The Blog I've Been Trying Not to Write or A Death in the Family

Mid-July, just after my father's birthday this year, I felt pressed to write what I knew about my family origins down (it's title Family and History). What I didn't know then, that I know now, is that my dad's health took a turn for the worse and by July 27, 2014, he passed from this life. His obituary said he was "surrounded by loved ones" in McDonald, Tennessee, but it didn't say if it was hard for him or peaceful.

For five weeks, I didn't know. There were plenty of challenges right here to keep me distracted from knowing or from wondering and having discovered that his older brother, my Uncle Bill, lived until he was 108 had lulled me into a comfortable sort of place where I put seeing him -- hugging him again in this life -- on the bucket list of things to do in the next year or so. I thought Dad would live forever.

I don't know how to describe what I feel. C.S. Lewis once lamented that "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." But, I am not afraid. I feel the loss of him -- so deep and so full that I feel ill over the whole thing.

#Griefhttps://twitter.com/hashtag/Grief?src=hash">#Grief> is hard. It is so hungry, it steals your appetite; so thirsty, it drinks your tears; so defiant, it blots out the sun.— Rebecca Samford (@RebeccaSamford) September">https://twitter.com/RebeccaSamford/status/507581418323451904">September 4, 2014

Let me back up...

On Sunday, August 31st, I determined to work on family history. I had been putting it off for a year. There was almost a decade before that when the loss of the work I'd done before made it too painful and I just didn't. But, over the last year, I felt the nudge again and had experienced some success in gathering my family stories.

So, there I was. As I entered all of the information I had or could find, I looked at the fantastic family fan chart and saw my grandmother, Nettie. Stuck. Just stuck there. As stuck as I was when I reached out on an online forum almost 15 years ago and found my cousin Ray. He'd shared so much information and stories and pictures. He didn't mind that I was illegitimate. But, cousin Ray passed early from Parkinsons and I didn't meet anyone else in the family. So, I did the crazy brave foolish thing...I went to facebook and searched for his daughter. I sent her a note and thought, why not check the friends list to see if I recognize anyone... why not?

Within seconds, I was staring at the face of my brother. I knew my dad had given his own names to one of his sons and there he was. I clicked and saw as his cover photo one of the most beautiful pictures I had seen of my dad sitting with him. My dad's face was lovely and light and full of peace. I was elated! There he was alive and, having resolved his regrets, happy! I was so glad. I tried to download the photo, but you can't download cover photos. As I tried to figure out what to do, my eyes fell on the comments to the right and I realized I was reading condolences.

My joy turned to dismay. I quickly googled my father's name and found his obituary. The short, miniscule obituary that said almost nothing of this man who did so much service with his life -- who accomplished wonders professionally and loved so deeply in his personal life. I'll be honest. I'm still a little angry that more wasn't shared. I'm sure that anger is a bit selfish. I *needed* those stories to fill in the holes of what I don't know about him.

I told everyone. My mom, my brothers and sisters. My friends and church family on facebook. Yet, somehow, I feel like I'm grieving alone. No one who knows me, knew him. So, no one else is feeling the loss. My brothers are angry. My sisters are disconnected. Grief is so personal, I can't blame them for it.

For the first two days, I couldn't. I just couldn't. I cried and slept and cried and slept some more. I'm pretty sure other people prepared the food. On the second day, knowing I'd have to return to work -- ready or not -- by the third day, I gathered my little ones and we all folded origami paper stars. We lit tea light candles inside them and set them afloat in a bowl of water. I wanted to do something grand. I wanted to drive the Salt Lake and let them go there and let him go there as well, but...time and energy and not knowing what the most ecologically sound way of doing that would be and...well, no one else really understood that I might need that. I'm mourning a man they haven't met, someone I haven't seen face to face in 22 years. But, he was my father. He was always tender and kind to me.

My uncle Frank texted me the most beautiful tribute to him. My grandmother shared what she remembered of him. My mother, after some coaxing, did the same.

I'm trying to be in the moment. There is a fog. Somehow, a few kind souls are engaging me through it...helping me connect to the here and now in a way that is terribly necessary because of our situation. My ex-mother-in-law used to say, "Take care of the living, for the dead take care of themselves." I'm not sure this is entirely true, but I do know that I have a great number of valuable people who depend on me to be here and to be connected. Present.

The week leading up to this Rebecca's-World-Shattering-Discovery, I had been studying Job. I'm not done yet. I remember saying out loud to the Lord, "I'm not good at saying 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away' like Job did." He just said it. He just trusted and knew that, whatever happened, no matter what, our Heavenly Father is in charge. For a moment, just after my Grandma said, "Beckie, now he can you look after you in a way he never could while he was here." I thought how glorious it would be for my dad to be my guardian angel. The moment after that, I was afraid that in my anxiousness to be close to my dad, I would lose my Heavenly Father. Can you imagine how easy it would be to bypass the Lord and talk directly to someone you cherish and remember personally?

I will let be what is and what was as it was. Meanwhile, know this about grief...

“It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses. ”
― Colette

So, if I collapse in your arms or if my eyes hint to you that my thoughts are so very far away or if that familiar, engaging "sparkle" is gone when you look at me -- know that it will be but a moment. Know that I miss him, that all is as it should be and we must make room for hard things.

Here's to the stories we choose to tell. I love you forever, Daddy.