Before the overlay of Pride, June belonged solely to me and my dad. It contains Father’s Day, my birthday, and his.
My birthday fell on Father’s Day this year. My wife was out of town but orchestrated a celebration by the kids. Helium balloons came out of hiding and eggs cracked open to mix with lemon cake batter—my favorite. I opened handmade cards and got pelted with confetti. I was in heaven.
Two years ago on that day, I walked to the front of church after the service to receive prayer. It had been four years since my dad had taken his life and it hurt more than ever. I stood with a minister’s hand on my shoulder and wept.
I meditated on why that year hit harder. It made sense: The first year I missed him and the life we had known together, with all its ups and downs. The fourth year I grieved his absence in my life since his passing.
He could have seen my newborn son in my arms. He could have felt the anticipation on my son’s face as he buckled up for his first ride at Six Flags, feet dangling midair. He missed the uncertainty in my daughter’s eyes as she stepped on stage the first time. He was absent when eager hands ripped open Christmas presents, Easter baskets overflowed, and many wishes were made over birthday candles.
It hurt bad.
Last year, as the fifth anniversary of his death approached, I wanted to anticipate a different emotion than grief. I decided how I wanted to feel and how I needed to view the experience to feel that way.
I wanted to feel empowered and hopeful. I wanted the memory of his passing somehow to trigger joy rather than sorrow. I let it remind me of several things:
- I am a strong person who can walk through trials with resilience.
- This Earth is not our home. I can meditate on the future glory my family will experience with God.
- Life is precious. Make every moment count. Soak it in.
- Vulnerability in community with God’s people brings life. I am blessed to have that.
- I have the opportunity to love my dad by supporting other men who feel the struggles of life are bigger than they are. That brings me joy.
Tuesday, my father would be turning seventy-five. We will visit his graveside. It’s a place where I’ve lectured him on his poor choice, asked God what good could possibly come from it, and sat on a bench staring blankly at a small pond that looked as lonely as I felt.
This week, we will walk the grounds, soak in the sunshine, and be grateful for life as it was and life as it is. The kids will get bored. They’ll run up and down the hills. I’ll hold my wife’s hand and take it all in. I’m certain that pond won’t be so lonely.