remembering.

I've tried many times to adequately write the words that have been on my heart, but I always came up so very short.

How do you nip, tuck, and bundle grief into a tidy little blog post? You can't.

It's been over four months since I sat beside my dad and watched him take his last breath.

Four months since he wrapped his arms around my neck from his hospital bed, kissed me on the cheek, and said "I love you."

It has become easier to look back fondly and not be overcome with tears.

It has become marginally easier to use past tense when talking about him.

It has become much easier to celebrate him rather than simply wallow in grief.

Then again, there are still the moments that blindside you and quite literally take your breath away.

I want to tell you everything about him. His upbringing, his favorites, his philosophies, and his pet peeves. His childhood. The way he was as a father and the ways in which I could make him crazy. How he loved, how he fought. But I couldn’t possibly summarize his life to do it a semblance of justice, so I won’t. 

I will say this: he was rebellion, he was sensitivity, he was mercy, he was humor. He was intelligence, and temper, and warmth. He had a gleam in his eye and an infectious grin. He didn’t always toe the line, and he liked to flirt with trouble in his earlier years. But as a fellow churchgoer leaned in and whispered to him in his last days, “You are the reason my sons were saved,” he had also proven to be great encouragement and love. 

 

While I can't physically wrap my arms around him or hear him say, "I love you, Jen", these memories are balm for a tender, downcast heart.

I'll always remember the way he faithfully stirred his soon-to-be fudge at Christmastime while mom and I decorated the tree. I can still smell it as if it were yesterday.

I'll always remember the way he gently encouraged me to knock on the neighbor's door when I ran into his truck while learning to ride my bike.

I'll always remember the way his workshop smelled of sawdust and fresh lumber.

I'll always remember the view from atop his shoulders, where he would hoist me to walk home after dark or to have a better vantage point.

I'll always feel his arm, linked with mine, as he walked me toward my future husband. 

I'll always remember the way he clung to his faith as he fought the monster named cancer.

I'll always see his wave and smile he gave me as I went home to shower and gather my things once he had been settled into hospice. It was the last time I saw my dad awake.

The void his absence has left is vast. While as Christians we rejoice upon the welcoming of those we love into God’s heavenly kingdom, on the hard days, selfishness wins over the triumph.

I simply want to talk to my dad again.

The wound of loss is no longer raw, but there will be scar tissue for a lifetime. Some days will be filled with comfort upon remembrance, while others will be consumed by grief and the shadow it casts over all that is good.

The anticipation of Christmas coming near fills me with both hope and dread.

The thought of visiting family with the overwhelming tension of his absence is enough to make my stomach churn.

My first Christmas without his bear hug to welcome me. 

My first Christmas without him asking for homemade sugar cookies as his sole present. 

My first Christmas that will be tinged with sadness and longing.

And while his seat in the living room and at the table will be empty this Christmas, he left behind a lifetime of warmth, love, passion, and humor, that makes him so worth missing.