It’s time to be done

I have struggled to come up with the words to describe what I have felt about the hate crimes that have occurred in our country this week. I’m not one who typically struggles with words. Even when I cannot verbalize what I am feeling, I can almost always write. This has been different. 

I finally realized that sometimes there just are no words. There is rhetoric. There is lamenting. There is finger-pointing. There is grief. But the words to make sense of the things that have happened this week in our country, they just don’t exist. How could they?

How could there possibly be words to make sense of that which makes no sense. Of hatred without reason. Of harm without purpose. 

There are no words to make sense of what has happened in our country this week because there is no sense to be made. There is only hatred and ignorance and fear of those different than us. How is it that in 2018, there is still so very much hatred and ignorance and fear? How is it in 2018 that we are still struggling to make sense of the senseless? 

At what point do we come out and say I’m done trying to make sense of that which makes no sense. I’m done trying to come up with reasons why people do the hurtful things they do. I’m done trying to make myself feel better about unspeakable things that happen. 

I’m done. 

I’m done with hatred. I’m done with ignorance. I’m done with fear based on things I don’t understand. I’m done with intolerance of people who look different than me, worship different than me, speak a language different than me, identify differently than me. Imagine  done with all the things that cause all the actions that I can’t manage to bring myself to understand. 

I’m done. 

We should all be done. We should all be done with  trying to explain or justify or understand that which cannot be explained or justified or understood. We should be done. Because trying to make sense of things which should not make sense lessens all of us. It lessens us as individuals, it lessens us as a community, it lessens us as a people.

It’s time to be done.  It’s time to be done 

What do you do to take care of you?

The training that I am attending this week is on trust based relational intervention. In a nutshell, it’s training on working with children who have experienced trauma, or, in the words of its founder, children from hard places. 

Because of the nature of the training, there are a number of therapists attending. I met one from St. Louis yesterday during one of the break out sessions in which she was the tail to my tiger. This was during the same session a lady who was the head of another tiger whose tail I was trying to steal fell down in her rush to get away from me. Oops. 

Anyway, Kathleen, the therapist, not the clumsy tiger, sat next to me on the bus on the way back to the hotel after a documentary screening last night. The documentary was about a CPS drug court in Tyler, Texas that operates based on TBRI principles, recognizing that most CPS parents have their own history of trauma, largely untreated. 

Kathleen was asking me my thoughts on the court and was telling me about her own family experience with her son and his custody struggles and commented that while she dealt wit trauma in her work, she hadn’t realized how stressful it must be to work in the court system. I told her it often had its frustrations and sometimes it’s heartbreak. And I told her about my heartbreak of this past week. 

She expressed her shock and her sympathy and then she asked me a question. She asked, what do you do to take care of you? Cue the blank stare. I really had to think. And then I answered something about talking to my friends or my pastor or something along those lines. We arrived at the hotel shortly afterwards so the conversation with her ended but it continued in my head. 

What do you do to take care of you?

As I told Kathleen, I talk to friends. Or to my pastor. I spend time with friends having lunch, or dinner, or doing things that have nothing to do with trauma or pain or loss. I work out. I listen to music. I read books. I pray. I sit on the couch with Clayton scratching his neck, or rubbing his head, and just being with him. I write blog posts and share them with all of you. 

I realized that what all these things have in common is connection. Connection to other people. Physical connection. Connection through proximity and sharing conversation and laughter. Or in the case of listening to music, reading books, praying, or writing, a connection of the mind or of the heart. 

We are in a new season of life with Aaron away at college. Clayton is far more interested most days in talking to his friends than he is talking to his parents so time with him is less than what it once was. Both these things have been an adjustment. It’s marching band season and while I don’t miss the early mornings, the late Friday nights followed by early Saturdays which seem to never end, I miss the experience far more than I expected. I miss hanging out with the other band parents. I miss going to dinner together, cheering on our kids together, just spending time together. I miss the connection. 

So I’ve started to make new connections and to keep myself busy. With disciple Bible studies, women’s Bible Study, small groups, time with friends. Again, all about connection. And I’ve started to blog. Which is a connection on an incredibly deep level for me. 

Connection to others is what I do to take care of me. What do you do to take care of you? Where are your connections?

Because we remembered

Those of us who work in the trenches, in the medical field, law enforcement, the criminal justice system, child welfare, we see a lot of ugly. And it touches those who are directly involved but others aren’t usually affected. It’s not that they are unfeeling. They’re just wrapped up in their own work and all their own levels of ick. 

But sometimes a case touches everyone. There was a case like that when I was at the da’s office the first time. A 2 year old little girl who had been taken from her bedroom by her teenage neighbor. Violated repeatedly and then strangled with her own nightgown. I’ve seen numerous crime scene photos over the years. Graphic representations of horrendous injuries or abuse. None had ever bothered me as much as these. That precious child lying broken at the bottom of a set of cellar stairs. Discarded like an old doll. 

The child who died this week is one of those who has touched everyone who has heard even a small part of his story. My investigator came to my office the other day, surprised, and said everyone is talking about my case. And she was right. Because it was her case, but this boy had become everyone’s child. 

I listened to my pastor’s sermon from this past Sunday again this morning. It’s been a hard week and I thought that might soothe my wounded heart. A message about faith. And about having relentless optimism in the midst of things that break our heart. 

And the events of this past week caused me to listen to it through a different filter. It felt different and I heard it differently than when I first heard it on Sunday. 

And I wondered is that the true power of this child’s life? That those touched by his horrific death and the abuse that preceded it would hear things through a different filter. See them through a different lens. 

Some people leave their legacy on the world because of how they live. And some because of how they die. Maybe this is the good that comes of this. That none of us will ever forget him. Or the little 2 year old girl. And all those like them. Who have suffered in ways no child should ever suffer. 

Maybe the good is that we will be changed for the better. And change this world for better for those around us. And that in that, they would be honored. Because we remembered. 

I shouldn’t get over that

I see a lot of ugly and heartbreaking things in this job that I do. I have seen unspeakable things done to innocent children over and over again. And despite how much it hurts me at the time or how sick it makes me or how angry I get, I get over it and I move on. 

This week I’ve dealt with a situation I’ve never dealt with before. And I’ve struggled like never before. And this morning as I woke up and the first thought I had was about the child who has captured all my work hours  and all my thoughts and all my prayers this week, I thought, I don’t know if I’ll get over this one. 

And it hit me. Why in the world would I? Of course I won’t. And I shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t even try. 

I stood at the bedside of a precious child of God who, at least the last few years,  knew nothing in this life but misery. I looked at his broken and bruised body and wondered if there was ever a time in his life he had felt cherished and loved. 

I shouldn’t get over that. 

I held his swollen hand and I prayed a prayer with no words. And I imagined him in this next life, healthy and whole and happy and loved. 

I shouldn’t get over that. 

I am so angry at this one. I’m angry at those who did this to him, those who may have known and didn’t stop it, those who should have known and didn’t say anything. I’m angry at all the people on this earth who failed this child. 

And I’m angry with God. Because I don’t understand why a loving God would allow this child to suffer the way that he did. I don’t understand why a loving God allows any of the suffering he allows. And I’m not going to understand that this side of heaven. 

With all the anger I have, what has most broken my heart is this precious child lying in that bed by himself, his brain dead, his body being kept alive by machines while decisions are being made about him. Alone. With nobody who loves him to sit and hold his hand in his last hours on this earth. 

I shouldn’t get over that. 

In my anger and my grief, I’ve reached out to my pastor a lot in these last days. At one point, I was talking about my grief about him being alone and I said  to her, please tell me that Jesus will be there with him. I need to believe that Jesus will be there with him. 

What she said to me was this, “Yes, Cheryl, Jesus has been with him this whole time. And he has probably never known more peace than over the weekend and Monday as his body was shutting down and as Jesus picked him up and reminded him he was safe... He has never been alone...”

And that image gave me comfort at the time, but it wasn’t until this morning that I really got it. That I truly understood what she was saying and what it meant. He has never been alone. Jesus was with him when his body was shutting down and he was there to carry him home when his heart stopped beating. But he was there too when he was suffering here on earth. I don’t know that this little boy felt that presence. I have a hard time understanding how he could have. But I do believe that Jesus was there and felt that pain with him. And cried tears for him he may have been unable to cry for himself. I have no doubt that Jesus made himself known and felt in those final days and hours. And that today, that precious child is running and playing in heaven. Healthy and whole. Protected and cared for. Cherished and loved. As he should have been in this life but wasn’t. 

I shouldn’t get over that. 

My pastor asked me yesterday, “Do you see where your story meets this little boy?... Somehow this boy is going to change you too...”

I think he already has. 

I shouldn’t get over that. 

Doing Church

I’ve heard two different people in the last week say they aren’t able or aren’t willing to go in a church. People that I believe love God. People I know are loved by God. But they can’t step in a church. I don’t know if it’s because of hurt, or hypocrisy, or bad experience, or anger at God, or mistrust of organized religion, or what. But it’s bothered me. 

It’s bothered me because despite the times I’ve been hurt by the church, and I have, I always go back. Because it’s my refuge. There’s something about the organized community of faith that meets a need within me that nothing else does. 

That doesn’t mean I don’t experience God in other ways and in other places. Some of the times I have experienced him most strongly have been in the places where much of the traditional church at large would least expect God to be, and yet he was there and he made his presence known. 

But even with that outward experience of God, there’s still something about being a part of a church family that draws me, and that fulfills me, and so, because of that, I want that experience for everyone.

With all that in mind, I’ve been thinking about how that church experience can be brought to those who for whatever reason can’t or won’t be a part of church as I know it.

I asked my pastor about it and she gave me the right answer to the question, as she usually does. That it’s more about the relationship than the ritual. And I know it’s the right answer but it still left me with a feeling of dissatisfaction because it just didn’t feel like it was enough.

As I was thinking all these thoughts this morning, I was also thinking about some things I need to pick up at the store. Because I’m a woman and I’m really good at thinking about lots of different things all at the same time. Anywho, I was thinking about what I needed and wondering if I could pick them up at Sam’s or whether I needed to go to Target. And then I thought that if Mike went to Walmart, he could pick them up, because they would be likely to be cheaper there than at Target but I absolutely refuse to go to Walmart. I detest Walmart. I detest most things about it other than the fact that they carry Pioneer Woman dishes which seriously is the only thing that makes me go in there from time to time, but I digress.  The point is, I realized that lots of people love Walmart. And yet I can’t or won’t step into a Walmart except under very special circumstances. A lot like how some people feel about church.

For me, being a part of a church has been an important part of my life for most of my life. There have been times that I’ve stepped away. Some periods lasting longer than others. But I’ve always come back. To a different place, and a different pastor, and a different people. But I’ve always come back to find that church home. Because it meets a need in me nothing else does. 

But church isn’t for everyone any more than Walmart is. And as long as you’re getting your groceries from somewhere, what difference does it make where they come from? 

And yet I still want people to have a wonderful church experience. Because I know how life giving that experience can be. I want everyone to have an amazing pastor like I do, who loves God, and loves people. Because I know how life changing that can be. But what I most want is for people to experience the love of Jesus in a way that transforms who they are and how they love and how they experience the world around them. And it doesn’t matter if that happens on a Sunday morning in a church setting, or on a Saturday morning in a Pride parade, or on a Monday night with a group of strangers, sharing your heart and your journey of struggle and hope.

Because, like your groceries, you can get your spiritual fulfillment from anywhere. And it doesn’t really matter where it comes from, as long as you’re getting it. 

Who is going to speak for them?

Mondays are often hard. Mondays following a pretty amazing long weekend with family are especially hard. And then there are Mondays which start off by a greeting from one of my investigators, with pretty horrific photos, concerning a particularly heartbreaking fact situation, which under even the best case scenario is likely to end very badly.

This has been my morning. And it's quite frankly had me down. And in the midst of all the bad, I reached out to a friend who works in this field also, and said, “Tell me again why I do this job?” And her response to me was the following: “Who else is going to speak for him?” Which stopped me in my tracks. Because what I want to respond and say is, I don’t care, as long as it’s not me. But the truth is, I do care. Because when I realized the court hearing was likely to be scheduled next week when I’m at TBRI training, I immediately started figuring out who could cover the hearing for me and what I needed to do to make sure they were prepared. Because I do care. And I hate that I’m not going to be there to speak for this little boy. It isn’t that there aren’t plenty of highly trained attorneys in my office more than capable of covering this hearing for me. It’s that I’m not going to be there to speak for him.

This job is often discouraging. And exhausting. And frustrating. And absolutely heartbreaking. But somebody has to speak for these kids when they cannot speak for themselves. And I am grateful that God has entrusted that job to me, until such time as he decides to use me elsewhere. I am grateful for the dedicated and tireless professionals I get to work with who work so tirelessly and fiercely to protect children. I am grateful for the friends he has placed in my life who help me to keep the focus on the kids, rather than on myself. I am grateful for the voice that God has given me. 

May I always be up to the challenge to be a voice for those who are voiceless, a friend to those who are friendless, and a champion for those who are championless. 

In the hardest of times, when my heart is breaking, and I just don’t think I can do it even one more day, may I never forget that God has placed me here for a purpose bigger than myself.  And may I stand back up, put on my warrior’s armor, and get ready to fight once again. For those who cannot fight for themselves. Because I do care.  

Who is going to speak for them?

Climbing monkey bars

Aaron let me read a personal essay yesterday that he wrote for one of his classes. The essay was about the development of his musical taste, but in talking about how that developed, he talked about his personality as a young elementary student and he described himself as having adopted the role that was placed on him as the quiet, smart kid. He went on to talk about how he spent his recess reading rather than developing friendships, like the other kids were. He explained that while he progressed from that shyness, there’s still a part of him that is the shy, quiet kid that walks around the playground reading a book instead of climbing the monkey bars.

I had forgotten about those days, and how sad I was at the time that he seemed such a lonely little boy. And when I read that, it made me sad all over again. That he still sees himself as that lonely little boy, despite how social he has become over the last few years. He is an extraordinary young man, and most people who know him know would never suspect that about him.

And then it made me sad for me. Because I was much like Aaron as a child. And, like him, there’s still a part of me that is the shy, quiet kid that walks around the playground reading a book instead of climbing the monkey bars.

I’m far more social than I used to be. I’m involved in lot of different groups. I have quite a few friends. I enjoy being around people that I care about. I can get up and speak to a large group of strangers. And I can do it well. But with all that, I still don’t like gatherings with large groups of people, especially those made up of accomplished or wealthy people, who make me feel inadequate. It’s often still hard for me to insert myself into a group or to feel like I belong to the groups that I’m a part of. There’s still a part of me that is the shy, quiet kid that walks around the playground reading a book instead of climbing the monkey bars. Those of you who have only known me for the past few years might never suspect that about me.

I wonder if all of us have a different personality inside us somewhere. One that goes back to childhood. One that our recent friends and acquaintances would never suspect about us. One that steered who we would become, who we still are at times, one who even affects who our children will become.

I think being aware of who we were and who we still are at times helps us to know why and how we relate to people in the ways that we do. I think talking about it to others, while making us vulnerable, also makes us more real. To others and to ourselves. And being real goes a long way toward helping those shy quiet kids walking around the playground make friends so they can climb on the monkey bars instead of reading a book by themselves.

I'm trying to make you a warrior

I was talking to another attorney today and she mentioned that she was speaking to new clients at legal aid and as part of counseling with them, she said, “I don’t want you to be a victim.  I’m trying to make you a warrior.”

I thought that was an interesting but accurate way of looking at the role of an attorney as advocate because when someone needs legal advice and legal assistance, they typically are in the role of victim in some way.  Victim of a crime, victim of circumstances, victim of life. My law license has two descriptors:  Attorney and Counselor at Law. Because the job of an attorney is far more than just providing advice on the law. It’s about advocating for them in court before the judge. It’s often providing advice on life. It’s sometimes holding hands, holding hearts, holding trust. And sometimes, as the attorney I was speaking to said to her clients, it’s building them up to change them from being victims to being warriors.

And isn’t that what Jesus does for us?  No, I’m not comparing attorneys to Jesus because seriously, have you met most of them? But isn’t being an advocate a part of what Jesus is to us? One who advocates for us before “the judge,” God the Father. One who provides guidance on how to live our lives. One who holds our hands, holds our hearts, holds our trust. One who builds us up to make us warriors so we don’t have to be victims any longer.

It’s one thing to be an expert on the law. It’s another thing to be an expert on making relationships. I think that’s true for Jesus, true for lawyers, and true for all of us. The practice of building people up is sacred work, no matter your profession. Building warriors out of victims is a calling, no matter who you are. But I think it’s part of what we are called to do.  Let us do so with love and grace. Holding hands, holding hearts, holding trust.

This is what our God looks like

I had the blessing of marching with Brite Divinity School of TCU at the Ft. Worth Pride Parade yesterday. 

It was my first experience at a Pride Parade and I wasn’t really sure what to expect. What I experienced was sacredness. 

We marched together, persons of different colors and ethnicities. Different sexual orientations and identities. Different ages and socioeconomic backgrounds. Different religions. But united in one common belief of equality and acceptance and courage and love. 

As we marched down the streets of Ft. Worth, we were surrounded by people on each side of the barricades. People with signs proclaiming free mom hugs or free dad hugs or free sister hugs. People in support of those present on each side of the barricade. People with signs and voices vehemently spouting hate and disdain. “God hates queers” “After Death is Judgment” “Homosexuality is a sin” among others. 

But what happened as we approached these groups was where the sacred came in. One of the divinity students would chant loudly to our group: “Tell me what our God looks like” and the group would respond, with one voice and one heart, “This is what our God looks like!” 

And friends, God was in the midst of that as fully as I was. I felt as if I should take off my shoes because I was surely standing on holy ground. 

This is what our God looks like. 

In the book of Exodus where God speaks to Moses out of the burning bush, God says to him:

“Don’t come any closer! Take off your sandals, because you are standing on holy ground." Then the LORD said, "I’ve clearly seen my people oppressed in Egypt. I’ve heard their cry of injustice because of their slave masters. I know about their pain. I’ve come down to rescue them from the Egyptians in order to take them out of that land and bring them to a good and broad land, a land that’s full of milk and honey.”

Take off your sandals because you are standing on holy ground. I’ve clearly seen my people oppressed. I’ve heard their cry of injustice. I’ve come down to rescue them. 

I stood in the midst of that yesterday. 

This is what our God looks like. 

If you feel homosexuality is a sin, that’s between you and God. It’s not my job to try to change your mind. But I will ask you not to hate and not to judge. Because that isn’t your job anymore than it is mine to change you. 

This is what our God looks like. 

He looks like all those marching with us yesterday. Every race. Every sexual identity or orientation. Every age, socioeconomic background, and religion. In all our differences and in all our similarities. In all our pain and all our joy. And most of all, in all our love, acceptance, and hope for healing. 

This is what our God looks like. 

Hearing with our ears and our hearts

I was in court earlier this week and we were discussing one of our kiddoes, a young teenager. This girl is in care because her adoptive mom doesn’t feel like she can care for her needs any longer. One of the attorneys in the hearing asked my worker something along the lines of does the child understand that her mother is not able or willing to care for her. To which my sweet worker responded, “Whether she listens with her heart and not just her ears, I can’t answer.”

Whether she listens with her heart and not just her ears, I can’t answer. Because what this little girl heard with her heart, back when she was initially adopted, was “I love you and I will always be your family.” And what she is hearing now with her ears is a different message.

A friend of mine is going through an unexpected divorce right now. And she is struggling with the fact that as angry as she is with her husband, she still has feelings of love for him. Because what she heard with her heart back when they married was “I love you and I’ll be here always.” And what she is hearing now with her ears is a different message.

I listened to a podcast this week with a female Methodist pastor who grew up and spent her early adult years in an evangelical church. And when she was young, she heard the message in her heart that she would use her voice to serve God, but as she grew older and became an adult, what she heard with her ears was a different message.

These are all times of protecting the positive message we hold in our heart from the negative one that we hear with our ears. But how often does it work just the opposite?  How often do we hold a negative message in our heart, placed there because of past abuse, or shame, or societal expectations?  And no matter how different the message is that comes to us after, we only hear it with our ears and not with our hearts.

What I know about myself is that I have a hard time accepting when people say positive things about me. Because the message that I hold in my heart is that I’m not worthy or I’m not enough. And when I hear a message that is different from that, I tend to only hear it with my ears, because my heart has a hard time believing something different than the message that it already holds. My heart has so embraced the negative messages that it has a hard time accepting a different message of love and acceptance.

I know that I’m not the only person who feels this way. I see it often in my friends, especially my female friends. Very often I see it in the parents and children with which I work each day. I see it in every population that is marginalized or rejected or judged.

I guess the lesson in this is that it’s important for us to listen with both our ears and our heart. Sometimes the message will be a healing one. Sometimes it will be a difficult one that will break our heart. But until our heart breaks over hard truth, it cannot heal in the real truth. That God loves us just as we are. With all our broken pieces. With all our wrong messages. With all our hurt places. And if we let him, he will glue all those broken pieces back together, replace those wrong messages with right ones, and apply balm to those hurt places.

That is a message that we can hear and believe with our ears and with our hearts.

Using my words

When people told me I should blog, I thought, how in the world could I possibly have that much to say? It turns out I have lots to say. As I posted about recently, I’ve recently rediscovered my voice. It’s something I’ve always had but didn’t have the courage to use so openly until recently. But it was always there. The voice. And the words to go with it. 

I cannot help but wonder what I did with all of the words in my head before I started to write them down.

Were they buried?

Did they hide in the folds of my brain?

Did they bury themselves in the depths of my heart?

Or did they express themselves in other ways?

Did they show themselves in the form of fabric and thread, pieced together into something beautiful and unique and different than what they started out?

Did they filter into the air of dozens of courtrooms in 4 different counties over a period of 24 years?

Did they spin stories of lives affected by tragedy or loss or abuse?

I have been told that my writing is raw, and from the heart. And I think that is probably true. It’s really the only way I know how to write. I think that at times I am more me in my writing then I am even in person.

I have loved to read and subsequently to express myself through the written word since I was young. I wrote stories and songs and poetry in middle school. I majored in journalism and English when I was in college. Mostly because I had such a love of words. 

I did not follow that career path for a number of reasons. Beginning pay for journalists is laughable. And as much as I love to write, I am an introvert and a shy one. Approaching people to interview them for stories terrified me. The final reason was because I wanted to be “someone important.” I thought there were things I had to prove. Which meant being a doctor. And when college chemistry made me realize that was not my future, I decided to become a lawyer. I wasn’t one of those kids who always knew they were destined to be anything. I backed into this career. And I’ve used words over the past 24 years of law. Lots of them. Oftentimes too many of them.

But they were rarely words that were fun to write. Words that could be used to paint a picture. To create a scene. To evoke emotion. To heal wounds. For myself and others. 

To have the gift of writing beautiful words now is just that. A gift. One that I hope I will always enjoy opening. And one that I hope I will honor always by treating it with honesty and integrity and the respect that it deserves for the power which it may have.

Ordinary things

I don’t remember my dad’s last words to me or mine to him but I remember the last time that I saw him alive. It was a Sunday night. I had been home for the weekend and I was getting ready to head back to college for the week. He was about to go to the shower and to bed. He lived diligently by the old adage of early to bed and early to rise. 

It was just an ordinary moment. 

I’m guessing I was telling him goodbye. But I can’t remember the words. Because I didn’t know they were the last I would ever speak to him. I can just see him standing there. 

It was just an ordinary moment. 

Earlier in the day he had been teasing me because I had gone to the cemetery to take photos for a project for the photography class I was taking. Why would you want to go to the cemetery, he asked me. There’s nothing but dead people there. I would remember those words after I had gone back to school after his funeral. As I was developing the film and the photos for the project. They would haunt me and I would wonder if he knew what was to come. 

It was just an ordinary day. 

I was at my apartment that Tuesday night when the call came in. I think I was actually on the phone when the call broke through from my brother, Mike. He told me that dad had suffered a heart attack and he was at the hospital and he and my sister-in-law Debra were on their way to pick me up. I remember the first words out of my mouth were, Are you joking with me, or are you kidding, or something to that effect. Because this was my dad. He was bigger than life. He was my rock. He couldn’t be fighting for his life.

I struggled to try to think of what I needed to do. To think of what I needed to pack to take with me. I didn’t know how long I would be at my parent’s house but I thought it would probably be a couple of days, so I gathered a few basic things together. It would be just a day or two later that I would ask my friend Dina to go to my apartment and to get me a dress and dress shoes for the funeral, because those weren’t things I had thought I would need.

It was just an ordinary day.

I was prepared to leave when my brother got there and so we turned and started the hour drive to the hospital. On the way, Mike filled me in on what had happened to get us to this point and the plans to transport my dad to a larger hospital. I don’t remember if I prayed or if I just repeated, come on, come on, come on, inside my head over and over again. About halfway there, Mike’s pager went off. We stopped at the closest gas station to use the phone. I couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end, but when Mike’s face collapsed, I knew. He was gone. My dad, my rock, my protector, was gone.

It was just an ordinary day.

I don’t remember crying that night. I don’t think that I knew how. I think the shock and the questions and the disbelief outweighed all else. We went to the hospital when we got to town, and I wanted to see him. But my uncle Paul told me that I shouldn’t. That I should wait until the funeral home had done their job, because I wouldn’t want to remember the way that I saw him. I lay in bed that night with my mom, both of us silent, but neither of us slept. All I could think was what are we going to do now. How do we go on now? My dad had taken care of everything. I didn’t know what life would look like without him.

It was just an ordinary life.

I allowed myself silent tears in the days to come. The ones that roll out of the eyes and down the cheeks with no sound. I wanted to fall apart. But I didn’t know how. I thought I needed to be strong for my mom. And she thought the same for me. We planned a funeral. We picked out clothes for him to wear for the final time. I chose the tie I had always teased him was his red power tie. He was a blue collar worker and always had been so a suit and tie were a rare wardrobe choice outside church. I thought it would’ve been more appropriate to see him in his much loved and much worn red windbreaker than in the suit. The funeral home returned the clothes he was wearing when he died, his normal attire of short sleeved plaid shirt and polyester pants. I sat on his bed and I held them and I smelled them, hoping for a last scent of him. And I wanted to die along with him.

It was just an ordinary life.

It hurt me so to see him in the casket, looking so unnaturally still and cold. I wanted to touch him but I was afraid of how he would feel. Finally my uncle David encouraged me to do so while I could, and so I touched his hand. And it was so cold and so hard and so still. And I got the courage to kiss his face. It was then that I noticed how long his eyelashes were. All my life I had known my father’s face and I had never noticed his eyelashes. I told him I loved him and I wondered if he had known that when he was alive.

It was just an ordinary life.

The funeral was that Friday after his death on Tuesday. I went back to school that next Monday. And I wondered how it was that people had gone on with their lives as if mine had not ended. How could they laugh and eat and study and play when I could barely breathe. How could I go on with school and my previous plans to graduate and to go to law school. How could I possibly make all these adult decisions without my father there to advise me and guide my way.

I was just an ordinary girl.

And he was just an ordinary man.

But he was so much more to me. He was my dad. He was my rock. He was my mainstay. He was my safe place. He was my trusted advisor. And his death left a hole in me that will never be filled, no matter how many other blessings my life holds. And I miss him every day. And the first person I want to see in heaven after my Jesus is my dad. Because of all the ordinary moments that we shared, there are so many extraordinary ones that he missed. And I can’t wait for 1000 years of “Did you know? Did you see? Did you hear?” conversations with him.

It’s just an ordinary wish.

And an extraordinary love.