They say the first year is the hardest. They say that if you can get past the first Easter, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, the first birthday (theirs), the first birthday (yours), and the first anniversary of their death, you’ll find it just gets easier. That’s what they say.
I have just returned from the “first year anniversary” of my father’s entry into Heaven. His victory at the finish line. His “I am here…now I am gone.” It came just that suddenly, too. One minute, here. The next I was receiving a phone call from my baby brother saying, “Daddy died!”
For the life of me, he sounded just like a little boy who’d lost his favorite toy.
The business of death and dying is exhausting. Really, those first few months one hardly has the time to even notice the abscence of their loved one. Although, I must admit, Saturday’s were the toughest. These were the days we talked in the mornings while Daddy was drinking coffee at The Lake Restaurant and I was in my car, heading off somewhere.
So I cried a lot on Saturday mornings. I cried most afternoons too. These were the times I called him while on my way to get my granddaughter from school. I cried at night because I always chatted with him in the evenings before heading off to bed.
I was Daddy’s Little Girl.
I’ve been thinking for a whole year what I’d do in honor of my father’s life–because I had no intention of grieving his death. Before I could come up with anything, his church contacted me and said they were having a special memorial and dedication service in Daddy’s honor and wanted my brother and me to be there.
I also took my daughter Jessica and my mother. Our mother. The mother of my father’s children. In spite of their divorce, they never–thank the good Lord–forgot they had children together. In time they did what few divorced parents are able to do: they loved us more than they disliked each other. Not that they ever truly DISLIKED each other. As my father once said, “Your mother is a wonderful lady and I’m a pretty nice guy. We’re just two wonderful nice people who couldn’t live together.”
Not that they ever fought. I never once heard an ill word between them. So, pretty much I still don’t get it.
There’s a lot I don’t get about my father’s life. And there’s a lot I don’t get about my father’s death. Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe one day, when my body is six feet under and my soul is a gabillion miles from here, my kids will say, “Did you EVER get that about her life?? No? Me neither….” and they’ll shake their heads and chuckle a bit. One of them will say, “Mother sure was something else, wasn’t she?” and the rest will try to figure out just what that something else was.
And maybe they’ll not understand my passing from point A to point Z, but they’ll know about me what I know about my Daddy. They’ll know where I’m spending eternity and they’ll say, “Catch you on the flip side!”
Yep, and I’ll be there. With my Daddy and–by then, most likely–my mother. We’ll be waiting with smiles on our faces and arms open wide. “Come on up!” we’ll shout. “It’s awesome here!”
Then we’ll have our first anniversaries and first Easters and first Christmases and first birthdays and first firsts….together. Forever.
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Okay, now I’m crying!
It’s 75 degrees and I’m supposed to be playing outside, but I find myself dialing my parent’s home and it’s busy! I’m flying “home” for Easter–my parents live in California and I was just there for Christmas. And after Easter, there’s Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, my birthday, and then Thanksgiving, and Christmas–a whole lot of lovin’ to share! I’m on a plane to see my folks as often as I can and phone calls in between. I love my mom and dad now more than ever. It’s funny, suddenly they got “smarter”or is it that I’m finally listening!
Hugging you through my tears,
Connie
Wow, you took me back. It was seven years ago on the 29th of this month that I received the same call from my older brother. No time for goodbyes…no time for a final “I love you”. I was stunned. And I wondered, “Did he really know just how much I loved him? Really? Did I tell him last time we spoke?” The thought haunted me for days until…I wandered into his bedroom–the room in which he died.
Holding tightly to the coat he wore minutes before he hit the floor, tears stung my face as I fumbled through the items on his dresser. Loose change, tie clips, old church bulletins and cards– from me. Cards he had saved. Cards that he obviously treasured. I opened them one by one and read each word as if they were my last words spoken to him. And yes, YES, the words I love you were written on each one. He knew. Oh thank you, Jesus, He knew.
It stinks to loose a parent…even when you know where they are spending eternity. I miss my dad. And when I get to heaven I will celebrate with him. And my tears will be no more.
Thanks for the beautiful post, Eva. I needed a good cry.
Hugs.
Okay Eva, Connie, and Carolyn,
What can I say?
We hurt, we cry, we miss our loved ones like crazy, but the crazy thing is, we “don’t grieve like those who have no hope.” I heard once at the Philly Christian Writers Conference (were you there that year Carolyn?) a speaker describe the word “hope”. He said it is a nautical term used to describe a “point of destination”. Jesus’ fishermen friends would have got it I suppose… I’ve been learning through the years to “get it” too.
My hope is in the Lord, who gave Himself for me…
Susan
http://www.shareyourgrief.blogspot.com
June, it will be a year since my mom passed away. The finality of it has hit me hard. She never had the chance to be a grandma, that was her dream. For almost eight years, she was total care. My mom was able to observe my daughters but not the touch and love of a grandma. I really miss her.
Thank you, all of you, for your comments. These can be painful memories and yet they are also the memories that allow our hearts to soar! We are so blessed to have had parents who were loving and good and who taught us the many blessings of heaven while on Earth.
When I grow up I wanna be able to express my emotions as elloquently as you, dear Eva Diva. Sniff, sniff, gulp.
The most precious card that I received after my mother’s suicide 28 years ago said:
“Sorrow is not forever. Love is!”
Its hopeful message touched me deeply then. It continues to touch me today. I still miss my mom, but my sorrow wanes as my love continues to wax. I love my mother more than ever.
Love you too, Eva. Blessings for an extra-special Easter. Ginger
By the grace of God, we know our loved ones are there waiting for us. What a gift to know we will all meet again.
My mother’s Irish soul danced it’s way into heaven on St. Patirck’s day (six years ago) after all of us finished eating our corned beef and cabbage in the other room. Hospice thought she would have died a week to ten days sooner, but God had other plans. While it was horrendous to watching her suffer through the last week, when she died, we understood what He was waiting for. All in His perfect timing!
Oh Eva, it is so difficult for us daddy’s girl’s.
My daddy died unexpectedly 15 years ago when I was pregnant with my first child.
Treasure your wonderful memories.
God Bless, You!
I was Daddy’s little girl too, Eva. I expected to be Daddy’s little girl at 80! My Dad was my hero; he became weak and doctors diagnosed acute leukemia. I had time to say goodbye; however, it was exactly one month after being diagnosed that Dad entered the gates of heaven.
For 85 years my Dad taught me how to live; he taught me integrity, and he loved me unconditionally. In his last month, he taught me how to die by his gracious acceptance and readiness to meet his Savior. His passing was four and a half years ago now; of course I still miss him. My heart goes out to you, Eva, as you experience all the “firsts.”
Blessings,
Carol