This week, I lost my Papa. He passed away on Christmas Eve.
He was there as I drew my very first breath, I was there as he took his last breath.
He was there as I formed in my mother's womb and my heart began to beat, I was there as his heart beat for the very last time.
He was there as I grew and my body grew stronger, I was there as his body grew older and as he moved on to his heavenly home.
I have never felt pain like this...ever. I have lost loved ones, but not like this. My heart is broken and I have never felt grief like this...ever. My friend, Rob Barge, posted this on his Facebook wall:
"GRIEF IS AN HONOR
Accumulated grief and sorrow, no longer to be held at bay, have swarmed up and blown the hinges off the gate. Grief and sorrow have flattened me.
After the gate flew open, I learned the most important lessons of my life. I learned that grief is precisely equivalent to love, and that the terrible grief felt after the loss of a person one has loved deeply is a necessary consequence of that love and represents its survival in another form. However bitterly, grief is an honor.
I learned that grief universally saturates and enriches our world, for sooner or later loss of an almost unimaginable order transforms everyone. Parents die, brothers and sisters die, even children die, and these deaths create irreparable wounds that shrink over time but never heal. On all sides, tears lie just beneath the surface. The emotion that gives rise to those tears is a connective tissue extending far, far down into our common humanity and our individual beings, and in those depths it becomes indistinguishable from joy."
This week, I have tried to remember that my grief is an honor. I have tried my best to remember how very blessed I am to have be given the gift of knowing and loving my Papa for 33 years. Not everyone has such a privilege. Not everyone knows a grandfather's love like I have known and experienced. I have tried to focus on good memories. My Papa taught me how to ride a bike. He had a swing in his front yard, and I can not begin to total the endless hours he spent pushing me in that swing. I'm quite sure he had other things to do, but when he and I were together, it's as if time was frozen and nothing else mattered. While he was in the hospital, he told the nurse, "this is my granddaughter. She's my #1. She's a teacher." I always knew he was proud of me. Always. I will forever be proud of him. Forever.
In November, I made the trip to Georgia to be with my Papa. He was to have a routine surgery to remove what we all thought was a benign mass in his colon. After several hours of surgery, our family was hit hard by the news that a malignant tumor was found, which caused major complications and required another surgery. I don't know if I can adequately put into words the shock that ran through our family. It was devastating, to say the least. Papa never made it home. We thought things were getting better as he made his way to a rehab facility, but the cancer was too aggressive and other complications made things worse.
Christmas Eve (with my Grannie, his children, and some grandchildren gathered by his bedside), Papa went to be with the Lord. My Papa loved Jesus more than any man that I have ever known. It was evident in the way he lived his life. Part of me was celebrating that Papa was with Jesus, that he was no longer in pain, but my heart hurt. I suppose that I have always believed that my Papa was indestructible...that he would live forever here on earth. I mean, that's how we perceive our super-heroes, right? My Papa was definitely a super-hero.
It gets to a point where you don't think you can cry anymore...but still the tears come. I have moments where I cam completely overwhelmed by missing him already. Trying to sleep this week has been a challenge, and I often found myself in my grandparent's living room in the middle of the night, sitting in my Papa's chair...trying to sink further and further into that chair hoping that I could feel him again...just once more. I found myself standing in the middle of his closet...hoping to smell him again...just once more. Sitting at their breakfast table, just wishing that he would come and pat my face like he had done so many times in my life...just once more.
On Thursday night, we had visitation at the funeral home. The line was long. So many people came to pay their respects. I can't count the times I heard someone tell my Daddy or my Grannie that Papa was a "good man" or how much they loved his smile or what a difference that he had made in their life.
On Friday, I was getting ready for the funeral...and a song came to mind from the Lion King musical. I looked it up on my phone and listened and cried...
I'm not sure why this song came to mind...I think God sends us little pieces of comfort during times like this...many times my comfort is found in music. As I watched the video, I remembered the story of the Lion King. To make a very long story short, Mufasa (the king) was killed and his son, Simba, had to realize that his father lives in and through him so that he could fulfill his obligations as the next King.
My Papa touched MANY lives...and I think that Papa's legacy will live on through people that have been changed by my Papa's actions and love. I felt him this week every time I hugged my Aunt Carolyn (his baby sister and who is cut from the SAME, EXACT cloth as my Papa) or laughed with my family about a silly memory. I know he lived on as members from his church took donations from the meal they fed us before the funeral to feed over 35 people at a homeless shelter. He lives on through my Daddy as he steps up to lead our family and help take care of my Grannie. I can see the reflection of my Papa through my Daddy's eyes. He lives on as my husband, Brad, cleaned out my Grannie's cabinets and took out the trash. He lives on through my Uncle Ted as he fixed everyone a glass of ice, washed dishes, and helped my little brother fix his roof...he lives on as my Aunt Dianne prepared a meal for all of us, and picked out just the perfect pictures for the slide show at the funeral home. He lives on as my Momma read the Christmas Story through her tears on Christmas Day. He lives on every time that we have joined hands as a family this week to pray. He lives of through the blue eyes of my sweet boys. Even though he's gone, he's still with us...because he touched each and every person in our family - and we each have a piece of him somewhere inside.
My friend, Rebekah sent this poem to me:
-Henry S. Holland
Oxford Professor of Divinity
There is still pain and sorrow. There is still grief. But what a privilege to have him for as long as I did...my life was changed for the better because of my Papa. I love you always and forever, my Papa.
"Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life."
-Proverbs 16:31
