I thought it was going away, that I was getting used to not picking up the phone, but in the past week or so it's been happening more again.
"Dad will love to hear about...."
"I need to ask Dad...."
"This'll be fun to see/do with...."
And every sentence trails off into the word "No."
There are things he told me that I didn't bother to remember because he'd tell me over and over again--about the solstice, or taxes, or how long to keep paperwork. Part of my brain left with part of my heart.
I don't just miss Dad. I miss Mom. I miss Jeremiah. I miss me. I don't know who we are anymore, the three of us who are left who knew him the most closely over the past thirty-four years. We're feeling our way forward in the darkness, and part of me expects another cliff soon, like the one we fell off in May, except can you fall again when you haven't hit bottom yet?
So much not knowing, in so many areas. (Should I just sit here, God, motionless? I'm afraid to move.)
What kind of God are you, anyway, who asks so much of us and yet accepts us in our confusion, our worthlessness, our fear? What kind of God are you, who sets your great faithfulness against our utter desolation (Lamentations 3)? What kind of God, who devastates us and keeps coming after us instead of leaving us alone to recover in peace? What kind of God could instantly turn stones and trees into children and worshippers, but settles instead for achingly slow sanctification that seems to stay just out of our grasp?
God, you know all things, you know I love you. And you know I can't, can't, can't love you alone. My hands and knees could use some strengthening, and my feet some smoother paths.
When I talked to Dad, he would answer me. This week, Father, I can't hear you.
"You have heard my voice--do not hide your ear from my prayer for relief, from my cry for help."--Lamentations 3:56
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