Granted, Jesus probably had something a little more spiritual on his mind when he spoke those words (thanks, St. John for sharing), but I cannot help thinking about how those words ring true for earthly Father-child relationships. **Caution--I'm going to get a little emotional here.** It has been seven years since my Dad passed on, and to this day, I still dread certain days of the year. For starters, the day I got that unforgettable phone call that will never escape my memory. I cannot get through that day without breaking down. Going home and having to face my Mom that night was probably the most intense and least pleasurable experience in my life. I always imagined more for my parents' retirement than one carrying on without the other. The two hardest workers I've ever known deserved the most peaceful and enjoyable time together after the last kid had left the house. After years of worrying how to put us kids through school were over. After years of working shift work and coming home to toil away in the many gardens my Dad nurtured so we could have home-grown vegetables year round were over. That all changed with one phone call.
The next day I dread is Good Friday. Kind of a weird day to dread in terms of mourning your father, but allow me to explain. Good Friday was actually a big deal for my Dad. We started the day with the TV off. Ended the day with the TV off. I know--torture! Somewhere in there, we went to Good Friday services, where those of us still in school had to sing in the choir or take part in the service. Good Friday meant cleaning for Easter. Sometimes, we could go outside and take a bike ride, go for a walk, hang out with friends--as long as we weren't watching that gad-dum TV. Good Friday meant preparing for Easter, and along with it, the making of the Slovak Easter cheese that hung above the kitchen sink, neatly wrapped in cheese cloth. Hrudka or citic, I think it was called. Forgive the spelling. Regardless of what we did on that day--it always involved Church--Good Friday was important to my Dad and therfore, is important to me.
And then, of course, there is Memorial Day. The day of remembrance, again riddled with ritual. There was the morning service at the cemetery chapel with my Mom and Dad, followed by dressing the graves and then the Memorial Day parade--when there was one. This was the one day of the year that I visited the grandparents I do not remember, the brother I never met, and the grandmother whose apple crisp I can still smell and the grandfather who introduced me to Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I considered the stroll through the grave yard, looking at all the names that end in "ach" or "acevic" or "insky", somewhat of a yearly history lesson into the culture of my hometown. I wondered if those whose lives were short-lived spent their time being very sick, or if they had experienced some joy from life. I wondered how common it is now, with relocation for work almost an expectation, that families are still buried together--Dad, Mom, Son, Daughter--all side by side. I wondered if those who had been gone for some time still had family to dress their graves.
But now, with Father's Day approaching, I am reminded that I have lost one ability since my Dad's passing--I can no longer visit the graves of loved ones. Especially my Dad's. I just cannot do it. To this day it is an impossibility. It leaves me paralyzed. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Paralyzed. I can go to old cemeteries in Paris and stand in awe at the amazing monuments families had built for their loved ones. I can visit Jim Morrison's grave and regrettably, have to stand farther away than expected due to vandals in previous years. I can touch the lip marks on Oscar Wilde's grave. But I cannot stand in front of my own Father's grave. Still, to this day. I cannot. Sorry, Dad.
You see, I'd rather follow the words that entitle this post--I am in the Father and the Father is in me. When my Mom says, "you are just like your Father," or my husband says, "My God, you stand just like your Dad," I take it as a complement. When I go for walks in the woods, I am reminded of the walks my siblings and I used to take with my Dad. Our own little adventures. Mushrooms and bird calls and animal tracks being pointed out by our own, personal troop leader. When I call my nieces and nephews "rascal" or sing "little bubbles" when I rock my nephew to sleep, I am reminded of how my Dad loved his grandkids so, and used these same words, meant with affection, with them. When I catch myself being stubborn and impatient, I recognize it by saying, "Uh-oh, you're being Dad again." All these reminders used to make me sad. I did not want to have to think about my Father being gone. But now, I see, that since my Father was such a part of my life while he was living, he will not cease to be a part of my life now that he is gone. I am in him and he is in me. Happy Father's Day. I love you, Dad.
The next day I dread is Good Friday. Kind of a weird day to dread in terms of mourning your father, but allow me to explain. Good Friday was actually a big deal for my Dad. We started the day with the TV off. Ended the day with the TV off. I know--torture! Somewhere in there, we went to Good Friday services, where those of us still in school had to sing in the choir or take part in the service. Good Friday meant cleaning for Easter. Sometimes, we could go outside and take a bike ride, go for a walk, hang out with friends--as long as we weren't watching that gad-dum TV. Good Friday meant preparing for Easter, and along with it, the making of the Slovak Easter cheese that hung above the kitchen sink, neatly wrapped in cheese cloth. Hrudka or citic, I think it was called. Forgive the spelling. Regardless of what we did on that day--it always involved Church--Good Friday was important to my Dad and therfore, is important to me.
And then, of course, there is Memorial Day. The day of remembrance, again riddled with ritual. There was the morning service at the cemetery chapel with my Mom and Dad, followed by dressing the graves and then the Memorial Day parade--when there was one. This was the one day of the year that I visited the grandparents I do not remember, the brother I never met, and the grandmother whose apple crisp I can still smell and the grandfather who introduced me to Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I considered the stroll through the grave yard, looking at all the names that end in "ach" or "acevic" or "insky", somewhat of a yearly history lesson into the culture of my hometown. I wondered if those whose lives were short-lived spent their time being very sick, or if they had experienced some joy from life. I wondered how common it is now, with relocation for work almost an expectation, that families are still buried together--Dad, Mom, Son, Daughter--all side by side. I wondered if those who had been gone for some time still had family to dress their graves.
But now, with Father's Day approaching, I am reminded that I have lost one ability since my Dad's passing--I can no longer visit the graves of loved ones. Especially my Dad's. I just cannot do it. To this day it is an impossibility. It leaves me paralyzed. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Paralyzed. I can go to old cemeteries in Paris and stand in awe at the amazing monuments families had built for their loved ones. I can visit Jim Morrison's grave and regrettably, have to stand farther away than expected due to vandals in previous years. I can touch the lip marks on Oscar Wilde's grave. But I cannot stand in front of my own Father's grave. Still, to this day. I cannot. Sorry, Dad.
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