My daddy lived the last three weeks of his life in a hospital room. We didn’t know it, but October 26, 2007 was the beginning of the end of his life here. Daddy went to the hospital for surgery and never came home. 17 years and 3 days ago.
The emotion I feel on that date is different each year. Sometimes I’m sad. Other times I’m overcome with nostalgia. Mostly, my life feels normal and the day passes without much feeling at all. But no matter the kind or depth of emotion, I remember. October 26th always sticks even if it doesn’t sting.
My grief clawed its way to the surface earlier this month – three weeks ahead of schedule – when my friend Lee’s dad passed away. From one “Daddy’s Girl” to another I resolved to show up for her. The funeral services were in her hometown, 8 hours away round trip, but there is no such thing as too far for friends who have shared as much life as Lee and I have. So, I drove. Lee is almost always stoic but her composure cracked in tearful gratitude when I told her I was on the way.
A slideshow of family pictures played on loop while mourners lined up to love on Lee and her family. As the images passed across the screen I caught a glimpse of her daughters. Tears stained their cheeks as they watched one memory of their granddaddy move to the next. My heart ached. I couldn’t help but think of my two girls who never got to meet their Poppa.
Life isn’t fair, is it? My daddy knew it wasn’t, but he always tended toward hope. Even after he was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, Daddy’s faith was firm. He believed God is good and just, and he passed that confidence on to me in letters like this one:
Dear Julie Doll,
I hope that your faith is secure as always in God’s word. He will let things happen to us so that we can grow stronger and will teach us to trust in Him more…
What daddy didn’t know, and what none of us can explain, is why bad things happen to good people.
Faith can get tricky in crises. We count on our faith to reassure us. When it doesn’t erase our doubt we start filling in the blanks so we can feel better, listening to our own voice instead of resting in God’s promises. If we’re not careful, faith can become a crutch instead of our true strength. Sometimes, especially in moments of grief, the blanks are best left empty. Silence is more soothing than scripture. Presence is as powerful as prayer. I learned that from my friend Dinah.
(Dinah fashioned this angel out of a card I mailed to her when she was going through cancer treatments.)
Dinah is one of my faith giants. She’s often the first person I reach out to when I need someone to pray for me. She’s the best Sunday School and bible teacher I’ve ever had. Dinah has lived out her faith as a breast cancer survivor. We shared an unexpected-to-me visit during her cancer treatments when I showed up at her house to deliver a box of cookies she had ordered from my daughter. We decided I would leave the cookies on the porch so I was surprised to see her sitting outside when I arrived.
Almost immediately after I sat down, Dinah started to cry. I felt terrible! I launched from my chair to hers and instinctively wrapped my arm around her shoulders. That was probably the worst thing I could have done since her body was in pain from chemotherapy but I couldn’t convince myself to break away. I kicked myself as she wept. The cookies could have waited. But it turned out, the timing was perfect. Later that afternoon Dinah texted me:
“… It helped me to cry. Thank you for witnessing my tears…”
Now I was the one crying.
Dinah’s text used a profound word about showing up for someone’s grief: witness. If you look up the word “witness” you’ll find a remarkable definition: to be present. Dinah didn’t thank me for encouraging her. She didn’t thank me for praying for her. Dinah thanked me for my presence.
Honestly, my silence may have been a miracle. I have a terrible habit of trying to find something to say in moments like this. I’m quick to look for the bright side. My instinct is to pluck the teeny-tiniest sliver of possibility and stretch it into a plump piece of hope. The problem with that is, not everyone wants to hope right away. Sometimes we need to sit in silence before we can begin to move through our grief.
One of the most meaningful encouragements I received after my daddy died was from someone I really didn’t know very well. Jeff (not my husband) and I had worked together at a local TV station but were not close friends outside of work. The first time he saw me after daddy’s funeral he wrapped me in a hug. It was the most sincere embrace I’ve ever felt. I don’t remember anything he said, or whether he spoke words at all, but I will never forget his hug. Jeff was a witness to my grief.
Grief is not confined to a season. Still, it doesn’t make sense for me to write about it in October without acknowledging the nearness of Thanksgiving and Christmas. The holidays are hard for a lot of people. My daddy died on Thanksgiving Day, so I understand. Red, green, and tinsel can easily camouflage grief when celebrations are abundant. We may not notice tears or tension filling the space between turkey dinners and Christmas trees. If you’re grieving, I hope your loneliness is not overlooked. I pray someone will be present to witness your tears. If you see or know someone is hurting, ask yourself how you can help. There may not be anything you can say to make them feel better but perhaps there is something you can do.
Drive.
Sit.
Listen.
Love.
“O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come,
Be Thou our guard while life shall last, and our eternal home.”
(O God, Our Help in Ages Past, a hymn inspired by Psalm 90)