About Grief and Love

It's finally time for me to write about my dad.

He died a little over two years ago, and it is crazy to believe. I didn't write about him then because the hurt was too recent and the summer too hectic. Funeral plans, Oakcrest, applying for jobs, and eventually going back to school with a full work load. That first year was rough.  It was easier because I was a hundred miles away from my childhood home and I was swamped with school. During the summer, I allowed myself to be distracted from my grief by putting everything I had into being a counselor. During the school year, I allowed myself to be distracted by friends, homework, practicing, and Netflix. Then I would come home for a weekend and my dad's absence would be staring me right in the face. Looking back, I was coping in my own way. I wish that I had confronted my grief earlier. I wish that I had told myself that it was okay to feel sad and alone and angry.

Anger is what I remember most from the first few months. I was angry at my dad for leaving, my friends for not learning from his loss like I did, and my family for grieving differently than I did. Mostly, I was angry at God for letting it all happen. Luckily, that last bit didn't last for long, but the rest of the anger did. I was especially upset when people would say things to me to try to make me feel better. Some people were really good at it. Others were not. They would say things like "Only the good die young," (so my dad would have lived longer if he had just sinned a little more?) "Time heals all wounds," (so in twenty years I won't care about my dad's death at all?) "At least you have the gospel. It's so much harder for those who do not." (I can't fit all my thoughts about this phrase in one parenthetical statement.) At that time, I didn't want to hear that it would be okay and that everything happens for a reason. I wanted to scream and cry and have a temper tantrum and say it wasn't fair. I wasn't interested in logic. I just wanted my dad.

Two years later, I realize that comments like that are made from concern, and because people don't know what to say to a grieving person. I recently saw that the mom of a friend I had last semester had passed from cancer. I wanted to private message my friend and tell her so many things, but in fear of offending her or saying the wrong thing, I stayed silent. Even I, someone who lives with grief daily, didn't know what to say to a newly grieving person.

I remember my dad's funeral. I did not want to see my dad. I wanted to close the casket as soon as possible. Because this body laying there was not my dad. My dad was in the books at home, and in the suit-coats that still hung quietly in his closet. He was in his poetry, and in his music. He was in all of his hats and in the canes that he used to poke kids with in church. He was in every loving word given to us while we meandered through that church and that chapel. He was in the countless hugs we received that day*. And my dad is not in a grave in the Salt Lake Cemetery. He is here when our special song starts playing. He is here when we are all cooking together or when we are celebrating birthdays and holidays. That doesn't mean that I still don't miss him terribly. I want him to be there when I go through the temple, when I get married, when I have my first baby (and any that come after), at all my children's baby blessings and baptisms and other milestones. I have accepted now that he will not be there physically and it still breaks my heart that I won't get to do a daddy-daughter dance at my wedding reception or call him on the phone or tell him that I love him and hear it back.

I miss my dad so much. No person or thing could ever fill the gap that is in my heart for him. But everyday I get stronger and I am more able to carry this burden of grief.

(As long as one and one is two, there will never be a daughter loves her father more than I love you.)

Thanks for reading.

Signing out,

Mandie

*In a funeral setting, the person who was closest to the deceased gets to determine how long the hug will be. If you cannot tell who was closest, rock-paper-scissors will suffice for a decision.