I read a poem the other day by a writer named Liz Newman. She talks about missing someone as an experience of simultaneously carrying both grief and love. When you think about it, grief and love come from the same place. You only grieve the loss of that which you loved. To that end, Newman opens her poem with the line, “I carry the grief with me.” I know what Newman means; grief is hauled, not easily laid down, always brimming just beneath the surface. I know because I am carrying some grief of my own.
Today is the 37th anniversary of my father’s death. In so many ways, it seems like another lifetime ago, almost as if losing him happened to someone else, not me. But then again, I’ve been carrying around this grief for as long as I can remember. Probably always will.
This is the only digital picture I have of my Dad and me. All the others are tucked away in photo albums and have yet to be scanned for posterity. I think I was nine years old here. If my memory serves, we took a trip to the Smoky Mountains prior to my sister’s wedding and I think that’s when somebody took this picture of the two of us. I love this picture, but it also makes me incredibly sad. We didn’t know it at the time, but the cancer that would eventually take my dad’s life was already beginning to grow in his body. When I look at the child in this photo, I see a young boy full of joy and optimism, unacquainted with the terrors of the world. Which is to say, I see a person I don’t much recognize. I look at this picture and I grieve for what both of us have lost since this photo was taken. In a matter of months, his strength would be sapped and his voice would grow quiet while I would come to the grim reality from which we try to shield all children: that this world can be dark, cold, and harsh.
I find solace in my faith, in the promise of reconciliation with my father on the other side — the hope of glory as Paul says. But in that waiting, when grief seems overwhelming, it also helps me to recognize that my grief and my love come from the same place. And as I continue to carry my grief — even if my grief swells to the surface from time to time — this is simply evidence that my love for my Dad abides within me to this day. Maybe that’s why it feels good to remember, even if it’s painful — because getting in touch with the grief is one of the only ways I can get in touch with that love. This is why Newman continues her poem with a matching stanza, “I carry the love with me.” To carry grief is not simply evidence of that which you have loved; it is also evidence of that which you continue to love. And this is one of the only things I’ve found that actually helps when I find myself in the throes of sorrow. This recognition allows me to be gracious with myself as I grieve, for in that grief is love.
To carry the grief is to continue carrying the love.
And so tonight, I grieve.
Love you, Dad.
already & not yet 