Window Into Grief and Loss

"My father died last week. Ever since then, dozens of people I don’t know or haven’t met in decades have approached me, emailed me, even called. They all offer “condolences” and hope for my strength in my “grief” and “pain”. And I understand and appreciate the kindness behind these sentiments. But I don’t feel it --- the hurt, the tearing, the agony that the death of a parent is supposed to bring. I have no connection with the need to “feel better” about what happened.

I don’t know if something is wrong with me, but I don’t think so. I’ll try to explain why.

My dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer 16 months ago, so there has been a lot of time to come to terms. We’ve said to each other what needed to be said. We shared our hopes, our visions of the past and the future, before he left. I expressed what he meant to me, as a model for my life: my relationship with God, my family, and my career. He was a man of peace. Not that he didn’t get angry; he had a temper when faced with wilful behaviour. But he knew who he was (a child of God) and he knew why God had put him here (to serve and honour Him, to raise a family in His path, and to forward a faith- based vision of learning). This gave him a sense of assurance, of groundedness, of calling. He faced death with a serenity that I don’t think I could share in his shoes. He knew his mission was accomplished, and he could return to his Father.

I was called back from a conference, and arrived at the hospice at 3:30 PM. The whole family was there. My dad was lying on the bed, breathing rapidly and harshly. That was hard to see, but the nurses said it wasn’t causing him pain. I touched him on the shoulder, and he turned and said “hi”. It was his last visible response to anyone. But they say the last thing to go is hearing. So we stayed with him, shared memories, tears, and laughter as a family together for the last time on this earth. My mother, brother and I stayed with him overnight. His breathing improved a lot, but he was working hard to keep going. Every so often we would look across the bed at each other, and smile or cry.

The next morning he was still stable, so we decided to go home to take a quick shower and freshen up. As we were leaving, I turned to look at my dad. His breathing stopped for a moment. I called my mom over, and she held his hand. Another big breath and sigh, then a little breath; then nothing. He sank back on the bed, and his body went limp. He had gone.

I would have expected that to be the worst moment of my life --- pain, anger, rage. But instead it was profoundly spiritual and deep, even joyful. I couldn’t find words until three days later, at the pastor’s message during the memorial service. At times like this, he said, the veil between this world and the next is stretched. It becomes thin, and we can feel the Other. That’s what I sensed: my father, my model and mentor, passed from this flawed, difficult existence and moved into something so incomprehensibly more beautiful that our meager language cannot come close to it except through music. Maybe that’s why songs bring tears to my eyes every time since then.

But I’ll try to put it into words anyway. The Other is deep. It loves. It is joy. It is peace. It is infinite. It seems so much more real than this puny existence. But I’ve come to understand that that’s wrong. The veil is a piece of cloth; God’s love seeps through everywhere. In the world of the everyday, we just don’t see it. Lately, I have been. I feel, really feel, a gust of cold air in my face on the way to work. I see so much more now when I watch my son play with his remote-controlled car. When I remember some time spent sharing with my dad, it isn’t any longer just a passing conversation. The ordinary is infused with the extraordinary; and wrapped up in our important daily lives, we often just don’t see it. This week has taken from me some of that layer of the mundane, brought me closer to God, and paradoxically, closer to my father.

This recent journey has strengthened my faith. But not as further proof of God’s existence. Thinking that way would just cheapen it. Instead, I now share some of my father’s peace. I can see God’s love more directly, and I can return it in kind. I can share with my family more simply, more honestly, more as a servant and friend. I can return to my career calling with a renewed love for my students, and of the part of creation I share with them. More acutely than before, I can be God’s child.

As the weeks and months pass, I expect that the ordinary will begin to deposit its crust again on the daily extraordinary, and soon I won’t experience as often those tearful, joyful moments that have been hitting me lately. But it’s too late now for the devil of the day-to-day. My dad will be with me always, seeping through that veil. And whenever I think of him, a little of the divine will come along for the ride."