the touch of an old friend's hand

In church today, we discussed life after death. You would think, so soon after my dad's death, this lesson would have been a comfort to me, reminding me of the beliefs I cling to. But somehow it was too much too soon. Or not enough. Before the lesson even started, when I read the day's topic, I thought I should probably go out. But I was sitting next to an older woman, someone I admire and adore, but who has a hard time shifting around, and I didn't want her to have to rustle her legs aside so I could get past, so I stayed put.

Stories and testimonies were shared, and at first I was OK. But it built up in me. What was said and written isn't enough for me. Listening to people talk so serenely and surely about their experiences brought back my reocurring image of Dad, the one that is an amalgam of my coffin-viewing panic attack and the sight of his coffin at the cemetary. I keep coming back to a disconnect: where I know his body is, what I don't know about the location of his soul. The things the scriptures don't tell us: what paradise looks like, and what it feels like to be there, and how we live. I cannot picture where he is, other than in the dark, cold grave.

The lesson touched me, but it didn't comfort me. It brought me back to the place I found a few minutes after he had passed, when I went outside and sat in Dad's backyard and looked at the trees he'd planted, scarred, nurtured, pruned, neglected, cultivated, watered. Still growing, even though he was gone; a strange sort of peace that dripped sorrow. People die. I longed for him to go, to be free of the prison his mind was, but now he is gone it is different sort of gone than I expected.

This is, perhaps, a weakness of my faith. If I had a stronger testimony, I perhaps would be able to find peace with what we do know. Or, perhaps it is just a part of me that hasn't had a chance to learn and to grow yet. This limping along of grief is, perhaps, also a thing to cultivate, like the trees were before they grew. A seed, of sorts.

I couldn't help it: I started crying, there in the Relief Society meeting. Those deep, heaving sobs, the ugly ones that keening was invented for, and yet I was trying to be quiet, to not disturb anyone, and it was like swallowing something too large and sharp and hard for my throat, my whole body absorbing that thing I couldn't say and only letting a few tears escape.

Then I felt something: a friend I didn't notice sitting behind me put her hand on my shoulder. She patted and squeezed briefly and I knew she saw and I knew it was ok, and then the ugly racking subsided in my body and flooded out in silent tears that started to water something.

Comments

[Jody]

I love to read what you write. I can FEEL your words and see the imagery. I love the idea that your tears are watering your growth. Thank you for posting your thoughts. Your words are beautiful.

[wendy]

Hugs, Amy. Wish I'd been there by your side instead of in primary. Beautifully written, as always.

[Vickie]

Thank you for sharing your feelings. My heart goes out to you. This is the lesson that I am to teach next Sunday and I've been very aware that this is a tender topic- especially since 2 of our sisters have lost their husbands in the past month.
I'm a new reader of your blog and I hope that you accept my condolences for the (temporary) loss of your Dad. Losing a beloved parent is very hard.

[Melanie Bell]

Beautifully written, as usual. I'm so glad you had someone there to offer comfort. And I love the imagery of your tears watering...something. Hugs to you. :)

[Jamie]

It might sound odd because mostly it was about grief and pain, but this post makes me happy because of the merciful ending that brought hope. Because I care so much about you I am also grateful to the friend the hand belonged to.

[Pat Passamonte]

Hi Amy,

Regardless of faith, it's hard to let go of someone you love. When you are struggling with the thoughts of where his body is and where his soul is, please try to hold on to the knowledge that he is also in the hearts and memories of the people who loved him, who continue to love him. He will always live there.

Hugs to you, have a good week.

[Kim D]

Amy, your faith is so much stronger than mine, if I have any. But this I know, and I KNOW it. Your Dad is not gone and he's not in the grave. His body may be in the grave, but HE is not there. As Pat said, he's in your heart and memory, and he's also gone home and is happy. I know that just like I know tomorrow is Wednesday. It is so hard to lose a beloved parent, and I understand your grief. One day, I hope you are at peace with your Dad being gone from your sight. He's gone from your sight, but he is not gone.

[Andrea]

you are amazing!