Grief, Hope and Redemption of a Date

Today is August 28^th.

For eight years, August 28^th has been etched in my mind as the day the phone rang. I can picture, no more than picture, I can feel my husband, mom and I in my parent’s basement. We were visiting them in Minnesota from Seattle. My dad was out playing his normal Sunday night basketball at church. The Geezer league they called themselves.

The phone rang. Frantic voices to come to church.

I remember that Rob drove and I sat in the back seat with my mom.

I remember pulling up and the ambulance was there and my mom saying “That’s not good if the ambulance is still here.” Almost muted, barely registering with me.

I remember being ushered in, so many standing against the walls of the hallway, to make room for us.

I remember the policeman sitting us down outside the gym.

I don’t remember much after that. The world starting spinning.

What I was hearing could not possibly be true.

My very active, very alive father. My 58-year-old father. My ‘sitting at the coffee shop, sharing dreams and ways to get there’ father. How could this be the end?

I would later learn that 8/28/05 was also the day Hurricane Katrina hit.

While the world watched and reacted and grieved, my own heart was a million miles away. Broken in it’s own personal loss.

More than Christmas. More than my dad’s September birthday. August 28^th is what brings to surface my emotions.

But today the date’s story gets rewritten, or perhaps added on to. An updated edition.

Today is August 28^th.

It’s my son’s first day of school. A first grader.

It’s a date on our calendar that has held anticipation. New beginnings. For the first time in eight years.

He’s going to school all day now. Something he is excited about. Nervous about.

I’m filled with pride at who this boy is. Who he is becoming.

He makes me laugh. A natural bent at seeing the humor in life.

Last week I almost sent Rob to his end of bible study night with uncooked sausage. It was remedied and cooked summer sausage went in its place.

Later that night when he should have been sleeping. He hears his dad come home, comes down the stairs and says “So what did your bible study think of that raw salami?”

He’s passionate. He fully lives in the moments: happy and sad. You know where he stands.

He draws new friends to him like a magnet. Often after leaving a playground, he can be heard from the backseat saying “My new friend Ben and I were talking about….”

He would have loved his grandfather. His grandfather would have loved him.

Now I hold two stories of August 28^th. New beginnings following death. Hope for the future stepping in front of grief. For I know it is true that we do not grieve as ones without hope. But we do still grieve. I do still miss my father.

My grief is not without hope, it is not meaningless. And my hope is not some pie in the sky feeling good about things. It is a hope that is substantive because it has known grief. They need each other to realize the richness of the other.

I know that resurrection will triumph the grave. New bodies overcome decay. And first days of school redeem a date of loss shouting “oh death where is your sting?”.

Linking with Weekend Brew and  Tell His Story

After writing this, I reread what I wrote in this space last year on the anniversary of my dad’s death. You can read here, reflections on Death is Not My Friend. Was interesting to me that similiar themes, verses were present- they must be deep in my soul!

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