Today is the day; the third anniversary of my Father's death. It was about this time in the morning on that terrible day that his heart gave way to death. What do I find myself doing on this sleepless morning in May? Just thinking. About Father. About God. About family. Just thinking with a bit of restored hope that, though it has seemed to me these last three years that God, Himself, was dead; I have restored hope this anniversary that indeed He is alive. Maybe I am conquering those demons of d
My Father died of heart failure; a violent seizing of the heart. But it was the madness that brought him to that end. I was unaware when he died; but when I found out, I plummeted into what seemed like a whole different world; a nightmare of unreality. Suddenly, Life became Death to me; with an all-consuming hunger not yet satisfied to return to Life again. I wonder now if that is what madness was like to him, this unreality. To a man who loves his family; seeing it disintegrate into Us vs. Them
My Father plunged into madness when I was molested as a child. One facet of that plunge was the fact that everyone else in my family acted (and still do) as though the sexual abuse was "no big deal". They failed to understand the gravity of what had been done to me; and he spent his life since that day trying to make them understand the damage done to me, to the family, and to himself. To this day, not one of them will acknowledge the atrocity; not one of them understands--no, not one. It is not
So how is Joy achieved? Where is it found? In thinking on this, the question arose in my mind of how Joy was stolen from me in the first place. What brought on the darkness and keeps it at the forefront of my mind? The death of my Father, of course; but there is something else: the dishonoring of his good name that goes on in my family even now. Because of this hatred, however unjust; they do not even find it in their hearts to let a dead man rest in peace. They remain calloused, showing no pity
What is Joy? What does it do for the heart? The soul? The mind? Does having Joy give one strength? These are all questions that passed through my mind as I was Spring cleaning the master bedroom yesterday. Nothing major. Cleaning. Decluttering. Reorganizing. Now, I am no expert; but I know a little. Command position? Check. Head North? Check. Not exactly Feng Shui, but better. Breezier. More liveable. Still, not free; not that freedom from darkness where I can finally exhale and breathe… and tha
Since my Father died, I cannot stand the quiet. It sounds too much like Death. Today is no different. I have not a thought in my mind; yet, my spirit within me is screaming for rest. I do not know how to describe this profound quiet I hear; 'tis the sound of God vanishing. To be perfectly honest; 'tis the sound of no God at all. This was not always so with me; I used to have Joy in God, as though He were right beside me walking through life. Now? Nothing. Gone. Dead. Where has He gone? Is the gr
There are times when I want to say, No, Father is not dead; he's simply gone on a long journey--but he's coming back. There are times when I cry and think surely Father will hear and come; that he will rise at the sound of his Baby's wailing, hold me to his heart and all would be well again. This thought comforts me for a time; the thought of him holding me high like when I was a baby; his eyes beaming up at me, his precious little daughter. But that is just a dream, like having an imaginary Fri
There are things I have learned in this life since my Father died; things that help me claw myself out of Grief--this grief which feels like a dark presence in my soul. Writing is one of those things. My Father used to tell me, Keep thinking. Keep thinking and you will figure it out. Good words from a father who loved his daughter. One thing I recently learned helps me is mathematics. I was never any good at math in school; but I find now in this spirit-killing Grief that working out even simple
There is a loneliness that comes with grief; a now hollow and jagged heart that comes from being ripped in half. I call it the Death-Star-Heart. No joy. No hope. Just loneliness. There is a song lyric from decades ago that fits my heart since my Father died: Talkin' to myself and feelin' low. I feel it every day. There seems to be no moving past it. No comfort. My Father would say to stay close to God; but I do not feel His presence the way I did before MAYDAY, the day my Father died (May 2, 20
Most people I know call their fathers "Dad". I always called mine Father, with a capital F. Why? I think because of the way he carried himself in life. "Dad" did not seem to fit him; it sounded too playful, like "Daddy". He was not one to play; but neither do I mean he was cold. Father was a joy to me, just to talk to. And talk we did, indeed.
Since his death three years ago this May 2nd, I learned that those who have been the coldest toward me in my grief; those who disliked my Father and
There is a certain heaviness of body and soul in carrying the burden of grief through this world; as though you are carrying the weight of your loved one on your back and, if you do not push against it, your knees will buckle and you will collapse under the burden. I feel as though I am carrying both me and my Father through life now, the little carrying the big--and at times I fear I will not be able to continue; but at the same time I fear laying down my burden. Something, strange though it mi
What is life now that he is gone; now with this thing called Grief dogging my steps all the day long? I have been told I had an especially close relationship with my Father--closer than most; and I think that is true. I was his Baby; and he and I were two peas in a pod. Many a time he just needed a sympathetic ear to listen, someone who understood his pain, and I was blessed to be that to him. I will never forget it. There were times where we would just sit and talk, even all day; not a holiday
I just wanted to share with everyone a few moments of reprieve I felt these last few days. They were shortlived; but for those moments I actually felt alive again, like there is hope after all of life after grief. It doesn't sound like much, just a few moments; but after nearly 3 years of uninterrupted, abysmal despair, these few moments were like precious drops of cool, clear water to a parched and dying woman.
So what was I doing when these moments of reprieve happened? Just living. Groc
My Father and I were like two peas in a pod. He called me Baby. His Baby. I knew no one else like him; there were times growing up when I was terrified of him; but as I grew I came to know his love, and knew I could never do anything that would make him stop loving me. Although everyone I knew (aside from a very small handful) found him objectionable, even his own family; he was my best friend. I never understood why people disliked him so much. Most of them have gone on their way; they have mov