Trying to step back in

Last night, I unpacked the very last box from our move that started September 26. Travis had dropped me off at the train that day as the moving truck was pulling out of our Clifton house and headed to Wrigleyville. That was the last day for many things. Of course, the obvious, it was the last day to be in the Clifton apartment, our first Chicago place. I almost got sentimental, but the empty rooms and awaiting itinerary stole that emotion. It was the last time I packed my funeral dress, the $5 black dress I got at Wal-Mart the night of Mr. Jeff's funeral, to wear to Mama Joyce's funeral on the last day I saw my dad stand and walk. The dress I had packed every time I went to Jackson to see Dad, not knowing if I'd need it. It had become a bit of a joke, but I knew I wouldn't have to pack it again. It was the last time I would kiss those babies goodbye while knowing I wouldn't see them for over a week. The last short walk to Sweet Mandy B's. The last time I'd step off the plane and drive straight to the hospital to see my dad. 

The four days that followed are so crisp in my memory. I had pushed them aside as I unpacked every stinkin' box. But now that those boxes are empty, I have to face the grief. Until now, I've had dreams torment me but let my daytime thoughts ignore reality. I guess it's time to start unpacking the grief... Of all three people we lost in 11 weeks. It'll take some time and layers, but we'll get there. And I can assure you, most of it will be in my own personal journals. But I know someone somewhere needs to know some of these thoughts, even if just to know they're not alone. And maybe God can bring some comfort to you in our shared grief. He has crouched down and cradled us. He's not leaving. 

A few of my favorite memories of Dad's last few days:

His alertness on Friday the 27th. He said his blood type. He wanted water. He tried his hardest to smile. He tried to shake Robby's hand. He rolled his eyes when I told him of yet another transfer. He nodded yes that he was ready to go home to Jesus. 

Friday night, when I walked into his new room at his new, last transport facility, Hospice Ministries. I cried when I saw how peaceful he looked. After weeks of fighting, listening to loud monitors and nurses, being woken up every hour by something or someone. It was so quiet and safe. He was bathed and in a white gown under white linens. I crouched down and asked if he was ok, and he mouthed, "I'm fine" with a reassuring look. Those words were his last. That place and those days are gifts from God. 

Our last conversation, on Saturday the 28th. He was quiet, but his tears said everything. You need to know my dad was like Paul. All his life so rough and hardened. He made big mistakes. He softened with the last years and shared more, but his heart was dramatically changed by Jesus Christ in August. After being blinded, his eyes were opened. Adam shared that at his memorial, and it's a perfect description of Dad's life. His sins were paid for by Christ, and his new heart was and still is so wonderful. But all of my childhood and even once during the hospitalization, Dad told me, "quit your dang crying." (Substitute explitive). For some reason, I couldn't help it with him. Saturday morning, I told him, "I know you're thinking 'quit your dang crying,' but this is a good reason to cry because I'm really going to miss you." Then his tears came. I was able to share my heart with his full attention, not knowing if I'd have his attention again. That conversation, me kneeling on the floor looking up at him because he only had the strength to look down, is a treasure to me. 

Then when he fell asleep Sunday night. He had been awake and restless since Friday. Samantha and I were sitting there and, probably for the first time in 55 days, talking about something other than Dad in front of him. Something, I'm sure, he much-preferred. Listening to our mumbling about adoption and simplifying life, he finally dozed off. Sam looked and noticed, and we were both so thankful he could rest. And the rest came. 

I don't know how I'll process the loss of these three wonderful people. It'll take a lot of alone time with Jesus, some rambling to people trained with this, and lots of crying fits. I'm hoping my haunting dreams turn to visions and I can see those three healthy and whole. I did see my dad once in a dream that first week after he died. He smiled and held my hair, kissed my cheek hard, and said, "You're here. I've been waiting on you." He never said or did that on this earth, and he looked so good. I'll fall asleep tonight thinking of that. 

We'll get there. God's story is not finished.