A Grieving Heart

February 1, 2023

If someone had asked me prior to my dad's passing what the hardest thing I've ever done was, I'd easily say either parenting or perhaps marriage—depending on how the week was going. But losing my dad is by far the most excruciating and confusing experience I've ever walked through.

It doesn't feel real. How could this be? My head and my heart are not aligned. While I know in my head that he's gone, my heart plays tricks on me, giving me false hope that surely his name will illuminate my phone with a text or a call.

Time Stands Still

But perhaps the logical side of me knows how utterly impossible that is. So instead, I live in fear of time moving forward from this very moment. The thing that has surprised me the most about grief is this feeling that I desperately want time to stop.

I don't want the intensity of what I'm feeling to fade; I fear that when the intensity of my grief lessens, so will my memory of him. When the meals stop coming, when people stop offering their condolences, and when thoughts of him occupy less space in my mind—how can that possibly be any better than what I'm feeling in this moment?

Parenting Through Grief

Harder still is the reality that my kids still need to be taken care of. Their needs do not lessen as a result of my grieving. In fact, my prayer most mornings is that the Lord would help me not to resent my children and their inability to comprehend loss of this magnitude—and yet… thank the Lord they do not fully understand this sort of pain.

There are moments when taking care of my children is the soothing balm that distracts my thoughts away from the ache in my chest… and then seconds later my relief turns to guilt for finding comfort in not thinking about the gaping hole in my heart.

The Unexpected

Another difficult aspect is that his passing feels so unexpected. He underwent surgery a month prior to his death, and we were so focused on getting through the surgery itself that we never imagined it would be the recovery that would ultimately take his life.

While recovery hadn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination, it did seem like he was through the worst of it. Some days the Lord gives me the willpower to choose not to dwell on all of the "what ifs" that embitter my soul, and other days my flesh craves the bitterness that looks like self-pity.

A Father's Love

There's no doubt about how much my dad loved me and our family. He was not afraid to express his love, be it in word, touch, or even rebuke. He had a very difficult childhood, yet he didn't allow his circumstances to define his life. He chose to believe in God's plan for his life. Not only did he believe—he literally shouted his faith from the mountaintops on airwaves across the country.

Most moments it feels impossible to reconcile the dichotomy of grief and hope. Yet there is much solace in choosing to believe.

"For in grief nothing 'stays put.' One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it? How often—will it be for always?—how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, 'I never realized my loss till this moment'? The same leg is cut off time after time." — C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

February 4, 2023

My two older boys had their first soccer game of the spring season this morning. I went. Being there was overwhelming—watching people laugh, cheer, and live life without the slightest clue of the suffering going on in my heart.

I felt angry. How can life outside feel so normal? Don't they know? Certainly there's been a mistake, and he should be here watching his grandchildren play their first game. How many more moments will there be like this? How many more firsts will come where his absence fills my heart with an overwhelming sense of grief?

February 8, 2023

This week has been the hardest. Maybe because it's felt almost "normal" between parenting, homeschooling, and the myriad of activities those two hats include, I'm feeling like there simply isn't ample time or space to grieve.

It's such a confusing feeling—vacillating between complete despair and incomprehensible hope. I have to believe heaven is real, because if not, then what? Hopelessness.

There are small moments of peace in knowing he loved the Lord. But even so, today I just miss my dad.

I miss his laugh, his encouragement, his conviction. Most of all, I miss his presence. I miss how much he treasured my children. I miss his loud clap that accompanied his boisterous laugh. I miss the way his beard prickled my head when he kissed the top of it. I miss his sense of humor and his love of sports. I miss his daily plodding and choosing faith over fear—even though he wasn't perfect and his life wasn't always easy.

Being left behind is hard. The unknown is hard. Death is hard.

Life-Defining Questions

Experiencing this sort of loss makes me wonder how it's possible to go about our daily lives without ever giving something as imminent as death a second thought. No experience has given me as much pause to consider questions like:

What do I believe about life and death?
Do I really believe the truths I've studied in my Bible?
How can I go on knowing more loss is an inevitable part of life on this side of heaven?
How do I grieve while taking care of my family?

I don't know the answers to all of the questions that flood my mind.

But I do know that this is a defining moment in my life—a season by which all other seasons will be labeled as either "before" or "after," and a season in which each day brings a fair amount of unpredictability. Some days I wake up with an unshakable dark cloud looming over my soul. Other days I wake up feeling good enough to do some laundry and get some school done.

One day at a time.

February 17, 2023

Today is my daughter's 4th birthday—the first of many "firsts" without my dad. I honestly didn't expect it to be so hard. While sitting outside, sobbing, I noticed blossoms on the trees. Spring is coming. The promise of new life as the seasons change—a reminder that time goes on.

My oldest son came up to me and gently rested his arm on my shoulder. After a moment he said, "It's okay, Mom. I know you're sad. But you don't have to be. You will see Opa again."

The human heart is a conundrum of feelings—sweet and sad mixed together, inseparable.

March 8, 2023

Today would have been my dad's 66th birthday. I'm grateful for the time we had. I'm grateful for the memories. I'm grateful for the hope of seeing him again.

Until then, I will keep choosing faith.