Grief Is Hard : Part II

Dad died three and a half weeks ago. I’m sad. Not overwhelmingly so like I had imagined though. I’m able to get excited about work or hanging out with friends or planning trips with my wife. But there is an underlying sadness.

And sometimes it comes out. Last week I tripped over our 8 week old kitten. She bolted for the other room with a pitiful meow and I ended up in the fetal position on my bed sobbing. From my limited experience with emotions (and cats), I feel that I might not have been upset solely about the cat.

I’m less angry this week than the last few weeks, but more discouraged. Pictures carry more feeling. Triggers are more often and deeper. I feel like I’m thawing.

I find myself just wanting to talk about him. Wanting to remember who he was and how incredible he was. I’m constantly wanting to text him or call him. I still haven’t been able to take his number out of my Favorites. It feels rude.

He was so good to talk to. Always encouraging, wise, and insightful. Not in the super preachy way many people expect from a pastor / counselor. But in the best friend / mentor giving you advice without you realizing he’s giving you advice kind of way. I miss his hugs too. He gave the best hugs.

Last week I changed my wife’s brakes and rotors by myself and wanted to call him to tell him. He would have told me he was proud of me. He was always proud of me. I miss that.

I’ve also found myself feeling oddly jealous of other people’s grief. I see someone post on Facebook about a child who died or a spouse and I find myself comparing what I’m going through to what they’re going through. My grief is belittled when I hear about the shootings in Orlando or the atrocities happening in the Middle East and Africa.

But is that really how grief works? Is it less important that I lost my Dad? Do I still deserve sympathy? Comparing success is dangerous, but comparing pain seems deadly.

But what am I really looking for? The feelings of relief I’ve felt during this process have primarily revolved around the idea of being off of the hook. Society tends to give a grace period around grief (although it is much shorter than probably necessary). During that grace period you’re seen as incapable of performing to your normal ability and therefore are granted lowered expectations. That lowered expectation is why I find myself comparing my grief to other’s grief. How much sympathy can I eek out? Can I get an extra week of grief? He was my Dad you know.

The thing I hear Jesus speaking to me though (and have heard this throughout the last year and a half) is that I am already off the hook. What He did on the cross truly gave me unblemished acceptance. Jesus was on the hook for me. I remember one of my friends sharing something that Papa was telling her about his expectations. I’ll try not to butcher what she said too bad:

God’s expectations of you were fully and finally satisfied in Jesus. That means he no longer has any expectations of you.

That means there is no room for disappointment. A God who has no expectations cannot be disappointed. He is fully and finally satisfied in you and you’re free to rest and live from your heart.

If we’re being honest with ourselves, that is our biggest fear in life. Being a disappointment. That’s why it always hurt worse when your parents weren’t mad. They were disappointed. But The Father isn’t. He delights in you. The bar wasn’t raised or lowered at the cross. It was removed. May we rest in that truth. Jesus did it all.

So you can see that I do experience hope. But right now everything I do is underlined by a Sadness Iceberg (trademark pending) where 90% of it is hidden under the surface.

I don’t know what stage of grief that puts me at, but it’s hard.