Saturday was Dad's birthday. The girls and I made a stepping stone to put over his urn, which we buried.
Last night, feeling like it was so nice to have a place to go 'see' my dad, I went out to the "tomb step" to tell him how much I missed him. As I sat there, thinking how ridiculous it was that I just wanted to tell an ash heap how much I missed it, my eyes rested on what was in front of them and I realized that I was completely encircled by what remained of his stuff. To my right sat his big, blue Suburban, in front of me some of his tools and a pile of tires he found on craigslist for 'too good of a deal to pass up', and to my left, the now infamous shed and a bunch of tin he found for free. I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that we had stuffed all his things into this corner of the property, which, for the most part, was out of sight and out of mind. As I did a mental check of the rest of the property, I affirmed that, yes, for the most part, this is where it had all be moved. But in this moment, sitting in this tiny corner, I was completely surrounded by things that had belonged to him, and I felt better. Strange, I know.
The teacher in me couldn't help but make the parallel to our hearts and wonder if we haven't done the same with our memories of him. Had we shoved him into a corner so we didn't' have to face the fact that he is gone? I hope not, but honestly, I'm not sure. So why was I here? Why had I wanted to come out here for three days straight? I couldn't understand my draw to such a painful place, but the answer is simple: in spite of the pain, I want to remember him. I don't want him to disappear from my property and my heart, even as I see him slowly disappearing from my daily thoughts. I had a good dad…a good dad. How many people can really say that these days? He loved me. He was proud of me. He led by example.
As my eye scanned the scene before me, it hit me: He LOVED this place! I mean, really loved this place! He would gush about it every chance he got. How sad he can't live here. With a swell of fresh crying anger, I screamed at God, "Wait! We didn't buy this place to bury my dad on it! We bought this place so he could LIVE on it! This is all so wrong! So wrong! He was supposed to be here for my girls as they grew up and needed wise advice from someone they trust. Mom wasn't supposed to be alone. She wasn't supposed to move in with us and then suffer from loneliness! None of this is right! Not one piece!" What they don't tell you in grief books is that as time goes on, it gets worse, not better. They say it gets easier, but I'm not so sure. Everyone has gone on, life has marched forward; even my life has pressed on into a new school year, new activities, new worries and I don't think about him all the time…until. Until I am surrounded by his things or I see his truck parked in the driveway and wish he would irritatingly interrupt our school morning to talk about nothing important. As time goes on, things invade your life, but the realization of the hole they left only grows. A few months before he died, my dad started coming upstairs in the morning to 'say good morning to his girls'. He told me he wanted to take advantage of the fact that we were right here. I kind of thought it was silly, until he was gone.
As I headed back to my house, it occurred to me that nothing tangible in my life has died with him, that I had continued to carry on, and that seemed odd. But, as quickly as the thought came, it was followed by the memory of someone asking me if I was ever going to blog again. Shocked, I realized something HAD died - my writing - and that was something I used to love. But, it hasn't died because I don't want to do it, it has just died. I cannot tell you how many times I have sat down to write and I begin and it just stops. I have so many posts started but I have not been able to finish a single one of them. My thoughts have ceased coming around to a complete idea. The piece that came so easily before no longer exists. My thoughts start out organized and end in a jumble.
But why my writing? It seems to me an odd thing to lose. I don't have that answer and I'm really not sure, but, as it is an expression of my heart, it must be a reflection of the inner turmoil that brews beneath the surface. Yesterday I was getting a work out by pounding the ground with a pick ax, attempting to follow through with a solution an owner and I had come up with for getting the hay up off the soon to be mud, and I thought, "I can see problems and solve them in every area of my life, but I cannot write and it doesn't bother me in the least." The thought that followed was passive and accepted: perhaps that is just what died with dad. Maybe I will never get it back.
Yet this morning I am compelled to write, compelled to try again. What is driving it? I have no idea. Perhaps I don't
want things to die with him, not while I am still alive. Perhaps it is because all he wanted to do when he retired was write a book and maybe if I write one, it will carry on his legacy. Perhaps it is the delusion that I will see his proud face again if I just write. Or, perhaps it is so much more simple than that...perhaps the time has come to begin writing again because my dad died, but I will see him again. My dad left me, but my Father is right by my side. My dad has no more days to write but my girls and I have so many more which need to be written with exclamation points and silly faces! If I don't get on it, no one will, so I better get on it before their time, our time, my time is lost! Maybe this isn't as fluid as I usually write and maybe that is the way it will be for a while, but that's okay, this is just my blog - my bla-bla- bla log. :-)
God Bless!!!
