Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my father’s death. I noted it at 6:31 a.m. as I was getting ready for church. It was soon before or after six in the morning that the phone rang and woke me that Sunday morning, five years ago. When I heard my sister’s voice I was confused because I thought she was sleeping in the basement but she had awoken early and driven to the hospital to wait with my mom. They were there when he died.
I had noted the anniversary several months ago when I was scheduled for early morning prayer at church, on the date. A couple people walk through every room in the church, praying, before the services. When it is my turn I often sit through at least two and sometimes three of the services and it is usually apparent why I am hearing a particular sermon more than once. I wondered if yesterday’s services would have any connection with my father’s anniversary, but they didn’t really. The sermon was quite good, but not related and nothing connected or highlighted the marking of the day.
Torey and I had talked about getting together and having our version of the Don Wolfe Film Festival that my brothers always have out in California on Dad’s birthday in September. Torey is trying to find a way to honor and remember Dad, especially with her girls. I don’t feel that compulsion. Yesterday, after church, I was tired and just wanted to relax. I called Torey and told her I wasn’t up for the DWFF and she understood.
Some feelings definitely came up last week with the death of Tim Russert and I had a couple dad related cries, but that was it and without that projection I don’t know if I would have cried around this time at all.
One thing, that I have never thought of is that the eve of and day of his death is the Summer Solstice. Tanner kept vigil the two nights between removing Dad’s life support and the morning of his death. Up until then I had been obsessed with the thought of Dad dying alone and wept every time I considered it. But when I told Paul my fears he said, “Babe, he’s not going to be alone, when he dies. Even if one of us isn’t there, Jesus will be.” Pretty much anything, any one said to me sounded like a poor platitude, but this gave me pause. I knew it was true and I felt reprieved from keeping vigil. Eden was a newborn and I had been balancing her needs with my father’s months and months of dying and the burden was becoming too much to bear. Friday night and Saturday night I went home to sleep and Sunday morning, June 22, 2003, he was gone. It was the longest day of the year.
It was the longest day.
I like to know now that my brother’s vigil was the shortest night.
I like to think that the longest day also means the most light.
I am glad to finally see that we removed the life support on a Friday and that he was alive in Christ on Sunday.
I am thankful to know that the mourning is, for the most part, complete. And yet I know that, in some ways, it will never truly end until I am, in death, fully alive too.
Achingly perfect.
I am thankful to know that the mourning is, for the most part, complete. And yet I know that, in some ways, it will never truly end until I am, in death, fully alive too.
This is so well put. I will share this with my friend who is grieving right now. You know. It is a completely different type of death in her case, but tremendous loss is tremendous loss, no matter how you slice it.
“Babe, he’s not going to be alone, when he dies. Even if one of us isn’t there, Jesus will be.”
Faith is such a real comfort. How do people who don’t believe endure life? I’ll never understand it.
I find myself regretful, as I read your entry, for two reasons:
1. I wish I had known the anniversary of your father’s passing was the 22nd, as I would not have scheduled you to work, that Sunday.
2. I wish, in retrospect, I had paid more attention to your demeanor that day. Instead, I just blathered on about the drama I’d written. It never even entered my mind to ask, “…and how are you?”
I say “regretful” rather than than “convicted,” because I know I’m not guilty. I know that if either of the two points above, were a serious problem, you would have let me know. Nevertheless, I wish I was more aware, in the first case, and more considerate in the second.
I am all the more moved by your words of affirmation and encouragement to me, this past Sunday. I am humbled that you chose to lighten my heart, while your own was aching.
What a precious gift.
What a wonderful friend.
DLG
Sherry, mourning is mourning and there are worse things than death.
Sheila, I don’t know.
Dorwin, I was fine. I wasn’t a bit concerned about praying that day and actually thought that, if I was struggling, praying for others would be a comfort. But the 22nd was just another day and I was very happy for and proud of you.