Four Years

It is April 30, 2019.  That means it has been four years since my family lost my dad.

It is really unfathomable.

It is hard to describe.

I found something online that helps describe grief as time passes.  The author explains that in the beginning stages of grief, you have a big ball in a small space, and there is a pain button that pretty much gets hit all the time as the ball bounces around.  As time goes on, your ball gets smaller.  But the pain button is still the same, and your ball still hits it.

(If you are interested in seeing the full article about this,  click here).

My ball of grief has gotten smaller.  It doesn't mean I don't think about my dad.  I think about him many times a day, every day.  I think about him with the attitude of gratitude, most of the time.  He appears in a fleeting thought, a silly memory, and whenever I put on my "Lee" ring or "Love Ya" necklace.  Sometimes I wear his sweatshirts and have his picture by my bed.

But that pain button.  The way she describes it.  It is so crazily accurate.  The pain button stays the same.  My ball hits it at random times and at expected times.  The depth of the feeling is always the same.

I often think about the blur of those first months.  My kids were so little.  I have no idea how I survived parenting and working and everything else.

But I did.  We did.

My girls both bring up Bops every once in awhile.  Callie remembers him. She tells stories about him to her sister and isn't afraid to ask me questions about him.



At bedtime we sing "My Life Flows On," a song sung at his funeral. I started singing it to them the night of the funeral, and we have sung it ever since.  Maya happily sings it along with me.  She doesn't know the significance of it yet, but I do. We chose that hymn specifically because it speaks to the significance of music and because of the message of hope despite (and through) adversity.

It feels like I'm running out of words to describe this whole process.  It is mind-boggling to me that it is a universal experience for every single human and it is also so hard.

Plain and simple, I miss my dad.  I miss seeing the girls play with him.  I miss the family trips he would have planned for us.  I miss hearing about the new technology he would have been excited about. I miss running with him, and having him cheer me on.  I miss his weird dancing.  I miss watching him play stupid games on his iPad. I miss visiting him at work and meeting him for lunch. I miss being kind of annoyed (but also happy) when he and Chris would go golfing together. I miss leaning against him on the couch or in church.



I'm so proud of our family and how we have put the pieces of our lives back together as best as we can without an integral piece.  We have supported each other.  Others have supported us.  We are very lucky.



I'm hoping one day, when the girls are older, we'll be in church and one of the hymns will be "My Life Flows On."  I'm hoping that as we sing it, the girls will look over at me and smile, because it is something so familiar, something that feels like home.

...No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I'm clinging.  Since Christ is Lord of heaven and Earth, how can I keep from singing?

And I'll talk to them about their Bops.  And how he was just the best.











I love you Dad!