For My Father: Grieving Upward, Going Forward

He's out there ahead of me now; he's up higher, above me, and if I want to keep him close, I have to follow his lead. I hope I have the courage.

By Jennifer Hartline Published on June 17, 2016

Father’s Day looms heavy. This year, for the first time, I’ll have no phone call to make. No card to send. No gift to give. I won’t even be able to go visit his grave, since he’s buried a thousand miles away.

My father died in the snow-covered stillness of early March, just past midnight, in the loving shelter of the five of us who were his family. We were blessed to be present for every moment of his last hours, and to experience the very moment he stepped into eternity. It was a holy and precious thing to behold, even as it shattered my heart and caused a shift in my soul I was not prepared for.

In losing my father, the first piece of my origin has vanished from sight. The core of my existence, the ground of who I am, now contains a crater of scorched earth. I’m standing on smoldering soil, unsure of where to place my feet, or whether this strange ground will even keep me above.

Death had the audacity to change my life without consulting me. Cancer had the shameless cheek to mock my father’s decades of deliberate, healthy habits, go straight to his brain, and take him out with one shot.

And I’m supposed to be at peace with this. I’m supposed to dwell not on his death, but on his rebirth into eternal life, and rejoice. God help me, but all I know right now is wide-eyed shock and raw, aching pain.

Everything within me wants to stay put at his bedside; or rather, at his feet where he sat on the couch the last time he spoke to me, and I held his hands in mine, and lay my head on his heart, and kissed his stubbly warm cheek, and felt his tears mingling with mine on my face. I don’t want to leave that spot. I can feel him there. It’s where he is in my mind, and I don’t want to go on into this life where he is not.

I don’t want this new fractured life. I don’t want this new air; air I can’t even breathe. That must be why my chest always hurts, why my lungs feel so heavy. I’m always gasping for breath with this empty air. I want the air that still carried the smell of his aftershave and the sound of his voice.

I loved his hands. They weren’t chubby or overly soft, but magnificently capable, and always gentle. His hands were lean and solid — like him — sure and true. He worked a million miracles with those hands during his life; restoring forgotten things, repairing broken things, creating new things, giving whatever was needed, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, doing the impossible. He especially worked those fingers to exhaustion on behalf of the ones he loved most. How to describe or count all the sacrifices and wonders he worked with those remarkable hands? It’s a clear sky full of stars.

DadHis shoulder wasn’t generously padded, but there was no place in the world my heart found more comforting. Within his embrace, nothing could ever harm me. His arms were like a fortress I could hide in, and no dragon could approach.

He had a true twinkle in his eyes when he laughed, and he enjoyed a bit of mischief. He could catch flies with his bare hand, and he’d say with a triumphant whoop, “Gotcha, you dirty potlicker!” He loved lively music and dancing, was an avid Sci-fi fan, and had an often annoying tendency toward logic such that we nicknamed him “Spock.”

Yet he also battled with a fatigue and a depression that often dragged him down into gray, gloomy places. I’ve never seen a man fight harder just to keep going, when his mind and body seemed to work against him constantly. He carefully minded what he ate, exercised diligently, and did everything in his power to be as healthy as he could be, and it seemed he was always just treading water. But he never gave up.

His spirit, even when burdened and low, had the spark of love for Christ, and if at times his faith was sorely tried, he refused to take his hand off the plow and turn back. He questioned at times, felt angry and bewildered now and then, and wondered whether he’d been forsaken, but he always ended up on his knees for one more day, praising the Lord for all His blessings and asking for the strength to serve Him well.

His suffering at the end of his life was great, and he stumbled a few times as he carried that heavy cross. I think he, too, was stunned that cancer should come for him, and so swiftly and cruelly. I think he still felt there was more for him to do. He just never imagined it would be accomplished in sickness and dying.

We had many conversations in his final weeks; the kind that are pure and meaty, with not a word wasted on anything trivial or false. He told us again and again how he felt his heart would burst out of his chest with love — love for God and the love he felt from God. It overwhelmed him each time, and his tears flowed so freely. He wished he could give this gift of love to every hurting soul on earth, so they could feel how great and tender is the love of God.

He wished God would not give this awesome love to him, but instead would give it to those poor souls who needed it more. He had no doubt of His Savior, and where he was going. When I cried that I didn’t want to be without him, he reached his finger out toward my heart and promised he would always be with me. Closer than ever, he swore. “You must keep on being a light in this darkened world,” he said over and over.

So like it or not, I must go on into this new life I never wanted. There’s a quiet but persistent voice whispering to me that in order to be with him now, I have to run after him. I have to somehow grieve upward.

He’s out there ahead of me now; he’s up higher, above me, and if I want to keep him close, I have to follow his lead. I hope I have the courage.

Hands to the plow, even though my heart is broken and my eyes always leaking. I still need you, Daddy, to do what you’ve done for me all my life — look out for me, protect me, and light the way until I’m safely home. Very well done, my good and faithful father. I love you so.

Print Friendly, PDF & Email

Like the article? Share it with your friends! And use our social media pages to join or start the conversation! Find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, MeWe and Gab.

Inspiration
The Scarcity Mindset
Robert Morris
More from The Stream
Connect with Us