Sundays

Sundays have become incredibly difficult for me. You see, my dad has been a deeply religious man my entire life. I was raised Roman Catholic but in an Anglican Use parish. That means that I grew up singing from an Episcopalian hymnal. A few years ago I officially converted and became Episcopalian.

I bring up all this because that means that the church I currently attend uses the exact same hymnal that I grew up with. The Sunday service is incredibly similar to the ones of my childhood (just less Latin!). The incredible irony is that I find myself unable to attend church, the one activity I know my dad would find most important that I do not miss. This morning, I was in tears before I even put on my shoes. Every minute of church brings me memories of my dad.

I think of him as an altar server, carefully attending to every detail to make sure Mass was celebrated just so. 

I think of my parents and siblings singing all of the hymns and me eager to sing with them.

I think of one of my favorite old photos of my dad: him as a choir boy, choir robes and all. And then how I've followed in his footsteps by joining my church's choir.

I think of him carefully gold-leafing the statues of St. Mary and St. Joseph. 

I think of his cremains, currently in a columbarium in the church. 

I am indecisive each Sunday morning. I want to go to church because it's a part of who I am and I truly believe it helps me be a decent human being. I want to go to church to honor my Dad. But I feel an urge to avoid church because I know it's going to hurt. I know I will start crying well before I even receive communion.

Today, I missed church and spent time with my spouse and our dogs instead. Perhaps my dad can pray for me as I pray for him. Perhaps by Sunday God will grant me the courage to face some pain with the knowledge that, eventually, it will hurt less and less.

My dad as a (grumpy) choir boy

-Clare G. S.

Louis

My dad, Louis

This isn't the post I thought I would write next but here we are. A month ago, on March 22, my dad passed away. We saw it coming but at the same time didn't. The previous Friday, I said goodbye to him at the hospital after visiting for a couple of days. I thought to myself "I'll see him in a few weeks, maybe at Easter". The next day I got the message from my brother and sister that I needed to head back to Dallas. Later that afternoon, my husband and I made it back to the hospital. We spent time with Dad. Not too long after midnight, he was gone.

I have never experienced this kind of mourning before. I like the metaphor my mom has: it's like swimming in the ocean. You see a massive wave coming and it pushes you underwater. You find your way back up and get some air. Not long after that, another wave hits. After some time, the waves are smaller and they become less frequent. Eventually you are able to keep your head above water for most of the waves. Those waves of grief can be immobilizing for me right now. Other times, it feels like he's just a phone call away. 

I don't know where to go with this post. I know that writing often helps me when I'm overwhelmed with emotions.  I think I would like to share some of the wonderful memories I have of my dad.

*As a teenager, I frequently woke up suddenly because my dad was downstairs watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with the volume so high that I heard the "dun-ah-lah . .  wah wah wah".

*When I was a child, Dad often played the piano and I would dance. My favorite was the Raindrop Prelude by Chopin.

*I loved it when I fell asleep on the couch and he would carry me to my med.

*He loved our dog, Jojo, so much and she was obsessed with him. They were such a cute pair.

*Dad taught me about the cardinalities of infinity when I was in middle school. He always encouraged my love of math.

*My last conversation with him was about the etymology of the word "paradise". I'm glad that my final conversation with him was a mixture of a topic he loves, religion, and a topic I love, linguistics.

*He had the best mischievous wink.

*I remember watching and rewatching all the great British entertainment from Shakespeare's Henry V to the old Brit coms on PBS: Fawlty Towers, Keeping Up Appearances, Are You Being Served?, and Black Adder.

I'll leave with one thought that a really great therapist told me: Grief and love are two sides of the same coin. We wouldn't hurt this much while grieving it we didn't love that person so much. I love my dad so much. 

-Clare G. S.