I am thankful for you, Dad
Dear Daddy,
This Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful for you.
It’s kind of funny. You have left this earth, but you are still teaching me things, Dad. I know you probably wouldn’t want to hear this, but I am learning more from you now than the past few years combined. Only you could figure out a way to do that :)
I treasure the things your absence is teaching me. I hate it, but I treasure it, too. I’m discovering these rare gems that are hidden in the darkest mud.
Growing up, you taught me who Jesus is. You taught me I could trust Him. You taught me how to win Texas Hold’em and horse races. You taught me how to read and laugh. I’ve learned so much from you, Dad. And I’d love to share with you what I’m learning now:
I’m learning how to face pain head-on. As an Ennegram 7 (shout out to my party people!), pain is my greatest fear. And the greatest pain I fear is losing you and mom and Michael. But it’s no longer a fear — it’s a partial reality. I’m learning how to sit in it and let the tears come when they come. It is the most unnatural feeling, Dad, but I am now convinced it is the only way to heal. And what’s really cool is that God is meeting me in it. He’s so gentle and kind and patient with me and I’m learning that He is sad, too. He is sad that my heart is broken. He cries with me. Even in the pain, I am not alone and that is really amazing.
I’m learning how to ask for help. This whole grief thing is so new, Dad. I have no step-by-step procedure for this one. There’s no manual. Every day is so different. At first, I was angry. I hated being around people. I thought they just wouldn’t understand how I felt, so what would be the point of letting them in? But I’m learning that even if people haven’t lost their dads like I have, there is something so comforting about having someone physically sit with me as I process everything. And in some rare cases, I’ve sat with people who have lost family members, too, and their wisdom is really, really wise, Dad.
I’m learning to give myself permission. The past six months have felt like I’m walking through mud up to my stomach. Everything, and I mean everything, is harder. I have less energy. I have less patience. I have less motivation. I have less joy. Getting out of bed is hard. Cooking a meal is hard. Going to work is hard. Talking to people is hard. I’m “failing” in a lot of ways, but I’m learning to give myself permission to slow down. To cry. To be angry. To be silent. To speak. I’m learning about grace in a whole new way and it’s helping me see Jesus in a whole new way, too.
I’m learning to hope. In the valley, it’s so hard to hope. It’s so hard to see even an inch ahead. It’s bleak. It’s dark. It’s deep. It feels like it will never end. But I’m learning to just keep going. I’m learning to persevere. I’m learning that hope is something we fight for. So I will keep praying. I will keep believing. I will keep trusting. I’m learning to trust that God’s promises are actually true.
Happy Thanksgiving in Heaven, Daddy. One last thing you taught me is the joy of eating and I’m sure you’re feasting today. In honor of all I’m learning from you, I will feast today, too. I love and miss you Daddy.
Love,
Lauren
“That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever! So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.” -1 Corinthians 4:16–18
