember Jesus.

     He led us through a tearful Communion and then we sang together.

     “Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within me bless His holy name.”

     Then he prayed:

     “Father, thank you for my family, thank you for the legacy. Thank you that they will continue to honor You and love You. I praise you in Jesus name. Amen.”

     I don’t want my daddy to die, but by pouring into all of us here, at the end, he is reminding us all to live in the legacy he has created, one that always chooses to pour into others the love that Jesus has given to us.

     Life's a journey. Pay attention. 

Photo credits to my nieces Laura Fischer and Amanda Colle.