I am different because he’s gone. I’m different because at the too-young age of 13 and 9 days, my father’s body was carried out of my home by humble men in white shirts and ties. I’m different because I saw the man that I had loved most in the word at that point buried days later.
It changed everything. And like all things that on their face seem only as trials, like autism, like Down syndrome, like sadness, there is some good…depending on the way we choose to wear our sorrow. Depending on what we choose to learn.
There have been things going on in the background noise of my life I’m not ready to share yet. Things too sad, too heavy, to much, to share right now in this all too public forum. I ache to talk to my father about the things that interrupt my sleep and tear bit by bit at my soul. It’s a weight that I carry on my own. My shoulders are heavy. But at the end of the day, I “fall heavy” into Lance’s arms.
And Lance, always willing, never judging, carries the grief for me for a while so I can take a break from it. My father’s passing showed me the very fragility of the lives of the ones we love the most. When my husband holds me, my bones scream out, “treasure this! treasure this time in a way you didn’t get to with your father!” and I do.
Tonight I was low. We turned on Mumford and Sons and my husband pulled me close and held me as we danced. Lance is tall, my head fits under his chin, my ear on his heart. I listened to it beat. And every single second of it I breathed him in. The words echoed in our kitchen,
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
And I will hold on with all of my might
Just promise me that we’ll be alright”
He’s all I need. Every second of every day. Every minute in the hardest trials or on the very best days, (and the vast amount of time in between that’s just terrifically boring) he’s all I need. I’m grateful for the perspective that losing my father has given me. Every minute I have with him I am grateful.
He is my hope in the darkness.