I woke last night and slowly sat upright; my heart heavy in the darkness.
In the flurry of activity that follows the death of a loved one, there is often little time to acknowledge the thoughts in the mind or experience the emotions of the heart. My time for reflection had now come.
As I began to connect with what I was thinking and feeling, I found that I had certain expectations. Others had warned me about how difficult and painful this loss of a parent would be. Surely I would feel an overwhelming sense of loss. I most certainly would cry until there were no tears left to cry. Facing the loss of my beloved father would cause pain as if my heart were being ripped out of my chest. I expected to experience all of these responses and more. I thought I understood what this grief would be like.
Sitting there quietly in the dark of night, five days after his death, I moved beyond those preconceived ideas to face the realities of my soul. Instead of agony, what I found there was peace. Instead of distress, I found comfort. In the stillness, I was surprised that rather than intense grief, I felt relief.
You see, time has a way of draining the life out of a person. If we live long enough, time will chisel away pieces and parts of our bodies, our minds, the very vitality that we possessed and expressed in our youth. As an observer, it’s a sad and grievous process. In dad’s case, I could only be a silent and constrained witness, as month after month I watched him become a shadow of the person he once was.
His body weakened and his mind became confused. Instead of his laughter and lighthearted teasing there was quiet resignation and sadness. In times of confusion, he struggled to make sense of what was happening around him. In times of clarity, apologetic tears would flow from his eyes. He despised his helplessness and inability to serve as the strong provider and caretaker he had always been. I despised the process that was stealing him away from us.
As a believer in Christ, dad knew that a heavenly rest awaited him at the end of this life. We all took comfort in that eternal truth. I don’t think I’m alone, however, when I say that there was in my mind a certain disconnect between being alive and vibrant, and flying off into eternity. It never occurred to me that there would be months or even years of dying before death would come.
We all find ways to come to terms with the unavoidable death of our parents. We know it will happen and we know it will be hard. But if you’re like me, you tend to think of it as some abstract moment or event out there in the future somewhere. In my mind, it was the expectation that there would be a phone call early one morning informing me that my dad had passed on from this life. My expectations for grief and mourning were naturally aligned to this false foretelling of what would be. I wasn’t prepared for the reality that dying can take so long.
I’ve been grieving the loss of my father for many, many months. I’ve been mourning the gradual loss of his life and vitality for the past couple of years. He is no longer struggling, and I find peace in his rest. He has been restored to new life; I find comfort in his joy. He is no longer dying, and in his death, I find more relief than grief.