Today is Father’s Day and June marks five years since my Dad died. I’m not sure how I am “suppose” to feel about that. I often see people on social media post their grief or “miss you every day,” with some happy picture. But I can’t say I miss Dad every day, because I don’t. What I am, the feeling in the deepest part of my heart, is grateful. Grateful that God chose my Dad to be my Daddie.
There is a societal expectation (or so it seems) that one should be in a mourning on particular days or milestones, such as noting five years since a death. I did note the day. How could I forget that day? Or the days preceding his death? I don’t, and am I sure others don’t either. But to be in despair, to cry or feel the need to formally or symbolically publicly show those feelings isn’t what I want to do, rather feel I have to – as if I am reinforcing the belief my siblings vocalized or portrayed, that I am a bad daughter. So I posted the token picture on Facebook, but in my heart there wasn’t the need.
I learned a lot from my Dad. He have a gift of hospitality and welcome, which he shared generously. He was strong and gifted as a carpenter and handyman, not unlike Joseph, Mary’s husband and Jesus’s earthly father. He was kind, but could be scary with his deep bass voice when he yelled. He was my Dad, and like all of daddy’s little girls, I was proud of him.
On those days of note, the anniversary of his death, Father’s Day and just around the corner his birthday, I remember and my heart overflows. My heart overflows with joy, with gratitude and with love. For I was loved, very deeply and unconditionally.