Snapshot of my dreams, 4… “painting broken pictures with wounded hands.”
It was not eight o’ clock in the morning. It was not two days before Christmas, and my phone did not just ring and awaken me from a fitful dream.
If I do not allow these things to exist then all is well. You are alive, therefore, my world is on its axis and breathing continues…
I did not hear my husband’s footsteps coming down the hall. I did not hear the groan of that spot on the wooden floor that is worn and squeak under his weight. I did not feel someone sit on the end of our bed. He waited…
He could not be sitting there waiting because if he were it means you are dead. It would mean he is going to tell me so. It would mean that a light went out in my heart and all has gone dark…
This tiny act of turning my face toward my waiting husband confirms that he is there and he is going to tell me you didn’t make it. He will remind me they said your heart was too diseased which made repair difficult at best.
If I close my eyes and try with all my might to make things not happen, to never have this wretched day exist I would do it. Yet as the minutes tick relentlessly on I finally turn my head and open my eyes and it has to be said…you are dead. I step into a quicksand. I am dazed, cloudy in my head. I must face immortality with Faith. I had to face that the one who loved me the most in all this world was gone. Now I am painting broken pictures with wounded hands.
I am five years old and it is Christmas. We live in Memphis and it has snowed on Christmas Eve. The snow in the dawn’s twilight looks powder blue blanketing our yard. I have my nose to the window because Santa is coming! You are as excited as I and my brothers. The next morning we were up at the crack of dawn and there in the snow were the biggest boot prints I had ever seen. You said Santa walked around our yard because we don’t have a chimney so he came through our back door. I marveled at this possibility. It was pure magic at Christmas with you. It is quite appropriate that you died in the season you enjoyed the most.
Now I am forty- five and there is no snow, there are no boot prints in my yard. There is no joyous Christmas music. Just the silent weight of grief. I speak to friends but I am on autopilot. I have never lost someone I loved so much. It isn’t a feeling of sadness because I know your Faith in Christ is real. It isn’t a feeling at all. It is an altered state, a new dimension.
The funeral is blurred. I do all the daughter type things for my Mom. I have stayed with her these last two nights as she stares into space or weeps. It is December twenty sixth and I marvel at the amount of people who are here even though it is Christmas and they could be somewhere else having fun. People offer condolences, love, and prayer. They are kind. I do my best to be attentive to their kindness but I fail. I can’t think straight. I cannot imagine a world where you aren’t. There is no one else who will knock on my door every school morning and awaken me with a silly song or stand at my door and do a pretty good impersonation of Elvis, or call me by a nickname you gave me. There will never be another church service where I sit and listen to you teach the Word of God. There will never be another Daddy who came when I got hurt and picked me up and took me home. Never another strong arm as yours will be held up in front of me like a gate as protection when I am standing beside you in the front seat as you drive…(no seatbelts in those days) but the thought never crossed my mind that it wasn’t safe because you were there. I will never have another super hero who catches me when I jump in the deep end of the pool and don’t swim well yet. There is no one left on this earth that will understand the anger I sometimes had with Mom as a teen or the despair I felt when I got sick. I remember you wept when you saw my swollen joints and that I could barely walk. I saw your frustration at not being able to fix it. I always felt you were on my side. I always knew nothing I did could stop your love for me and I was right. Nor mind for you.
The day after the funeral came and went. Then the next day and the next and the next. I am robotic much of the time. The grief beats down my body with a crushing weight. I keep remembering our last conversation, it blesses me still. You said, ” Jesus was always “Center” for you. That following him (Jesus) is the most important issue for a dying world. You said, ” don’t follow politics or religion! Just follow Jesus.” Then you called me the apple of your eye. These words of endearment comfort me and little did I know they would be a greater comfort in the twenty-two years that have come to pass. So much left unsaid in snapshots, don’t you think Dad?
