Grace to Grieve

Thursday night, October 16, 1975, was the last time I saw my father. It was the night before I took a weeklong trip to visit some high school friends in college. I kissed him good night and said, “I guess I won’t be seeing you for a while.” The next day, I boarded a bus. During the following week while I was away, my father died of a heart attack. He was fifty-four years old, and I had just turned nineteen. I’ll never forget the phone call I received from my mom.

The words started as a cadence and ended in disbelief: “Your father had a heart attack this morning and didn’t make it. There’s nothing you can do here, so just go on and enjoy your weekend and then come home.”

My heart sank. My knees buckled. Breathe, I told myself. I remember hanging up the phone and walking around in a daze. How was I going to enjoy the rest of the weekend? I wasn’t. The ride home was a blur. After I returned home, I learned that my father had not been feeling well that morning, but in true fashion headed out to work anyway. Not getting very far, he returned home, refused to go to the hospital but took a nap instead. After resting, he took my sister Joan to her volleyball game; on his way home, he had a heart attack and stumbled into the house. Within minutes, an ambulance arrived, and the paramedics feverishly worked to stabilize him. Mom accompanied Dad on his ride to the hospital but he was pronounced dead on arrival. By the time I returned home, I had missed the screams and cries of my sisters, the shock of my brothers, and the initial tears of my mom.

The wake, service, and burial all happened within the next forty-eight hours. The majority of memories of these events are sketchy at best, yet some are etched in stone. Prior to the wake, we gathered as a family before the doors were opened to the public. Mom prayed that God would be with us and the Holy Spirit would give us the strength to make it through the difficult times ahead.

Over and over, we heard, “I am so sorry.” The outpouring of love through all the friends, relatives, and neighbors was a source of strength and comfort. As the viewing time drew to a close, I internally questioned whether it was normal to touch the deceased. Before I could decide against it, I found myself walking to the casket. I reached out to Dad’s hands and felt his cold, lifeless body. That’s all it took to start another round of tears. My cousin, aware of my meltdown, came to my aid and gently led me away.

The next day, we were the last ones to arrive at the standing-room-only church service. I was now “that” family in black, walking behind the casket, ushered in by the priest. What I remember most were the songs, the atmosphere, and the readings being not a time of solemnness, like the ones I had experienced singing in the choir, but a time of rejoicing, celebrating my father’s life. A sound like angels singing, “And I Will Raise Him Up,” “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” and “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” sung by Dad’s brother, Uncle Jim. The visit to the cemetery was a blur, followed by a meal afterwards at our house. Over three hundred people came. Then one by one, family, friends, and relatives left … and the darkness, the emptiness in the house, closed in around us.

My father, nicknamed the “nickel and dime guy” by his siblings, was a man blessed with a house full of children. I was the first girl born after five boys, followed by another brother and two sisters. My earliest memories are of walking the neighborhood with Dad. “Are you Bud’s daughter? I remember the day you were born! Your Dad was so happy: first girl.” Dad was my protector, as he shielded me from overzealous dogs in the neighborhood when they snapped and barked at us on our walks around the block. He provided a refuge for me when visiting the feeding-frenzied goats at Grant’s Farm in St. Louis. I remember vividly the feeling of being overwhelmed by the aggressive hungry goats as a number of them vied for the one bottle of milk I held in my hand. My dad quickly came to my rescue and picked me up out of the goat pen. I felt safe in his arms. He was a hard-working man, not one to complain, and a shining example of perseverance. Although affectionate words were hard to come by, my siblings and I never doubted his love. His living example taught all of us kids the importance of preparedness, discipline, resilience, and perseverance. Being a warrior at heart, he was steadfast in his convictions and moral standards. No need to feel sorry for yourself, as “there’s always someone else who has it worse.” Fall down? Get up, brush yourself off, and move on. Snowstorm coming? Prepare in advance: park the car on higher ground and walk a mile to get to it to avoid having trouble in the morning and getting stuck in the snow. Yes, as a letter carrier, he lived by the well-known Postal motto: “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds”; the mail (and life itself) must go through.

The death of my father caused me to search after God in a way I never had. A few years earlier, I made the profession of faith with Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. It was the realization that my salvation was not secured by my infant baptism, along with all the good works I could hope to complete, that brought me to that life-changing decision and commitment. Now, the harsh slap of reality left me reeling after he died and forced me to contemplate my eternal destination. No longer could I take life for granted; pondering life after death was no longer a luxury I could afford to defer.