This happened on Wednesday. I realized I hadn't spent more than five minutes (and that was driving) completely alone in the past six weeks. I've had a few chances to cry, but mostly I'm packing those emotions away by keeping crazy busy (which is just the norm around here). How do I know I'm packing the emotions? Well, I dream like crazy, all night, every night. It is the least restful sleep ever. I'm exhausted when I get up, want to nap, try really hard not to, or else I'm up til 1 a.m. (one night it was almost 3 a.m.) wanting to sleep, but not wanting to dream. My NGF said, "It's like watching movies all night long! Terrible!" Yes. Exactly that. So, with no real rest, no time to sit and think, no processing, my attitude started shifting.
In the classroom, on the floor, with a Halo Top ice cream (sort of Keto-friendly, but not when you eat the whole thing in one sitting), in the semi-dark, trying to cut out cute farm animals, and crying--no stopping the tears. Buck said, "Do you want to stay home from youth group tonight?" I nodded yes. It was more than want to, I needed to. I couldn't go out. It had all caught up to me, and the reality needed to sink in a little deeper than only this surface understanding I was allowing myself. My dad is gone. He's not coming back. That absolutely breaks my heart. He won't call me and sing to me on my birthday. He won't call me Jecca. He won't be there when I need to talk out a Biblical problem or just need advice on a decision Buck and I are stumped about. He won't be at the kids' graduations and weddings or at Christmas or hunting. Ughhhhhh. He's not just not around, he's gone.
We expected to let this heaviness hit when we returned to his and our hometown. But there are a lot of people who loved my dad and wanted to say goodbye to him, too. As my brother said after the second memorial, "I understand why people do private gatherings. You don't have to be 'on' the whole time." And that was exactly what it felt like. So many people to tell us they are sorry, so many people to comfort us, so many discussions to engage in--and all those things are good and healthy. But we also need that quiet moment to pause and figure out what this loss means to our here and now, and to our tomorrows.
So, we gathered on a rainy day in the tiny town where I grew up. In the church where my dad was ordained, where I was confirmed, where my cousins and siblings and I sang VBS songs, and performed Christmas and Easter plays. My grandma and grandpa's funerals took place in this church, in this room. It wasn't our plan. Our plan was the graveside service only, with a couple of songs on guitar by Caelan and Gabby, a Bible reading or short farewell as the urn was lowered into the ground . . .
The rain changed our plans. But that's okay. Every seat in that church was filled! We didn't have microphones or a plan, but when was dad ever a fan of making plans? :) My brother-in-law opened with prayer, my nephews took turns reading the obituary I wrote, out loud. Caelan played Amazing Grace on piano to a slightly different tune than was listed in the hymnal (the five-verse version threw her for a minute, but she recovered nicely). She also played I'll Fly Away, and everyone sang gustily the way dad wanted.
We invited everyone who wanted to go to the cemetery to join us there. Everyone joined us there! I even offered an early lunch to those who stayed behind. No takers :) As we walked the short block or two, bells tolled out each of dad's years. I love this. I think it is so special and solemn. My nephew called "Ding-dong" along with the bells. Little Sunshine, that one :)
My aunt insisted that we needed a lowering device for dad's urn. She was right :) Caelan finger knit a macramé-style holder that I tucked in my purse just in case. We sang my dad's blessing song (for meals, but there was a meal coming, so it was fine :), we sang the Doxology (led by my brother), my sister made us all introduce ourselves and our families (for being so "shy" she sure is bossy ;) just kidding, she did a great job addressing the crowd. My youngest brother read Psalm 23 (I may be out of order), and the little ones from several families (dad's grandkids, great nieces and nephews) helped mom lower him into the ground. The littles put flowers in with the urn, and the rain held off the whole time. We did one more round of I'll Fly Away (mom said that was dad's only request, "Whoever sings loudest--start I'll Fly Away, and everyone join in as loud as they can.") I forgot the song sheets with lyrics that I had printed, back at the church, but we did the best we could.
We walked back to the church in small groups and pairs, the older folks drove their cars. My 94-year-old great aunt from Minnesota was there. I cannot imagine living so long to see so many friends and family members pass away. It must be such a lonely feeling . . .
Anyway, the luncheon was very nice. All the tables were packed. It was funny to me to see the same church ladies who helped in the kitchen for anniversary parties, bridal and baby showers, church meals, when I was little--still helping, serving, and smiling now! I can't even describe the flood of memories, good memories, that come over me in that little church of my childhood!
I'm glad our kids got to spend time with their uncles and cousins. I'm glad that our family could gather to celebrate and say goodbye to my dad again. In some ways, I feel like the first service was saying goodbye to the dad of my adulthood--the pastor, father-in-law, older man that I knew and loved as an adult. Being in our hometown, where he took me fishing, where he taught me to ride my bike on the main street, where he built us an elaborate (dangerous) tree house, where he designed a playground both inside and outside his little grocery store/bait shop/gas station/restaurant, where he let me start my own lunch business for the farmers and charged me electricity and supply fees when I was 11, where all my early memories were formed . . . I buried the dad of my childhood.
How have we gotten through the past six weeks? Or even the weeks before that while he was in hospital after hospital? Look at all these cards! You've seen the meals. The countless prayers, hugs, notes of encouragement. I don't know how people who don't have people get through this. Yes, there are times I want to be alone, but knowing that when I don't want to be alone, I have so many people to turn to . . . that's what God's family looks like. I'm so grateful. I'm so grateful Dad is with God. Okay, that's all I've got tonight. Whew. That was hard.
1 comment:
Jesseca, this is absolutely beautiful....I love how you describe the difference between your "adult" father and your father of your childhood...you are a gifted writer and I am holding back tears.
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