All Saints Day always scared me as a child. The sound of each bell tolling as names were solemnly read aloud.
Death was scarier then, in the fire and brimstone of 1980s end-of-the-world preaching about the wide path that leads to destruction and billboards that asked me where I would go if I died tonight. As a teenager and young adult it sometimes felt like I would never be good enough to get into heaven.
Today I’m thankful for age and life experience, which bring understanding and perspective. And also peace. God loves us. Nothing we do can change that, no matter how badly we might behave. We all sin, and we can’t let ourselves be tricked into thinking God doesn’t love us. And we can’t let those things convince us we aren’t good enough – good enough to be saved, good enough to be a light for Him, good enough to fulfill a purpose.
As a child I thought the 12 disciples and all the Bible greats were super holy people. What a relief to realize that they were ordinary people. People with jobs and families. People who did some sketchy things. People like us.
One of my favorite scriptures is in Hebrews, describing the great cloud of witnesses – the saints – that surrounds us. The New English Translation is my favorite: Since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, we must get rid of every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and run with endurance the race set out for us.
In the last couple of years, this scripture has started meaning more as I think about those who’ve gone on to heaven. Who are in my great cloud of witnesses. All Saints Day is about remembering those who have passed, but also those who have influenced our faith. Like my Dad who prayed with us and for us every day. My grandparents and Aunt and Uncles who set examples for me, encouraging love for church and service and learning. Cameron, an unexpected blessing who loved so big and felt things so deeply.
They’ve shaped my faith, my laughter, my forgiveness, my politics, my love. My hope, my will, my strength, my courage, my empathy. My eternity.
The Saints corner in my sitting room. Hats, uniforms and pictures of some of my saints, some in heaven now and some still here in this life.
December is the month of anticipation. About Christmas and trees and presents. About taking time to recharge. About the birth of Jesus. About the coming new year.
My anticipation has been different this season. Is that something that changes for all of us as we get older? I’m not *not* looking forward to the holidays, but I also haven’t been eagerly anticipating them. I’ve been doing all the stuff, but just feeling blah about the season I guess.
I diagnosed myself with election hangover. Until Black Friday to, when I caught the scent of the aftershave my Dad wore. I turned to see an older man. A veteran wearing a hat. My whole body felt weightless for a second and then I got a rush that made me very hot. No more Christmases with my Dad. Ever. And then the words of one of my favorite people came back to me: the second year is harder than the first.
When I was a teenager my Dad taught me to start each day with prayer and speaking scripture, way before positive affirmations were a thing. One of the things I have said out loud at the beginning of each day for over 30 years is “I expect great things today.” But over time I’ve just recited those words without really thinking about them anymore. Without expecting them to really mean or do anything.
So I started making a concerted effort to once again believe what I say: I expect great things today. Some days it works and some days I cannot find the presents I hid from the girls (in anticipation I would remember where I put them). The shift it brings is not that every one of my days is rosy, but that when I have a moment where I feel loss it pretty quickly turns to a picture I have in my head of my Dad laughing.
Laughing with delight. At the girls and their shenanigans. At what he would call my payback. At the number of shoes three girls own. At my annual destruction of a pair of overpriced sunglasses.
Over the weekend I went to see my Dad’s grave. I don’t normally do that because he asked us not to, but I really wanted to see the cemetery with the Christmas wreaths and I really wanted to see if it would bring some sort of peace.
Alfred G. Horton Jr. Memorial Veterans Cemetery
As I prayed the Lord’s Prayer next to a stranger, also visiting a loved one and whose church service broadcast was coming through on her phone, I remembered all the times my Dad tucked us in and we said that prayer together. And the truth of Clare Harner’s words washed over me: he did not die. He still lives. In this world through all of the good things he planted in us, and in the next where there is no night.
This week has been filled with anticipation and Christmas spirit. Cards, decorations, goodies and stockings, including for the kitten I told Ella not to get but that she got anyway and who now sleeps on my desk when I work.
I expect good things…and that Ella’s kitten is now going to live in my house forever.
We’ve celebrated all the birthdays and holidays without our Dads and Grandpas. Sometimes we stared at empty seats. Sometimes we took fancy dishes to the couch so a meal seemed nothing like it did before, in a layout where no one was missing. Sometimes we spoke their names. Sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes we cried and sometimes we couldn’t.
Grief is not just about physical separation, a loved one being in another location and not accessible to you. It’s also about what the people who are gone will miss in your life and what you will miss out on because of their absence. For little girls who always assume their Dad will walk them down the aisle one day, grief involves reimagining how big events might go. Grief is about accepting what is, and the loss of what might have been.
Part of why grief is different for each of us is that we process loss and change differently, but also that whoever we’re grieving was a dozen different people. They may or may not have been different with different people, but it’s more that each of us sees others through our own lens – the lens of who we are. Every single person who knows us might describe us differently based on how they encountered us, how we treated them, what they needed from us, what we needed from them. Some people would tell you I cry easily, others would say I’m cold and stay focused. They are both right. One person’s “what a great gal” is another’s “she was a real b word.”
Humans are complicated. Sometimes we hurt people, sometimes unintentionally and sometimes intentionally. Sometimes we love extravagantly. Sometimes we offer anger and sometimes we offer grace. We can all grieve the same person and yet grieve different people, because we grieve imperfect people.
Acknowledging that your loved one wasn’t perfect does not mean you love them any less. It isn’t something we need to feel badly about – it shows that we love with grace.
The easiest grieving, if there is such a thing, is by people of faith for other people of faith. We don’t miss them any less but we know with certainty where that person is, that they are happy, and that we will see them again. One of the toughest is a child for a parent. Children seemingly go through the same stages as adults, but the foundation and security adults have isn’t firmly established yet for young people.
Grief will not end now that the firsts are behind us. Perhaps it will actually get tougher because its timing is not as predictable or because forever settles in. While it seems like we’ve reached a mile marker of some sort, I’m not sure it really means or feels like anything.
What does feel right is that the end of the first year is also the end of winter, and the beginning of spring. One of the colors my Dad loved was green. In the springtime he’d say look at how green everything is! and point out that trees are the most green this time of year. Green is the color of life and rebirth. Of renewal and growth. It’s yellow and blue mixed, or the combination of warmth and hope with calm and strength and peace.
Just typing the words makes me feel like I can’t take a deep breath. Like a brick is laying on my chest.
I hate that I didn’t talk to my Dad the day he died. I love that the last time we did talk he was focused on how he might get someone stubborn to believe in God and go to heaven.
He was a prayer warrior, a prankster, and a protector. He was tenderhearted and yet he was steel.
Sometimes I look at the girls and think he’d be so proud of them and how they’ve handled this year. And then I think he sees them and he knows.
Valentine flowers
I picture his smile when I see yellow flowers or smell honeysuckle.
I picture him holding his hands up in prayer every time we left the house as I watch Audrey walk to the bus stop each morning.
I picture his hand placed lightly on my back, encouraging me, each time I have something new or hard to do.
Perhaps because I was searching for them, this year was filled with signs he’s still close. Eagles hovering near the house. People named Paul. Finding long forgotten books.
I love opening up his old bibles and books and seeing his handwriting, his highlights, and his notes. I had a full circle moment last week that I know would have brought him such joy. It came via a text from Ella. She took one of my old bibles to school with her, and on a night when she was struggling she opened it to see a 25-year-old affirmation of mine: The healing power of God is working in me right now.
Today is my Dad’s birthday, and in just two weeks the year of freedom will draw to a close.
I’ve spent months trying to figure out why this was the year of freedom, taking notes when freedom thoughts hit me and assuming that by year’s end it would all come together and I would understand. And yet, still I do not understand.
In fact, I’m just confused. And the coconut cream from one of his favorite boxes of chocolates offered me no clarity. The mailman also did not deliver.
Every year until this one, I’ve been able to reflect on my word for the year and clearly see the areas of impact and why God planted that specific word in my heart. I didn’t have an epiphany this year, perhaps because this year has been pretty taxing or perhaps because I’m just not smart enough to see the overall message. Maybe both. Or maybe my notes were just bad.
* The freedom that comes with procrastination is not nearly as precious as the freedom that comes with proper preparation and timing – the latter freedom comes with no anxiety.
* Ella could not wait to be the age of 18. The age of freedom! It’s so funny how not free and still reliant we are on real adults at that age. Ella’s graduation into legal adulthood did bring about a new freedom for me that I unexpectedly really enjoy – stepping back, guiding only when asked, seeing what she can do and seeing what God is doing through her.
* There is freedom in death, for those who died and for those still here. Freedom from the aging bodies and sickness we have in this world. Freedom from the expectations of others. Even when we miss people terribly, it’s okay to acknowledge that some things may be simpler when they are gone. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love them wholeheartedly; it means you’re able to be honest with yourself.
* We all have the freedom to put things in God’s hands. When I do this, it’s almost always as a last resort when I’m exhausted. I need to start doing this much sooner so I can feel peace and freedom faster.
* Paul wrote in Galatians that we must hold on to our freedom. The context is different but the message applies in all sorts of areas: it is our job to not let go of the freedom we have. Falling back into behaviors or thought patterns that aren’t good for us requires action on our part, not just a hope and a prayer.
* When I was a youngster studying history, it seemed like freedom of speech was to ensure truth could always be spoken. The further I get into adulthood the more it seems to allow communications of anger and hatred to flourish.
* The path to freedom is primarily paved with forgiveness. Of others and of ourselves.
* Sometimes I put on my face creams in the wrong order. This does not mean I have too many creams or I am ridiculously old. It means I am tired. Or perhaps I am exercising my freedom to mix them all up to make a paste to see if they’ll work better as a group.
* One person’s struggling partner is another’s ticket to financial freedom.
* We can spend so much of our lives hoping to one day be free from things. Fear. Jobs that don’t fulfill us or that drain us. Old heart wounds. Sometimes when we’re struggling – many times, I think – it’s our job to free ourselves and we just don’t do it. And the thing that keeps us from freeing ourselves is laziness. It’s easier to complain, blame others or wait for magic than it is to take action, ruffle feathers, or make changes ourselves. The freedom in change is so worth the pain of the pruning.
Yesterday on my way to pick up Ella for her Christmas break, I thought about how my Dad used to make the long drives to get me at Emory. Halfway to Richmond with my whole music library on shuffle, Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus) by Chris Rice came up. Although the song was already a few years old by then, I first heard it not long after my Papa died. I have never made it though the whole song without crying and this year I’ve hit next within a second every time it comes up. But yesterday, for the first time in a very long time, I listened. I sang all the way through and I did not cry.
I did imagine my Dad laughing as I sang the last part. Perhaps the path to freedom is in keeping perspective: I may not have answers today, but I’ll one day laugh on Glory’s side. And with my Dad again.
Brave, Anyway 