It has been 13 years today since my dad left this earth. I was 26 when he died.
I think back over just this last year and all the changes that have enveloped my family. To even begin to comprehend how different my life looks now as opposed to 13 years ago is incomprehensible. But I'm sure if my dad could be here, he wouldn't hardly recognize us.
I have a home he never touched with his physical hands. We attend a different church than the one he would visit us at. I have children he never held and made duck noises at. And the baby he would save his cookies for? She's a young woman now.
Even though I sit here with tears streaming down my cheeks, I am thankful. So thankful for our God who keeps His promises and who heals and mends. The grieve, although still present, is such a small sparkle comparted to the giant ball of fire it began as. I can laugh and feel no guilt. I can go to my moms house and not instantly be overwhelmed by his absence. I can talk to my kids about the grandpa they never met without feeling anger and pain.
It is good. Well, it's okay anyway. Because with life comes death, and with love comes grief. Without love, there would be no pain in the passing. So it is with thanksgiving that I still grieve the absence of my father- because he was loved.