On Sunday, it will have been three years. For anyone that's counting, that's 1,068 days. Or 25,632 hours. Or even 1,537,920 minutes. Heck, let's even say it will have been 92,275,200 seconds.
It was three years ago that I tried to call my dad and got an operator because his phone was disconnected.
Three years ago that my older younger sister, Scarlett, randomly asked me, "Do you think Dad is dead?"
It was three years ago that I witnessed the most horrific scene of my life as my grandparents delivered the news.
One thousand, sixty-eight days ago on Sunday, my dad passed away.
Since that day, I've learned a lot from my dad. More than I ever did while he was alive.
As I was asked to speak at his funeral, along with my beautiful sisters, I was forced to think about him. To wrestle with the reality of his sudden departure. To contend with the fact that I had just made a pact with God to reestablish my relationship with my dad.
When his funeral came, I spoke without notes. Why would I need notes to talk about my father? I spoke of his passion. I quipped about the fact that I wouldn't just get a tattoo in his memory and move on. I exhorted those present to not let that day go to waste - to remember my dad through the way they live. To live with passion, as he did.
Now before you get the wrong idea, my dad was no saint. He was a messed up guy. I'm not one to idealize a dead guy, so I want you to know that now. He drank mightily. We still find bottles around my mom's house from him - and he didn't even live there. He was passionate, but boy howdy did he do some stupid stuff.
On Sunday it will have been three years. And clearly, I'm not over this. I am not "over" the death of my dad, and I am okay with that. I don't want to be. Mourning is a process, and maybe it's one that never ends. Maybe it's not as cut and dry as we want it to be. Maybe, just maybe, grieving has no end, as hopeless as that sounds. And that's okay.
Again, though, I may be misleading you. For I do not grieve as one without hope. Instead, I mourn my dad's death as a part of the brokenness of this world. There are so many injustices, so much pain. And my dad's death is among that hurt.
For now, then, all I can do is heal. Myself. Others. This world. I cannot be reunited with my dad for now (and will I ever? I don't know), but I can share his passion with the world around me. And I can remember him. I can mourn my loss. I can yearn to visit his grave site, if only to get a glimpse of his face on that marker that designates his place of burial.
I'm not over his death. Quite possibly, I never will be. And that's alright. And no, I won't "get past it" or "get over it" someday. I never want to be over it because I want to remember. I want to remember how precious each day is and remember how passionately I'm called to live.
For my dad.
For the people I love.
For my God, who is healing me, and will be until the day I pass on to a place I call home.
Have you experienced anything like this in your own life? Death is a tender subject, so please share with discretion - pain is as personal as you want it to be.
I'd love to hear from you about this (or anything else)! Leave a comment or shoot me an e-mail!
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