Father’s Day

My father died June 22, 2003, a week to the day after Father’s Day that year, which seemed like bad manners on God‘s part, at the time. Last year my sister bemoaned the fact that every June we get the double whammy of the holiday and then the anniversary of his death. I Pollyanna-ed that we would get it all out in one fell swoop. And it’s kind of true.

My father’s death taught me the value of mourning. Never one to stuff my emotions, I had not ever really mourned anything up until then; I had moaned, bemoaned, bitched and complained, but never mourned. It is difficult to explain the difference, but I think it lies in acknowledging that something is dead: a gift, a time, an opportunity or a person and expressing grief and sorrow at the fact, not fighting the fact itself.

It’s a crazy ride and grief is not always convenient. As time went on the spasms of sorrow were fewer and further between but they would still come out of nowhere and stagger me. Since I had always been a weepy girl, the fits themselves didn’t distress me, it was that they often happened in front of innocent bystanders. I wanted to tell them I was OK, that what I was experiencing was the emotional equivalent of a coughing fit – nothing to worry about – but I was too busy trying to breathe to be able to reassure strangers.

This year, approaching the anniversary of my father’s death, I only thought of it fleetingly, then the other day at the gym I remembered something which led to a series of thoughts that caused me to burst into tears. There I was hoofing it on the elliptical, face contorted, shoulders hunched, while sobs wracked and tears streamed. I was a mess, but I only had a little time to exercise and couldn’t stop, so I hoped that everyone would ignore the hysterical woman seemingly breaking down while reading a health magazine. A couple days later the same thing happened at a stop light and the car beside me slowly pulled forward, the driver carefully staring straight ahead.

This morning in church I was fine, happy even, when we started to sing and then I thought of an acquaintance whose mother died this week and I began to cry softly. Paul immediately bent over and asked if I was OK. I nodded and he put his arm around me and then I started sobbing. As we were in the front I looked around for tissues but there weren’t any. I calmed down a little and then they began playing the second song. It was one that I first heard the spring my dad was dying and often sang at his bedside. I cannot hear it without crying, so I just leaned against Paul and let the other voices wash over me. As the song ended, someone came up to pray and I continued to audibly sob. This was a little distressing, but if you can’t cry in church, where can you?

When the prayer ended we rose to sing again and I felt someone reaching for me. It was a woman in the row behind me. She was holding out a handful of napkins which she had obviously run to get from the coffee area in the lobby. I took them and whispered my thanks. She smiled and nodded her welcome. She had grabbed a bunch but I still had to ration myself to make it through the rest of the service.

After church, while Paul retrieved the girls I went to the altar to be available to pray with people. Only one woman asked me to pray. I did and then we talked for a little bit. She mentioned that it was hard today since she had lost both her parents. She asked if my parents were living.

I told her I had been crying most the service for my own father.

“It’s been a long time, 1995 and 1998, but it still hurts sometimes,” she said.

“I don’t think it’s a pain that ever fully heals. It will always be a loss.”

We stood quietly. “I know they are in a better place…” she faltered.

“Well, that’s like they got to go on cruises to Hawaii and all we got is a T-shirt. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad they’re having a great time in Hawaii, but we’re standing here with our shirts and it’s not feeling like enough. We want them with us!

We laughed together and then she thanked me and I embraced her.

On the way out of church I grabbed a friend whose father has terminal cancer and lives far away. I asked her how she was doing and she said she was doing alright but that she almost called me this week because she kept getting the telegram that her world is falling apart and she can’t seem to believe it. I told her that she didn’t have to have a breakdown in church today because I had already done it for her. She smiled sadly.

“I am talking loud sobbing – a stranger ran and got me napkins because I was such a mess. So I’ve got your back. It’s covered. Just check that off your list and consider it my Father’s Day gift to you.”

We laughed as we hugged each other.

This is community.

This is the Body of Christ: crying, watching, running, listening, praying, laughing; reaching across to touch and to give and to receive.

And this was my third Father’s Day without my dad.

God be praised.