Dublin Dreaming

photo source

During my junior year of college I studied abroad in Ireland.  Dublin to be exact.  I am the daughter of a man who traveled to Ireland at least a hundred times.  I’m not really exaggerating here either.  My father would go there every chance he got, and as an United Airlines employee who enjoyed free airfare, he got a lot of chances. 

All of my friends were planning on studying abroad so in the fall of our junior year we started mapping our adventures.  Sarah would be studying in Nottingham, Whit in Paris.  Shan and Mal went to Barcelona, Afeld to Madrid.  I waffled between Italy and Dublin ultimately choosing my Irish roots because I didn’t want to have to deal with learning a foreign language.  And because Guinness.  Then I found out I could study acting for a semester even though it wasn’t my major and I was sold.  For four whole months I could pretend to be the theater major I always dreamed of.  And I could do it in Ireland with cute Irish boys with cute Irish accents.  Really, what more did I need?

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I’ve found myself thinking a lot about this semester abroad recently.  Our friends Mary and Niall came over for dinner one night last fall.  Niall is Irish, born and raised outside of Dublin.  Naturally the semester abroad photo album had to be busted out.  We flipped through the pages, Niall knowing just about every spot with very few clues in the details of the picture.  It had been a while since I perused the pages of this scrapbook.

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 I can’t think about Dublin without remembering the buskers, street musicians that played up and down Grafton street, and the very distinct child buskers who sang in whiny, high pitched voices all sounding the same.  They must have been trained somewhere together.  I can’t think about Dublin without remembering the huge stack of books I read while I was there.  After coming off a tremendously busy season before study abroad, having the time to read and read and read felt amazing.

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I remember the feeling of living in a city, the ways it rejuvenated me every morning, stirring something deep in my bones.  I remember dark pubs that turned into weird nightclubs after a certain hour and an Irish boy named Tommy who tried to kiss me in one.  I panicked and put my hand in front of his mouth.  I’m not known for my smooth moves.

I can picture the pubs and coffee shops where I studied and read.  The department store I bought the one pair of black stretchy pants I would wear daily for the next four months having not known to pack black “movement” clothes for theater classes.  I can hear the Irish music radiating from Oliver St. John Goagarty’s and smell the cigarette smoke that thickly filled that pub on that last day before the no cigarette ban went into effect at midnight.  My mind wanders down the path to the Tesco where we bought our groceries, mine an assortment of peanut butter, rice cakes, green peppers and nutella.  Always nutella.

There are so many smells and sounds and images that Ireland conjures up.  Beyond that, the greatest thing it invokes is a feeling.  It’s a feeling of excitement and happiness, energy and endless possibility.  Studying abroad was four months of endless possibility.  Paris for the weekend?  Sure!  Guinness for breakfast?  Absolutely!  Every week held a new adventure and when studying is done in a century old pub off of Grafton Street, even studying is an awesome endeavor.

It is sometimes frustrating, in this season of small kids, and cheerios and endless monotony, how far from my study abroad experience life has taken me.  I wish I could go back and do it again.  They don’t tell you, when you’re in it, how once-in-a-lifetime this experience is.  Or maybe they do and you’re just too young and foolish to understand.

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I know I’ll be back.  It’s top of my bucket list to run the Dublin marathon and show Tommy (my husband, not the poor Irish lad I rejected) the place that holds a piece of my heart.  And my siblings and I hope to some day take a portion of my father’s remains there, certain he would want a piece of him to reside in his favorite place on earth.  In the meantime I’ll just stare longingly at the pictures in the InstaIreland instagram feed and remind myself that there’s still time.  And maybe Monster or Toots or Red will choose to study there in twenty years.  In which case I better start saving now for the airfare to visit them…

Pictures courtesy of the InstaIreland instagram feed, my newest obsession.  Check it out.

On November and Being Filled

On the morning of the first of November I woke up early and began to prepare brunch for fourteen adults and three and a half kids.   The bacon sizzled filling the whole house with its glorious smell.    I made blueberry crisp with Greek yogurt, goat cheese scrambled eggs and three pots of coffee.  Sarah J brought pumpkin bread and Sarah R a crust less quiche.  There were mimosas and bloody marys, coffee cake and oranges.  We used every one in my eclectic collection of mugs, which gave me a profound sense of happiness. 

Most of the morning was spent in my kitchen, around my island and then my kitchen table.  We laughed and sipped coffee and I realized that brunch may just be my favorite type of gathering to host.  As our friends began gathering their things and saying their good-byes Marty commented that this whole morning was “good for his soul.”  All I ever want is for my home to be good for the soul.

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We sang happy birthday and Tommy blew out candles on an icing-less birthday cake a few days later.  A simple birthday dinner with his parents and sisters was one of his nicest.  My mom and sister joined us for dessert and I watched from the doorway between the dining room and kitchen as all the different conversations happened before me.   I watched my husband in his element, surrounded by the people who know him best, thankful for this place for everyone to land.  

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A few days after that a different, larger group gathered for my brother’s thirtieth birthday.  His birthday was still a few weeks away, but he, along with many other relatives, were in town for my dad’s memorial service and it seemed as good a time as any to celebrate him and this milestone birthday.   With everyone around I wanted to gather us as much as possible.  I’d planned to keep it simple that night.  I knew it would be a hard weekend as we approached the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.  I ordered beef sandwiches and chopped salads from Portillo’s and let everyone else bring appetizers and booze.    That night I was in our bedroom nursing Red when everyone seemed to arrive at once.  I came into my kitchen to a whirlwind of plates, food, greetings and fullness.  Full kitchen, full home, full heart. 

We sat in my living/dining room in a large circle for hours that night laughing full belly laughs.  Long running inside jokes wove in and out of the conversations.  Some of our oldest and closest family friends, the Dunns, stayed last telling story after story of our shared past, reliving them new as adults. 

Something special happened that night.  Something got put back together a little bit in my living room and for the first time in a long time I had hope for my family.  Maybe we weren’t broken completely.

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The next weekend my living room turned into a filming set as my house church/small group/supper club contributed to a promotional video for a book we’d been reading.  Once the interviews had been conducted and the “B-Roll film” shot the cameraman left and I found myself eating chili-mac around my table with the people who have in many ways carried me through this past year.  After dinner we continued our conversations utilizing the open layout of my living/dining room combo while some sat on the couch and others stayed at the table, everyone fully engaged in one long conversation.

And again I marveled at how important it is for me to fill my home with my people.  When we first looked at this house with our real estate agent I stood in my dining room and looked across the expanse of this great room and imagined my people in it.  I could see it.  Could see the very scene that now lay before me in real life.  This home was meant for my people.

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Our single greatest endeavor in the art of opening our home came at the end of the month when we welcomed 25 people in for Thanksgiving dinner.  There were a million reasons this last party should have been a disaster.  I’d never actually cooked a turkey or any of the traditional thanksgiving foods for that matter.  Tommy and I decided to invite whoever was around from each of our extended families, which meant that our large gathering consisted of quite a few people who don’t really know each other.   And on top of all of it I wasn’t quite sure how my immediate family would be feeling that day; the holidays, Thanksgiving being the first of a long six weeks or so of merriment, have a way of heightening grief I’ve learned. 

On the morning of Thanksgiving I found myself in a state of panic, worried I’d mess up the turkey, worried no one would interact naturally with one another and it would be 25 people crammed into my house in varying states of awkwardness with only my over-done turkey to keep them occupied.  In this moment I needed my dad.  I needed my buffer of a father who could connect anyone and make everyone feel comfortable.  I needed my dad.  And so I threw up the same desperate prayer I’ve been praying for weeks.  Redeem this Lord.  Redeem even this.  Please.

We pulled out the leaf again on my dining room table and set our large card table next to it.   I put on the new table clothes and used my most colorful cloth napkins trying to create a lovely space that would make people feel comfortable without going too crazy because table settings aren’t really my forte.  I set my timer every thirty minutes to baste the turkey and prepared everything I could ahead of time, all while pleading with Jesus to do his redemption thing.

And miraculously he did.  People arrived, strangers forged connections, laughter reigned.  For weeks afterwards people let us know what a nice time it was at our house on Thanksgiving.

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I don’t share this to regale you with tales of my hostess-ing prowess.  I’m actually not naturally a very good hostess.  I constantly forget to offer people drinks or take their coats and I can never seem to remember people’s dietary need and preferences.  I’ve made meat for vegetarians and pizza for gluten-frees.   I tell you this because November was supposed to be the worst.  November was supposed to be a dark month filled with dark days and dark memories of what had happened a year before. 

Instead November was a whirlwind of opening my home to pretty much every cross section of my people.  It was a steady cycle of laying out glasses and table settings, piling coats on the coat rack, serving meals, loading the dishwasher, lather, rinse, repeat. And something happens to me when I do this simple act of welcoming my people into my home.  It fills me up in the simplest way.  It floods the darkest parts with light.  I can’t explain why, or how, but having a home filled with people is good for the deepest parts of me.  November was supposed to suck.  But it didn’t.  I didn’t plan on filling my November with all these gatherings; it wasn’t until mid month that I really looked at the calendar and saw what had happened.  But I don’t think it was coincidental at all.  It wasn’t an accident that during the month I needed it most I was already set up to do the thing that makes me whole.

I want to encourage you to do whatever it is that puts you back together.  For me it’s filling my home with my people.  Maybe for you it’s painting furniture or creating jewelry, writing, or going to movies alone.  Maybe it’s dancing or dinner with your most favorite person or holing away and reading alone for hours.  Whatever it is, do it with reckless abandon.  Let these acts put you back together when you’re finding yourself at the end of yourself.  Do the thing that fills your inner darkness with light and don’t apologize for it.  We need to do the things that make us whole, even when, especially when, we don’t think we have time for it.

November was supposed to suck.  And it didn’t.

Red: Seven Months

Sweet Red is seven (almost eight!) months old!  I know there are lots of people who will wax on nostalgically at how magical infancy is and how fast it goes, particularly with a third.  People who will bemoan this speeding of time, wishing fervently for it to slow down. 

I am not one of those people.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a baby person.  The older my kids get the more I realize that babies are not my jam.  And I’m ok with that, because really this stage doesn’t last too long.  And by the time you’re on your third- it flies.

What can I say about Red at seven months?  The first thing people notice about her is her hair.  All of my kids were blessed with full heads of hair from birth, all different shades.  Red is my only ginger and it’s a lovely shade at that.  Obviously I treasure it doubly as it reminds me of my dad.

She’s going to be an extrovert I think.  Her whole face lights up when someone looks her way and she does a full body shake.  She loves people.  I’ve never been greeted by such a happy kid first thing in the morning when I release her from her crib.  She loves us, her family.  Big smiles for everyone.

Perhaps because she’s got two older siblings, but all she wants in the world is to be in the mix.  And don’t you dare try to leave her alone in a room.  This used to make her holler and scream.  Now that she can army crawl she just determinedly follows us around wherever we go.  (Of course army crawling is a slow and laborious task and as soon as Red catches up to us we’re off to another room.  I have a feeling this kid will be one happy camper once she learns to walk.)

I'm not sure if I can blame the red hair, but she definitely has more of a temper at this age than my other two.  Until Red I’ve never really seen a baby get mad.  Sad, upset, discontent yes.  But full on angry, temper tantrum style.  Not so much.  I kind of love this feisty fire, though.  That, combined with her determined spirit will serve her well.

The thing I’m learning, perhaps my favorite truth of parenting, is that it just keeps getting better.  I keep loving my kids deeper and harder and madder each year.  Their personalities develop and emerge more and more each passing day.  The stuff they are into, the things they are able to do, it just gets better with time.  And so now that I know this truth I can’t wait.  I can’t wait to see Red grow, to understand who she’s been created to be, to watch her live into that self.  It’s so much fun isn’t it?

I have different prayers for each of my kids, prayers that started when they were growing in my belly, prayers that I’ve echoed in the days since.  My prayer for Red has centered on redemption.  I pray that Red will be sensitive to the work of God’s redemption, in her own life and the lives of others.  I pray she will be a warrior of this work, partnering with God to pull people out of the wells they’ve imprisoned themselves in and helping them redeem their stories.  It’s good work if you can get it.

 Sweet Red.  She fits so beautifully into our family.  Monster made us parents, Toots made us a family and Red- Red committed us to the work of being family.  There's no way around it now.  With three kids we're in the thick of it.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

These beautiful photos are courtesy of my good friend Mary, who offered to take photos of Red, both as a newborn and again at six months.  And really, how could I possibly say no to such beautiful shots!  This kid is going to be my most and best photographed one!  Thanks Mary!

Book Draft

Book Club met for our annual book draft last night.  You know how I feel about my book club.  They are awesome.  Last year we started doing a January book draft in the same vein as a fantasy football draft (sort of).  We all gather with our book recommendations and set about plotting out what we will read for the next year.  After too many months of not reading the book because we couldn't get it from the library in time or finally managed to decide on a book about a week and a half before our next meeting it was really great to have the next eleven books mapped out.  This year the ante was upped when Sarah (our resident elementary school teacher) brought home her chart paper and markers, color coordinating our book suggestions.

I love a good book list and I'm super excited about the books we picked for this year.  I'm not sure anyone will care about what we've settled on, but in case some of you made a resolution to read more in the New Year thought I'd share the results of the 2015 book draft.  Without further ado, here's what I'll be reading this year.

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr- This one was on a number of people's lists and I'm excited to start off with some fiction.  For some reason I find myself gravitating towards fiction less and less, which bums me out because I love a good story.

Small Victories by Anne Lamott-  I've got a couple of Anne Lamott books on my nightstand right now.  Whit said Small Victories was a "love letter to your soul" and really, who can argue with that.

Unbroken by Lauren Hillenbrand- Obviously there's a lot of buzz with this one with the movie coming out recently.  We decided to try a "couples" book club with Unbroken and include our husbands, fiances and boyfriends in on the action. (By the way Tommy, you have to read this book and come to a special book club in April.  I mean, only if you want to.)

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler- This recommendation came with the rule NOT TO READ ANYTHING ABOUT THE BOOK BEFORE YOU READ IT.  So we're doing that.  All I know is it's a thinker with a strange premise.

Yes Please by Amy Pohler-  I love Amy Pohler. I loved Tina Fey's memoir "Bossy Pants,"  I can't wait to read this one.

The Art of Stillness by Pico Iyer- This is a short book that came out of Ted Talk by Pico Iyer.  It seems mindfulness, stillness and being present is the mantra of 2015 and I'm pumped.  I need more of it.

Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi-  Yes my book club is reading a cookbook.  Cause the thing we love more than books?  Is food.  I'm actually really excited for this one.  Our plan is to spend the month trying out recipes and coming together to make a huge meal with the best recipes.  Sign me up.

The Memory Garden by Mary Rickert-  This was one book that until last night I'd heard nothing about, but it sounds like an interesting story with secrets, friendship, history and a garden.  And again, yea fiction!

The Secret Place by Tana French-  Tana French spins a great tale and her's take place in Dublin (my favorite).  This one also involves a boarding school which is a fascinating back drop for this life long public schooler.

The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd-  I'm hoping to read Kidd's non-fiction book this year as I heard I might connect well with it's spiritual journey themes.  This novel takes place in nineteenth century Charleston and chronicles the thirty-five year friendship between a young white girl and the little girl who is meant to be her handmaid.  It sounded fascinating and beautiful.

Where'd You Go Bernadette by Maria Semple- I've actually already read this one.  It's a really funny and thoughtful tale of a family trying to find its way back together.  I love the way Semple tells the story- through letters and emails and faxes and receipts and the occasional narration of the young teenaged daughter.



Last year we coined the phrase "Books to ROO" (Read On your Own) for books that looked great but didn't quite make the cut.  I have a few that I plan to ROO this year as well.

Columbine by Dave Cullen- Unbroken beat out this one, but I'm interested in reading it anyway.  I was 16 when Columbine happened and I think it would be fascinating to read about it now, as an adult.

I am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes- This one was deemed a little too long for our monthly gatherings but it generated a lot of excitement when it was suggested.

The Dinner by Herman Koch- I wanted to read this one because I love books that give you different perspectives on the same event.  I always think it's so fascinating how two or more people can see the same thing completely differently, in this case a dinner party.


So there you have it.  This is what I'm reading this year (among other things).  What are you excited to read in 2015?

Work and Play

It’s 2015. 

Photo of the kiddos on New Year's Eve.  This may well be my all time favorite picture of them (subcategory: hilarious) AND a terrifying picture of what I hope is not to come for my party girl Toots.  

I don’t know if I’ve ever in my life felt such a strong sense of movement towards a new season that so perfectly aligned with the New Year.  And like years past I’m finding a word or phrase rising to the surface above the jumble that bumps around my head.  If I’m being truthful there are actually a few separate words that are shaping me in some profound and deeply lasting ways.  I’m sifting through those, quietly in my heart first, then aloud with my people and hopefully finally on the page.  But that’s another post for another day.

Right now, as I set about the pages of new calendars and plans/goals/intentions for this New Year I find myself thinking about work and play.  These two words are setting my prayers for this year.

I spent 2014 working through a lot of shit, for lack of a better word.  When my dad died it felt like everything I knew blew up and I got thrown into the deep end of a turbulent ocean, left with the work of sorting out what was what in the middle of a storm.  It was the kind of work that felt like treading water in choppy seas.  I didn’t have a choice in the work.  It was survival work.  It was keeping my head above water, trying not to drown work.  It was exhausting, day-by-day, hour-by-hour work.  And then when the seas calmed and the sun started to peek through clouds and I had a minute to catch my breath and look around it appeared that after all that work I was still in the exact same place as I had started.

But, as I head into this New Year, I’ve realized that I’m stronger than I was before.  All that treading strengthened muscles I didn’t know existed and the survival of it all left me a little surer of myself than before.  And now I’m ready to swim.  I’m ready to do the work instead of just survive it.  It’s a different kind of work this year, one that I feel more responsible for rather than responsive to.  There are some projects I want to finish, some directions I want to head in, and some things I want to say out loud.  And this year, more than ever before, I want to put my head down and swim.  I want to use all these muscles I’ve developed and add some discipline.  There is some big work to be done this year and I think I’m ready to do it.

But, I also want to play.  Because 2014 was a heavy year.  Of course it was.  And I need 2015 to feel a little more playful.  There were moments this past year when I wondered if I’d ever feel truly happy again.  The loss of my dad touched everything and I didn’t think I’d feel pure joy without a twinge of sadness again.  I may not.  I may carry a sliver of this giant loss with me always.  But more than ever before I’m ready to fight for joy and laughter.  I’m ready to play.

I want to play laser tag with all my friends for my 32^nd birthday.  And I want to go roller-skating with Tommy on date night.  I want to laugh until I cry and drink just a little too much wine with my girlfriends.  I want to wrestle with my kids and do things just because they are playful and fun.  I want to make silly faces in photos and practice spontaneity.  For all the work to be done this year I want there to be an equal amount of play.  I need to play.

And so these are the words that I pray shape 2015.  Work and Play.  Both and.  I have high hopes and deep trust in this year.  Something has shifted in me and I’m ready.

Work and Play.

On Redemption

I had an interesting discussion with my co-workers recently that I haven’t quite been able to get out of my head.  We were discussion that theological dilemma about whether or not God intervenes (or chooses not to intervene) in order to teach us a lesson.  More specifically, did God cause my co-worker to get an intense thyroid virus that rendered him incapable of doing pretty much anything as a way to “slow him down?”  This conversation sprung from an incredibly insensitive comment that I made- pretty much to that effect. 

For the record I felt awful when I realized what I’d said.  I mean if he were battling cancer, I would never in a million years have told him that God caused his cancer in order to slow him down.  That would be awful.  And if someone had told me that God allowed my dad to die so that I could learn something I would have punched that person in the face.  It’s a problematic theology, this “God’s hand in stressful/difficult/tragic situations in order for us to learn something” theology.

And I’ve wrestled with it much this year following my dad’s death.  I don’t believe that God would put our family through the hell of this year to teach us something.  It’s pretty twisted.  I don’t think God causes cancer in order to wake us up or makes us hit that tree with our car to teach us a lesson.  I just don’t think God is that manipulative or cruel. 

But if I don’t believe that, can I believe that God does intervene in some cases?  Was it his hand that caused me to be late, narrowly missing that car crash by mere seconds?  If he saved me, why didn’t he also do it for the others?  It’s a tricky rabbit hole to go down. 

And it’s hard because I don’t want to pick and choose, acknowledging God’s intervention when the outcome is good but not when the outcome is bad.  But then is the solution to acknowledge God’s intervention in ALL things or in NO things?

Like most things regarding God I’m finding myself more and more comfortable with a simple “I don’t really know.”  And that’s how I left it in the conversation with my co-workers.  I’m just not really sure.

But then later, as I drove home, I realized there is something that I’m beginning to know for sure.  I’m beginning to know that in all things God redeems.  This is the story told over and over again throughout the Bible.  God redeems.   He takes what is broken, what is lost, what is ruined and he makes it new, better, beautiful.  He turns a horrific death on a cross into salvation for all.  He redeems.  God is in the business of redemption.

For a long time I believed that God’s work of redemption was a begrudging work.  We stupid humans kept messing up what God had created and he kept swooping in to “fix it.”  And each time he did, it came with an eye roll, a heavy sigh and a hint of annoyance that there was yet another thing in need of redemption. 

But I’m starting to wonder if God maybe loves being in the business of redemption.  If this is the kind of work that makes his heart sing.  If it is exhilarating and fulfilling and exciting work for him.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been binge watching last season of Gray’s Anatomy on Netflix, but this idea of God loving the work of redemption makes me think of surgeons.  Surgery is long, and complicated and exhausting.  And yet surgeons, the ones who were made to be surgeons, can’t get enough of it.  They would stand in one place for hours and hours at a time fixing what is broken in the human body and walk out of that operating room exhilarated, fulfilled and excited.  They aren’t rolling their eyes and huffing about having to fix another heart.  They are in the business of fixing hearts.  It’s what they were made to do. 

And I think God is in the business of redeeming what is broken, hard and hurting. 

So I’m starting to pay attention to this work.  When I do this well I notice it all around.  God is redeeming hard things all the time.  Which is good because we humans are really effective at creating hard things in need of redemption.  I want to partner with God in that work of redemption.  I want to pull people out of wells and help redeem their stories.  I want to be a person who looks for ways to bring about something redemptive in all things.

Because there is something different about redemptive work.  It’s not false positivity.  So many times in this past year of grieving I would get so frustrated with people who constantly wanted to point out any positives or push me along to happier thoughts.  Comments like, “I know this is hard but I pray that you can draw on all your happy memories of your dad right now” did anything but uplift me.  People are uncomfortable with sadness and so they are desperate to find anything positive and I get that.  But it left me feeling like I shouldn’t be sad, like if I just focused on the happy stuff the unbearable pain would just go away.  False positivity wants to hide the pain, cover it up, distract from it, pretend that it doesn’t exist.

Redemption is different.  Redemption sits in the pain and broken.   Honors it.  Allows for it.  And then out of that pain creates something new.  Redemption is rooted in the broken so that you don’t have to ignore or deny it, but blooms something beautiful out of pain.  Where false positivity wants to pretend like things can be the same, as before, if we just focus on what’s positive, redemption recognizes that nothing will ever be the same, but beauty is still possible.  Something new is created and it is good.  It is something altogether different than before it was broken, but it is beautiful and redeemed.

Redemption is everywhere I’m realizing.  Just as God is everywhere, so is his redemptive work.  In all things God redeems.   

One Year

Earlier this month marked one year since we lost my dad.  It feels cliché to say, but I can’t believe it’s been a year and I can’t believe it’s only been a year.  I knew it was true at the time, and the process of grieving him his past 365 days has only confirmed it, but thus far in my thirty-one years my dad’s death is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

In the months leading up to this milestone we struggled with what to do.  How do you mark the first anniversary of the worst day of your life?  In the end we decided to bury him.  There wasn’t really time to make the “what to do with dad’s remains” decision when he died, so we didn’t.  But over the course of the past year we’ve realized it might be nice to have a place to go.  A place for him that is not the back corner of my mom’s closet.  So we decided on a burial plot and purchased a gravestone. 

And on the first anniversary we held a small service, attended by us, my mom and siblings, and many of the people that have walked alongside us this year.  The people who have gotten us through.  Afterwards we went to my mom’s house for chili and gumbo, scotch and Guinness. 

As we pieced together what that day would look like I couldn’t help but think about the day of his funeral.  On that day we’d had a large service in the morning and then invited everyone back to my mom’s house for food, scotch and Guinness.  The day of the funeral is mostly a wild blur, but I remember the raw feeling of grief.  The tears that sprang at a moment’s notice and the numb shock. 

In the weeks leading up to the first anniversary I worried I would feel just as I had on the day of his funeral.  Because those days shared a similar cadence I assumed the emotions would be the same too.

But, much to my surprise, things were different.  There was sadness to be sure.  Tears and that ache of what should be but is not.  But for most of the day I moved with an anticipation of feelings that did not come.  At one point I ran to Mariano’s grocery story for (another) last minute trip before the service.  As I moved up and down the aisles I couldn’t help but think about how it felt to be there immediately following his death.  I remembered how I found myself looking for him in the faces of the shoppers.  I remembered how I couldn’t walk through the international food aisles without crying.  I remembered how for some reason the grocery story had become a hard place to be in the weeks following my dad’s death.  I remembered all these things differently though.  Instead of reliving the memories, feeling the pain and sadness of that time a year ago, I remembered them slightly removed now, with only a vague sense of what it all felt like.

I continued to remember the emotions without the raw feeling throughout that day.  And I realized that time really did what everyone said it would do.  The 365 days of isolating grief I’d endured had a purpose.  Time started to softened the blow.  Time started to heal.  And that was good. 

Which of course carries it’s own set of baggage.  Because acknowledging that you are moving along brings forth guilt.  This is the thing that makes grief the biggest asshole I know.   You can’t make progress without then experiencing sadness about said progress.  

But the point of this story is that one year later time had done something.  My heart had healed a little.  I was a little further along down the road of grieving my dad than I’d thought.

In a ridiculous twist of irony I found myself waiting in a receiving line at the exact same funeral home on the exact same Friday evening of my father’s wake one year later.  A church friend of my husband passed away in a similar sudden fashion.  Like my dad, Robb had died younger than one would have expected and his loved ones, like us, were left reeling.  The receiving line at Robb’s wake wound all through the funeral parlor and we had to wait a while to see his loved ones.  The same thing had happened at my dad’s wake- the line extending all the way outside.  I’d never really appreciated before just what people went through to express their condolences to us.

Once we got to Robb’s widow and stepson I found myself fumbling for words.  I wanted so badly to express to them that I knew, I knew exactly what this felt like.  I knew how hard it was to receive people graciously and how your feet hurt from standing and you still really can’t believe this is happening, that this is what your life looks like right now.  And I wanted to tell that that I can honestly say, one year later, that time does start to do something.  But that I also know how much they probably don’t want to hear that.  I know I didn’t want to hear that when I stood in their place.  I wanted to say that this is the shittiest thing that will ever happen to you and it’s awful and more than once in the next 365 days you will feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.  It is the worst thing you will ever have to go through but you will get through it.  You will get to this day in November 2015 and it won’t feel the same.  And that will be hard too, but it won’t feel the same.  It’s awful, but it won’t kill you.  Grieving will affect every aspect of your life and you’ll hate it but you will get through it.  And it won’t always be as awful as it is right this moment. 

I didn’t say all that.  But I tried to say enough.  I tried to help them know that they were not alone in their pain even though it felt like it.  And as we left the funeral home I once again acknowledged that time had allowed me to remember the pain of this day one year ago without feeling it fresh.  Time had done something.  And that’s good.