Sometimes the Bravest Thing You Can Do Is Get Out of Bed

first thoughts after the death of my father

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is get out of bed, walk into the kitchen, and start a cup of coffee.

I spent the weekend, newborn baby in my arms, explaining death to a three-year-old, a four-year-old, a seven, nine, eleven, twelve, fourteen, and sixteen-year-old. Now I need someone to explain it to me.

I know people die. But people die.

And it’s not just some people. It’s all people.

A man that Friday, was smiling and laughing, taking a leisurely stroll by the creek, blowing out candles on a birthday cake, and hugging his children with an I’ll see you Sunday, on Saturday was gone.

His beautiful heart stopped beating.

This can actually happen. It happened.

It happened.

Death shakes you out of illusions that you are safe, that everything is ok, that bad things will probably only happen in other places.

This world is not a safe place. Terrible things will happen. People die. The energetic hands that once worked the garden will fall stiff and lifeless. The mouth that smiled and laughed and told stories, whistling a tune while walking through the house with a vase of freshly-cut flowers will never sing or speak again. The treasures that were gathered from a lifetime of saving and storing up will be taken, sold and divided. The lives that are bound together by blood and memory will be separated for earthly-ever.

People die.

How do we go on?

I believe in heaven. I truly, sincerely do. I have confidence that I will see my father again. But there is still this life of grief and sorrow, of death and losing things you thought you could never live without. There is still figuring out how to go on, when a beauty that has bloomed and nourished your soul all your life suddenly withers and dies and leaves an ugly, barren plot of bare earth.

At 5 a.m., my mind searches for a resting place and lights like a dove on a word that has carried me through the deepest fears of my life. I say it out loud to my body, soul, and spirit.

Mercy.

This word rises up for me, and I take hold of it. It is tempting to despair for how deep a heartache can go, how far will it follow us for the rest of our lives. And even further, how much more will we be called to lose, and how will we survive it? But the mercy of God is here now. It will always be here and there and everywhere. He sits with us in our sorrow. Emmanuel, God with us.

This isn’t a textbook life. One grief is not another. Healing can be different this time. Mercy can surprise us.

I refuse to live my life in fear of what may come and I refuse to live in bitter regret of all that is lost. I will celebrate, even this day. There is so much love that still remains. So much life still to live.

And so, I get out of bed, walk to the kitchen, and make the coffee. I tune my ear to the rhythm of my own beating heart. I look for God in the memory of my father, in the song of the windchimes, in the fairy roses he planted in my garden. I look for him in the faces of my own beautiful children, their eyes alight, their voices bright. I look for him in the fragrance of honeysuckle after rain and the song of the wood thrush. I gather up words and plant them in the ground. Mercy, goodness, faithfulness, lovingkindness, faith, hope, love. It takes time, but slowly and surely, the little seeds will grow into a garden of good, sweet fruit.

Making a beautiful life is a fight against despair and a defiance of death. I choose to plant where the earth is bare. To cultivate a meaningful life, season by season. To add something beautiful to the places that now feel desolate. And in time and with slow, patient work, and the sweet mercy of God, I trust that this garden will be in full bloom again.

Dear Friends,

Last week I was halfway through a post for Mother’s Day when I got the news that my father was dying. God’s mercy has truly carried me through this week of the beginning of grief. My father was a beautiful soul, and he made the world a better place for all who knew him. He was a preacher and a gardener, and a shepherd of souls. I woke the day after his funeral with a longing to make the world more beautiful. I made a good breakfast for my family. I made tea and coffee. The kids and I painted an old rusty table in bright colors to put on our front porch. I pulled weeds. I admired the flowers in bloom.

This is the only way I know how to move forward. One sensation at a time. Looking for the beauty that still remains and adding to it as I can.

If you are sitting in grief this week, I pray that these words are a comfort to you. The words I write are always much braver than I feel. They are my best thoughts and intentions, though I often fall short of my own ideals. But I do find that words give me a place to stand when the world feels tenuous, as it does now. I will be saying mercy over and over in the weeks ahead. And I offer that word to you as well.

Instead of a post on motherhood, I spent much of the weekend writing my father’s obituary. I would love to share it with you if you care to read about my wonderful daddy. You can find it here.

Sending love and comfort and hope that never stops growing,

Mackenzie

ps. This is a song I wrote for my parents back around 2005. Would love to share it in their memory today.

She is a whisper, he is a stone
Set in the greenest of gardens
He is the first flower, she is the bird
Humming and hovering over

She is a painting, he is a box
Of polish and brushes for shining
He is the good book, she is the song
That runs through the veins of her family…

If you would like to read more of my writing, you can find my book on bookshop.org, amazon, or wherever you shop for books online. If you’d like a signed copy, you can buy it from our family shop and I will sign it and send it your way.

Read-Aloud of Today’s Post: