The scent of roasting coffee permeates the kitchen. The batch of dark roast, single origin, Brazil is almost done - a haze drifts through the air and I close my eyes and inhale deeply. It reminds me of my dad trying to roast coffee in an old popcorn popper on the back porch, the smokey smell mingling with wet pine.
I’m not even sure when I started to cry, but it’s really coming down now. A veritable typhoon.
A million images pass through my mind’s eye there in the kitchen - a million memories - a million moments I wish I could live over. It’s like the almost thirty-year-old me has disappeared and the thirteen-year-old me is left standing there, utterly unsure and vulnerable and in desperate need of her dad.
And as I wipe my snotty face with the back of my hand, I realize something: the missing and the needing and the hurting are never going to go away. The idea that “time heals all wounds” is a giant piece of bull crap fed to a grieving world that wants there to be an easy way out of loss, out of love.
It’s like saying your arm will regenerate after it was amputated. But it won’t. It won’t until we reach the other side of heaven.
And I’m so very tired of people shoving platitudes at the heart-amputees of the world. I’m tired of feeling like it is somehow weak or shameful to cry in my kitchen on a random Thursday because I just really freaking miss my dad. I’m tired of feeling like I can’t talk about him, or about his death. I’m tired of feeling like I should somehow be “moving on”.
My mom recently asked me, “Do you think I’ve been handling my grief poorly?”
I said, “How are you supposed to handle losing your whole life in an instant?” But what I wanted to say was, “Who gave you the impression that there was somehow a wrong way to grieve?”
And sadly I think the answer to that is: pretty much everyone.
We live in a culture where grief is five stages. Where when someone asks, “how you are doing?” the expected answer is “good”. Where after the first year has passed by, people just stop asking you about your loss.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think anyone means to shame or silence the losers (as in those who have lost someone) of the world. But I do think they are afraid of being uncomfortable… and grief is very, very, very uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable to go through personally, uncomfortable to ask about, uncomfortable to talk about, and uncomfortable to listen to.
But the silence is so much worse.
I guess what I’m trying to get across is this:
If you lost someone last week, last year, 5 years ago, 20 years ago - it’s okay that it still hurts. Give grace for yourself because your grief is an extension of your love.
If you know someone who lost last week, last year, 5 years ago, 20 years ago - ask them how they are doing. Hold space for them to talk about their person.
So here I am, friend. Thanks for still listening.
I lost my dad 3.5 years ago. He was the best person I’ve ever known.
He was always tinkering with some broken object or another. I can still remember his hands - the really square hands of a norwegian - the way they always had random cuts or scrapes from working on things. He spent his Saturdays out clearing trees in the woods of our property and when he would come in for lunch he smelled like pine and sweat and gasoline. He was ridiculously wise and good at listening and asking questions. He always knew what to do in every situation. I miss his goodness, his gentleness, and his strength. He had a billion hobbies and was always learning something new. He loved to be in the outdoors. He took me out on breakfast dates and split an omelet and french toast with me, and gave me his undivided attention, even when I was a dramatic teenager. He loved to bake bread and to garden. Every dog we ever owned was obsessed with him. He gave his everything to God and to his ministry. He was funny and he laughed a lot. He loved my mom unconditionally and never stopped romancing her. He was utterly human and flawed and covered by grace.
I miss him so much it turns me inside out.
But somehow the talking about him, about who he was, helps soothe the ache a little.
So what about you, friend?
I enabled comments on this post so that you can tell me about your person. Tell me about your heart. Because in the remembering we remember that they are worthy of the missing.