One Year

Seems obligatory to post.  Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of my father’s death. I’m expecting to feel some great sense of relief on Monday.  Ah, no more “firsts since …” And yet … I’m sure Monday will feel no different than today.

Strange reminders rear up.  Middle daughter tells me of the middle school concert scheduled next weekend and I am reminded that last year I sat through the same concert with my phone in my hand, quite certain I would get “the” call during it.  But no, it was later, when we went out to eat lunch at a restaurant I never really liked and to which I’ve not returned. It was noisy and I made my sister repeat what she called to tell me.  Hard for both of us, and yet, it is death in the midst of living.

I know I won’t ever “get over” this. The week that I spent with him as he was dying (but not yet gone) still feels like the time in my life when I was most connected to breath, to energy, to life. I suppose there is nothing like watching someone else breathe with the expectation that each shallow breath will most likely be the last to keep you centered on that.

I’m not the same.  I’m not fundamentally changed.  I’m not sure that is possible. But I am more deeply rooted.  I suppose that sounds odd to people who feel their fathers are their anchors.  But death this close has grabbed me by the lapels and forced me to consider what matters … what truly, deeply, sustainably matters.

As I read through blogs this morning, and I couldn’t even tell you which ones or what they said, but I had this sensation of finding myself with my nose pressed to the glass of faithfulness, of the comfort one finds in truly believing and loving God.  Is this, I wondered and find myself still wondering, the hunger that is stirred by death? Can it be filled, this wanting to connect beyond my own small needs? We feed it by different means, I think: through art, song, service, prayer, even (I’m told, as this has never been my way) through physical movement.

I’m giving myself these few moments to consider this anniversary and the ground I’ve covered this last year, and then it is time to resume the other work, the laundry, the groceries, the … pedestrian stuff of living.  Ah, yes, but this, too, is living–the remembering, the longing, and the desire to identify that which I am longing for.

Dear God,

I’m feeling the need to be held, today. Held not physically, though that, too, would be nice. But held in the strength of an abiding love. Perhaps this is where my nose leaves smudges on glass. I have conjured you, dear God, to be the supplier of that love I have neither earned nor deserve, and I have conjured you as someone who neither desires or requires my love in return. And perhaps this is what I long for , dear God, the ability to love what I have conjured with the understanding that that love will sustain me–not the love I receive, but that which I spread around.  Let me pull my nose from the glass now and focus myself outwardly, once more. Amen.

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About TinaLBPorter

I write poetry and blog at www.tinalbporter.com. And I'm thrilled to be writing with you.
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4 Responses to One Year

  1. uuMomma says:

    Thank you all for your comments. And ogre–thanks for the laugh about your dad calling and not knowing it. I often wish I could just spy on my mother to make sure she is well–sounds like you got to do just that.

    EBS: I was just cleaning up files and ran across the sermon I did last Father’s Day (3 months??? later … what was I thinking? Couldn’t even stand to look at it.

    Thanks again.

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  2. On June 17 it will be 12 years since my father died. As Ogre said, it gets… I would say easier. This year I will preach on Father’s Day, and I’m sure I will cry. But, it will be o.k.

    Blessings to you, Momma. I’ll be holding you in my thoughts & prayers…

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  3. ogre says:

    It gets… better. On average. The sweet and funny and loving memories take the foreground.

    And yet.

    Nine years since my mother died, and I know that there are triggers that will put tears on my face–right now.

    I wish she could visit; she’d have adored watching her grandsons grow up (one of the very few things she expressed a regret about…), and she’d have appreciated who they’ve become. And she’d be amused and delighted with what I’m doing, too.

    Dad’s cell phone called me by accident today–he didn’t know, and couldn’t hear me yell “HELLO!” at him. But there was a comfort in hearing him and his wife distantly, chattering with a couple of other people… knowing that he’s out there and doing well. I know one day I’ll miss him terribly, too.

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  4. mskitty says:

    April 18 is the 39th anniversary of my father’s death and I always remember it. Every year it’s a little different and sometimes I don’t remember until late in the day. But I still feel my father’s presence in my life. I hope that your father is with you always, Momma, and I hold you in my heart, as God holds you too.

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