remembering his hands

one year later. It's the anniversary of my dad's death today. I've felt the date looming in my mind for a couple of months now--seeing it approaching and feeling paralyzed, not knowing how I "should" be feeling about it. A good friend of mine who's walked a similar path encouraged me a few days ago to not have any expectations for myself or for the day. I think that's good advice.

I've spent a good bit of the day simply remembering my dad's hands. He had big, strong hands, and he used them often--whether he was telling a story with great animation, or playfully squeezing my shoulders, or jotting down a map on a restaurant napkin. His palms were soft and he had one fingernail that was bent in the middle. As a child, I always thought it was strange, but never asked about it. A couple of years ago, I finally got curious and he told me the story about the time he caught a softball without a glove...and in just the wrong way.... He was a great storyteller. This morning I tried to imagine my dad without his hands and I couldn't. I immediately thought to myself, "That would be like taking a paintbrush away from Picasso". And on pondering that analogy more, I suddenly had an image of my father and the piece of art that he had been painting his whole life--his stopping and starting, his strong bold strokes as a young man, and his calculated small strokes later on. And in the last year of his life, he was painting the ending. The painful but necessary strokes to finish his story, in all its success and its sorrow.

"Dealing" with this anniversary until a few days ago was like winding a jack-in-the-box. I knew "jack" was about to come out, but I didn't know when and it just seemed safer and more predictable to not wind him at all. But I finally did. and OUT came all those emotions, most of which were centered around the weight of his absence; the powerful feeling of being alone, even though I am surrounded. I know that my dad is with Jesus and loving life SO much more now. He is finally free of everything that hindered him here on earth. That thought alone carries me some days, and I can bask in a piece of the joy I know he is experiencing. Other days, the ache on earth is very real, and I can't help but feel as if he should be here. with our family. with me. about to be the grandfather of our son.

As I feel his absence and grieve, I can't help but also feel thankful. Thankful to all of you that have helped me through this time--whether through a note or a scripture, or just loving me in very practical ways. Thankful to have made it a year, to be growing and changing. I thought last night, "since dad's death, john and I moved to saginaw, finished 5th semester of medical school, john studied his tail off for Step 1 of USMLE Boards, passed, we got pregnant, and then moved back to Saginaw. A lot has happened. Not only that, but I moved through the dark cloud of grief of those first few months following his death. I see how God is with me, has been with me. And at different mile markers along the way, He has made his presence so clear in the very deepest and darkest pain. Because of that, I can say that God DOES redeem pain and He IS close to the broken-hearted.

So, today just might be a good day. It might not be. But either way, it's ok.