It has been almost 23 years since my dad died. And it hurts more today than it did then. There are lots of reasons for this perhaps. Maybe I never really let it be a wound in the first place. He died on Sydney's birthday and was buried on Edward's birthday (a very weird gift in itself because the days would not be always remembered as sad days). They were three and five. Although I was married I was pretty much a single mom, so I was raising two young ones. And our attention was now on our mom and taking care of her...for him...and in just doing life.
There are days when the waves just come. One thought process less to me to think of the advice he had given me one time about not brown-nosing the higher-ups. In a hot second, the thought came to me, "I wish I would have listened to him more." Boom...and just as quickly I am fighting back tears at work.
My mom passed away not too long ago. The task of going through her stuff mainly up to me as my brother handled other affairs of hers. A bit (sarcasm) of a holder on to all things, one whole wall of built-in cabinets was papers, books, articles made dad had written...from rough drafts, rewrites, to publications. I think she might have kept them because she was the one who would type all of his writings on the typewriter (clearly lost some of you on that one) holding us in her arms as she typed. They were a team and an example of dedication to each other. I got lost in the thought of how much I did not understand how brilliant of a mind he had. Legit, countries invited him to speak and teach them. The network news came to our house, more than once, to get sound bites when some big economic event happened. He was just my dad. He was humble beyond description. And in all this, I had no idea of the awesomeness he was...even being a BRAT of a teenager. Wave upon wave of guilt and sorrow.
I think that this is not uncommon, however. Daily, in life, how much I am taking for granted the greatness of what is around me buried in the grind of busyness? How much will I regret that I didn't recognize an even greater Father for every ounce of His perfect character because I running around chasing the tyranny of the urgent that the world is telling me is important? How much will I realize what a BRAT I was as I cried out because of some perceived unfairness?
While I walk in the woundedness, I know I don't walk alone. Maybe God waited for me to get to the place where I can sit in the wound and let Him do the healing so I can't say that I did it in my own strength. I don't think I am waiting for time to heal this wound, but something greater. Maybe even not trying to hide the scar because it shows something beautiful that was done in me when I walk through the hurt instead of hiding from it. Time heals all wounds...no way. But maybe, just maybe, time allows us to address our wounds to heal something else in us. Maybe the wound heals me and not the other way around.
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