I feel highly volatile and extremely fragile today. Five
years ago, almost to the hour, my daddy breathed his last breath. We were
surrounding his bed. We heard the long release, the quiet exhale. It’s a sound
I will never forget.
I am snapping at my husband. I am hiding in my office and in
my assigned readings. I am unsuccessfully acknowledging the pain of the day out
loud.
I want to eat something salty and something delectably sweet.
I want to crawl in my warm bed and pull the covers up for a good, long time. I
want to punch and kick and scream.
I hate the fact that I am a girl without her daddy and as
long as I am on this Earth, that’s who I will remain. I hate that my husband
never had the honor of knowing my dad. I hate that my mother has had and will
always have that ache in her chest. If I could take this pain away from our
family, I would, but the truth is, our grief is a testimony to how much we
loved him, and how much he loved us. And I wouldn’t take that away for
anything.
I’ve cried for him these past 5 years. I’ve yelled out his
name in the privacy of my car, letting go of tears and sobs safely there.
I remember walking by his side at church, my tiny hand in
his gigantic one. I was so proud to be his, to proclaim him mine. I loved
hearing his voice as he sang in church, the way he would harmonize and belt it
out unashamed. He came to my school once, in junior high, to participate in a
debate with another pastor in town. He was so thrilled I asked him to do it.
And I was basking in the fact that he was my Daddy.
He was the one who saw me hiding behind frustration or
busyness and drew me out with his smile, his knowing eyes, eyebrows raised. He made me giggle.
He made me feel real. He loved me so much.
I am praying that tonight I will dream of him, and he will smile and hug me tight.
