Father's Day

Dad,

I’ve been at a loss for words lately. Maybe that’s okay; sometimes the silence is okay. But words help me and words heal me and it’s just hard when right now I cannot seem to find them.

All this time I thought I was already walking in the wilderness when really maybe I was just on the outskirts. But now, I feel knee-deep stuck right in the middle of the wilderness. It’s because of you Dad that I’ve come to know the wilderness place is an okay place to be, that maybe the silence is okay. And while it’s so dang hard I am grateful for this lesson I am learning.

“What if, rather than dreading them as seasons of oppression, we considered wilderness seasons as an opportunity to grow deeper in our faith while discovering Emmanuel—the God who is with us always?" (Camealy, Kris, 2019, Everything is Yours, pg. 43)

I walked into Aldi 2 weeks ago and immediately saw the display of Father’s Day cards right inside the door. I cried and in that moment I’d never been more grateful for the mask that covered my face. Right around that same time, Jon took the girls fishing and I stayed home and cried like I’ve never cried before and then, I pretty much stayed in bed for two days. Why? Beause as you know, this is grief. Because for the first time it truly hit me that I am fatherless. I think it finally came crashing in and settled into my soul that you are gone, Dad. What a terribly sad and terrifying thing it felt like in that moment.

My heart was already broken from years of watching you suffer and then watching you die. I’ve come to learn no matter how old you are when you lose your parent, it just makes the world seem a little less secure. And then, people started getting sick and then people started getting angry and people starting fighting and people started dying and I don’t know how to make heads nor tails of anything now, Dad.

I spent the better part of last year preparing for you to die. Actually, I’ve spent the better part of time, since your diagnosis, preparing for you to die. Looking back to last year, much of my words reflected on how painful it was in that moment and yet I noted how much more painful it would feel when you were no longer here. My mind knew; it was preparing. But my heart? Nothing can prepare the heart for what that loss truly feels like.

I’m learning that you can’t prepare the heart for loss. The only choice you have is to walk your heart through it when it happens. And it sucks, it absolutely sucks!

I keep hearing your voice, it’s telling me to surrender. I know it’s your voice because you said it to me more than once through the years. And you said it to me not as one with an all-knowing attitude as though you accomplished surrender once and for all. You said it to me as one, humbly learning how to surrender in your own life and stumbling along the way.

“Surrender is like walking through a labyrinth. At moments you are on the outside edge only to be drawn back towards the center. In and out of the center you weave, closer to God, then further from Him, until at last, you find yourself held totally in His hands. The next time it’s familiar—maybe not easier, but at least not so foreign. And the time after that, and the next, you recognize the terrain, you know how it works, you know that eventually, if you keep leaning into God, you will find yourself held. But there’s no conquering it. There’s no way to master it—not on this side of the veil.” (Camealy, Kris, 2019, Everything is Yours, pg. 113)

I’m stumbling, Dad. Because part of me is unsure of what I’m supposed to surrender. Another part of me knows I must surrender this heartbreak and I must surrender you, Dad. I may have said the words and for sure there have been times all along this journey where I have believed I was surrendering this heartbreak and you to God. I've believed and trusted God is with me. But, I have held onto the heartbreak with a vice grip. And I’ve held onto you. Because what happens if I let this heartbreak go, if I let you go?

“Whenever God invites me to release something to Him, so often my hand-off is one filled with tears and fears and real grief. But in time, when I have left it to Him, I am always surprised by the joy that emerges." (Camealy, Kris, 2019, Everything is Yours, pg. 112)

I believe you Dad. I believe you when you tell me to surrender and I’m working on it - I’ll always be working on it. And I remain hopeful for the joy that will emerge.

I’m grateful for this and so many lessons you’ve taught me throughout the years. I’m grateful for the patient and gentle way you lead me to discover things on my own. I remember with joy your laughter and weird humor. I remember with pride how you were there for so many in their time of need. I appreciate all the little things you did with us kids growing up, sacrifices you made for us and so much more. 

I’m blessed you called me your daughter and I’m forever grateful God allowed me to call you Dad.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love, Julia