It's that time of year again, when I write about love, loss, and God's eternal grace.
It's the time of year that I write about my dad.
February 5th is coming up in a few days--eight to be exact. I only know the exact count because my baby is due two days after that.
It's been seven years since I was a fifteen year old girl, trying to learn how to drive a massive SUV well enough to meet my father's standards. His standards were impossibly high and I was the type of driver that gives girls a bad reputation. It took me days to learn just how to drive straight. It seemed too daunting of a task at first. How was I ever supposed to maneuver a vehicle in a straight line! Laugh if you must, but my fifteen year old self discovered her own Mt. Everest in that simple task.
Eventually, I learned--as everyone must--how to drive in a straight line. How to brake at a reasonable rate. The joys of driving the golden state freeway in rural northern California. The laws and customs of the road. And, since my father was the lovable scoundrel that he was, just how to talk myself out of a ticket.
And just like driving, the death of a loved one is a process that everyone must endure. At first, it seems impossible and cruel, lonely but chaotic. When my father died, I felt like the only person on the earth that had truly experienced pain. Surely no one else endured a tragedy as severe. Grief can be selfish at first, isolating us from reality.
Then, it becomes a daily, yet still painful, experience. It is familiar, omnipresent, and we grow accustomed to the discomfort. I hated my driving lessons, yet I knew they were necessary to reach the next step in life. I loathed the daddy-shaped hole in my heart an life, yet I no other recourse but to continue on.
One day, we realize that we've become accustomed. Driving no longer terrifies us; it is the norm. Grief no longer paralyzes us; it is there. The terror of driving alone has faded, occurring only in an unsure moment. The pain of loss flares up sometimes, as something trivial strikes a memory. But life has gone on, and has reached a new normal.
Now, seven years later, driving is simply a method of transportation. The permit my father insisted I get at 15 and a half (to the day) turned into a driver's license, which has stayed with my for seven years. The name on the license is different, showing my married status. I am different, changed, and thankfully, a better driver than I was at fifteen. (Just don't ride with me in a strange city. Country roads and open freeways for this girl, please.)
Seven years later, my father's death is just a bullet point in my resume of life. I've brought it out for scholarships, or talking points, but it's there. I'm not longer a girl on the cusp of turning sixteen, but a woman-- nine months pregnant--who happens to be turning twenty three.
I'm acutely aware of the morbidity of the road. Of traffic lights missed and crushed metal. Of careless drivers and blown tires. Of the danger in the necessary act of getting in a car.
I'm acutely aware of the tragedies of life, that everyone suffers. I know that our loved ones can be taken from us at any time, that children, parents, grandparents, and friends all die.
I pray for the safety of my loved ones and myself.
I pray for protection from tragedy, and for the strength to cope with it when it comes--both for others and myself.
I do not miss being a worried fifteen year old, trying to steer a giant SUV. That is a phrase I am too happy to have left behind.
But, I do miss my father. His laughter. His view of life. His stubborn ways that lead to both joy and trouble.
I wish he could meet his first grandchild and hold him in his giant arms. I know he'd be thrilled that his children followed in his stubborn, hard-working footsteps. Life is different than I imagined, than I planned.
But I know this now. Tragedy strikes every person. I was never alone in my grief. It comes at different points in our lives, but eventually, the world's brokenness catches us in its grip. I've found the proverbial beauty in the ashes, and now try to not fear the next refining fire that might strike my life. Whatever it may be.
Losing my father gave me empathy, the ability to mourn with others. I can recall the shock and heartache of losing him and mourn alongside someone. I can better pray for healing and comfort because I've experienced sharp grief. The world is less golden than it was seven years ago and more realistic. The demand for the savior's grace is evident every day, as a degenerating world seeks for conversion. One of my favorite writers, Flannery O'Connor, is renowned for her grotesque, dramatic, and seemingly illogical stories that point a twisted world to a perfect savior. She once wrote that "All of my stories are about the action of grace on a character who is not very willing to support it, but most people think of these stories as hard, hopeless, and brutal."
Seven years after my father's death, that idea resonates with me. My life had to be ripped apart to show, teach, and reveal God's grace. I was a Christian before my father's death, but a young one, a weak one. It was a hard, hopeless, brutal crisis point, but it bettered me, my family, and prayerfully, revealed God's love, mercy, and provision to many others.
And visual aids just for fun
Summer 2006
(Stephen Joel and I didn't like smiling)
Christmas 2013
(Yes, my mom seems to have gotten younger)
