A sunrise, a sunset, and the space between

I officially do not like grieving. I do not understand how I can be so at peace one day and so raw the next. I had, naively, thought that I was done with the hard part of grieving. That I could now, after three months, look back fondly on my life with my dad and just feel the joy of the good times without feeling the loss in the present.

Oh foolish me of yesterday.

I have been told that you cannot hurry grief. It comes as it comes. It has its own pace, and it will not move faster for all my willing it to do so. Which I respect. We cannot heal from deep wounds in moments. It takes time for the sinew of our soul to knit back together. And yet… and yet I wish there was a fast forward button I could mash over and over and over again.

But for now, I sit with grief and grief sits with me. And I feel. Good things. Bad things. Little things. I would like to share some of those feelings with you.

I sat on my front porch last Sunday watching the sun rise, reading my Bible, and praying. It was the perfect temperature. Cool enough that the heat from my coffee radiated through me, and not so cold that my fingers or toes were uncomfortable. I watched the horizon glow a pink orange in anticipation of the sun. I watched the sun peak over the Cascade Mountains burning orange and red in the haze of the distant smoke. I watched as it rose higher and higher until it was above the smoke, glowing in white-yellow glory. I felt peace and awe and small and close to God all at once. I felt very alive and so very loved.

I took my bicycle on a work trip to San Diego last week. I checked into my hotel, unpacked my bike, and rolled it out of the hotel toward Mount Soledad. I rattled along the rutted and grooved streets of San Diego. I rode the bike paths that dip under the roads so close you could run your hands along the concrete above your head. I fought the head winds. And then, I climbed. Mount Soledad Road gains roughly 800 feet of elevation in its 3-1/2 mile length. I sweated and panted and climbed as the sun blazed. I did not think much on the climb. I suffered. Breathed. Kept pushing. I rejoiced with every short downhill and grimaced as the climb started again on the other side. And then it was done. I reached the top. I sat on a concrete bench and looked down on La Jolla and the Pacific Ocean. I felt old and fat and tired. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. Could feel the sweat drip down my neck. But I was at the top. And the ocean was sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

I got back on my bike, pointed it downhill, and flew. I wasn’t old anymore. Wasn’t fat. Wasn’t tired. I was the wind, a rushing gale, a bird experiencing the thrill of a just-on-the-edge-of-control feeling of a dive. I was alive.

I found myself in a farmer’s market the next night. I was wandering near the North Gate Market area looking for gifts for the family, a tradition when I take business trips. I rounded a corner and there was the market. I bought Samosas from a woman from Mozambique. I bought Mexican empanadas. I sat on a metal chair and listened to a man play an Irish jig on his guitar as the sky glowed golden, the sun saying its evening farewell. I wondered at the beauty of this country that we live in. A people made of many peoples. A vast and varied landscape filled with a vast and varied people. I was lonely, sitting there. I wanted to share the moment, the food, the music, and the sunset with my wife and kids. I wanted them to feel the vastness too. The profound scale. I wanted to hold their hands so they would know that in that vastness, in the dizzying scale of it all, that they are loved.

I was texting a friend and putting my bike back together in my garage a few days later. I had on my mechanic’s apron and my black mechanic’s and was enjoying the feeling of torquing bolts and wrenching quick releases. I was telling my friend about the book I just read about a man who lost his denomination due to the craziness of the times. About how it felt like listening to the story of a man who had hurt deeply but who didn’t bear a grudge. The story of a man morning what was lost but hopeful for what was coming. And my friend sent me a photo of his evening plans: a book we’re reading together, a pipe, and a roll of pipe tobacco.

Friends, I could smell the tobacco through the picture. My dad used to smoke it when I was young. I could feel the smoothness of the plastic. I knew that if he were to push on it slightly, that the smell of my childhood would puff out of that little plastic bag. And it was such a nice feeling. Being a kid again. Listening to my dad tell stories. Feeling the lacquered surface of one of the pipes he wasn’t smoking while I twisted the stem idly. I smiled to myself as I kept wrenching on my bike. It was a good day.

And then I woke up today, and I was raw and angry and sad and confused. Because wasn’t I done with the grieving? Wasn’t I done with the negative parts anyway? Will I ever be done?

Can I tell you what I want? I want to love my dad without the pain. I want to remember without that feeling of lack, that feeling of a space where he should be. And I don’t think I’ll get that. We don’t always get what we want.

I thought, for a brief moment, that it would be better if things didn’t remind me of him. That I should shelter myself from that part of me, hide myself from the things that bring me pain. But that feels cowardly. Feels disrespectful. And it feels unpractical. Like I might cut myself off from the beauty of a sunrise or the radiating warmth of holding my wife’s hand or the exhilaration of flying down a mountain on my bike or the quiet mystery of a golden sunset. It feels as if I would need to cut myself off from the joy of life to avoid the pain of loss.  

So today, for now, I choose bravery. I choose to remember my dad. Choose to feel the pain that comes with it. I choose coffee at sunrise and Irish jigs at sunset and the smell of pipe tobacco and the memory of an everything-is-okay-now hug from my dad.  

I choose the messy, painful, glorious beauty of the life God gave me.