Nine years ago my life changed. A change, while I was vaguely prepared for, ultimately I was unprepared for.
Death has a way of doing that to a person.
My father passed from this plain of existence after a long battle with a terrible illness that he had no chance against. Yet, he held hope. Hope that a cure would provide a Hail Mary in the last seconds of the fourth quarter of his life. Hope that he would be able to draw breath without coughing. Hope that he would simply live to see his family continue to grow.
While that Hail Mary never materialized, a kernel of hope was planted in the field scorched by the flames of grief.
The funny thing about the aftermath of fire, the soil is often enriched by the layers of ash that cover the ground. Eventually the seeds tucked away in the soil, those kernels of hope, germinate. New life springs forth from the ashes of our grief. Giving us a path, a purpose, a lease on the rest of our life.
The last nine years have been a journey of growth and change. As they should be.
I remember and celebrate the man who is my father. Death can not change that fact. He has simply moved on to the next step in our eternal path.
Once in a while I hear a belly laugh, looking quickly around I realize that Dad’s around. And, I’m grateful.