Blessed are those who mourn.

 

“On the mountains, I will bow my life

To the one who set me there

In the valley, I will lift my eyes to the one who sees me there

When I'm standing on the mountain aft, didn't get there on my own

When I'm walking through the valley end, no I am not alone.”

-Hills & Valleys, Tauren Wells

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3 years. It’s been 3 years since the worst day of my life. 

As the days drew closer to what I call my dad’s “deathiversary” (some people are highly uncomfortable with this term), I knew my body was remembering. I noticed a weariness in my soul, a weight on my chest, and more sleepless nights. It’s crazy how our bodies remember, even before our brains, isn’t it? 

I wish I could say 3 years in, myself and my family have fully received resolution, answers, filling to the dad or JC Chambers-sized hole that was left, but I can’t. Much of the mess that was left behind still exists. Sometimes it feels like a lot that is left of that day are ashes, slowly burning, treading on places there once was life. 

I’ve seen healing happen for people who knew my dad. I’ve seen books written with him as a primary protagonist. I’ve seen tattoos with his signature. I’ve seen people make sense of his death and his life as if they spent their own lives being raised by him. I’ve held the hands of people who are still mourning the loss of their therapist, mentor, friend, and coach. I’ve helped wipe away their tears over my dad’s untimely death. 

It’s not that there hasn’t been healing for me but I sort of expected to see miracles or moments where I for sure knew that his death meant something. I hoped I would find a letter he wrote because he was thinking of his family that week, or to have randomly met the EMT at the grocery store who cared for him in the ambulance and have them tell me that his last words were that he loved his family. I hoped I would suddenly discover my calling in life that arose out of this experience. I hoped I would’ve met someone at his funeral that wanted to give me my dream job opportunity. I think we always want tragedy to have meaning, but sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s just a tragedy. And we have a hard time dealing with that because we are told that everything must happen for a reason in order for God’s presence to be within that thing. 

I think God’s presence can still be there without us having to find a purpose in something that is so horrible. The most valuable thing anyone ever told me after my dad’s death was the reminder that, “blessed are those who mourn.” To be blessed in ancient Jewish culture, was to be given the power to cultivate life. When God blessed human beings in creation, God gave them the ability to cultivate, find, and experience life. When I was told “blessed are those who mourn”, I understood that to mean that God has granted the power of life to be cultivated out of grief, out of mourning. Those who mourn, somehow, someway, are participating in something so close to the heart of God and will receive and find life. 

So I still mourn, 3 years later. 

I mourn his death of course, and the tragedy of a man who had so much life to give who is no longer here. But I also mourn the losses surrounding his death, the ripple-effects of loss that infiltrate different spaces in my life and my being. 

Today I am mourning the loneliness I feel in my grief and in my day. I am mourning the fact that my baby, who shares my dad’s middle name “Christopher”, will never know his Papa for himself. I am mourning that every time Theo is with any of his grandparents, my heart feels broken, because he will never know the best Papa in the world. I am mourning that his scope of influence was so deep and wide, everytime I met someone who knew him, I hold their grief, but often don’t seek to hold mine. I am mourning the fact that Tyson and I have now been married longer with him gone than we were when he was alive. I am mourning the fact that I no longer have texts, voicemails, or new pictures of my dad to share with the world. I am mourning that I feel anger for the silence of a few close friends over the last few years. I am mourning the fact that so many feel they have a piece of my dad and want to share it with the world, and it sometimes feels like nothing is left for me. I am mourning that my mom has to parent and grandparent alone. I am mourning the life that was just a few days before his death, that now has changed forever. I am mourning that forever feels like too long for him to be gone this side of heaven. 

I could list all the ways I mourn this day, but that would be too long a list. Death sucks. I miss my dad. But I’ll hold on to this and share it with anyone who also grieves:

Blessed are those who mourn. 

Love you dad. Rest in peace and rise in power.