So this may be a bit morbid, but the other day my nephew posted this photo on facebook. Its my father's headstone, from his recent visit to the cemetery. When I saw it there, with his very sweet message of love for his grandfather I felt exposed. raw. wounded. My soul clawed frantically for coping mechanisms, escape, anything to avoid actually feeling the sorrow and pain that comes with remembering my Pop. I don't know if you can see the dates clearly but Pop died in 2004. He's been gone 8 years this May. To be totally torn open like this shocked me. It feels excessive, unduly overwhelming. I've been pondering my reaction for several days, trying to make sense of it.
Then last night my dear friend gave part of our church's message; she talked about looking forward to what God will do this year, and about being honest about our hopes and desires and needs as we move out of 2011 and into 2012. I am not a resolution maker, but her words hit my heart like an arrow. She asked us to think of what type of year we wanted, what word or words we wanted to describe our journey. One word filled my mind. Healing. I want so badly for this year to one of healing and new growth and health. There are a lot of reasons for that, but as I sat there sorting through my mind I realized that even after 8 years I still need healing.
Pop was not an easy man to love, nor an easy father to have but he was the only one God gave me. I am still angry and hurt that He saw fit to take him back so soon. My dad never met my children--never even knew 'Kid was on the way since I didn't know myself until after his death. He never saw them crawl or walk or laugh or taught them any of the things he taught my nephew. He never took the trip we had planned to see his Mother overseas, the one I missed to give birth to 'Boy. He missed so very many things that make my life the joyous chaotic tangle it is now. He wasn't there to comfort me when I lost 2 babies to miscarriage, or when we buried his brother and his sister. He isn't here now for me to call if I'm uncertain about my parenting or to ask for advice.
All those missed experiences, missed memories, make the anger and hurt grow. I try to corral it with trite sayings about time easing pain and how Dad is in a better place. I try to tell my kids about their granddad and enjoy their delight in silly stories. But in the end, I feel like the wife in a book I read who simply wants her husband back so she won't give away his shoes because he'll need them when he returns.
And yet somehow I can live with joy and love and contentment still. The hope I feel for my own kids does ease my heart and gives me peace in its own way. Maybe that's part of the answer, the love that keeps growing around and through and over the hurts. Like a vine that won't stop for any obstacle the love just worms its way in and keeps building. If I were an artist I'd sketch that, a big lovely flowery vine lacing together wounded hearts and souls with its green tendrils. Maybe if healing is my word, that can be my image this year. To help me remember that even if the wounds seem untended the master gardener is always coaxing new growth and new loves to soothe and repair and re-build. I'll have to remind myself a lot this year. To remember to watch carefully for new shoots in unexpected places to help me grow.
