How long the pain?

My dad died on June 13, 2013. Today is June 25. It’s still not real enough. I guess because I live 1200 miles from my parents’ home. And even though I’ve been at their home since five hours before he left our planet, it still feels like he’s out riding his bike, or upstairs listening to blues and jazz in his music room, or at church working on a project, albeit for long periods of time. Surely any moment he’ll bounce into the living room with that springy step, wearing his typical smile and head out to his gardens that love him, too.

I hate when good men and women die young.  Why would that thought enter my mind? After all, my dad was born on March 9, 1927. People who don’t know him try to comfort with the words, “Well, he lived a good long life.” Like, it’s okay that he’s gone because, well, he was 86. People who knew him agree with me, “He had so much more to do.” My dad had plans for at least 20 more years of making a difference in the world around him.

I hate what we’re all going through, especially my mom. How long does it take to find a new peaceful normal after 64 years of devotion and commitment?

I do keep the eternal perspective at times like this. If I didn’t I couldn’t face tomorrow. I know that for my dad the best of eternity has just begun. And it’s comforting to know, really know, that one day I’ll join him.

But understanding all that all that doesn’t keep me from hurting. It doesn’t keep me from crying, “Daddy, I miss you!”

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