The simultaneous blessing and curse of modern technology is that it’s always reminding us of precisely what we were doing one year ago…two years ago…ten years ago, today. On this day 3 years ago, I was simmering fresh peaches on my stovetop, probably to be generously dispersed atop some waffles with whipped cream. On this day 2 years ago, I was watching my brother’s dog stare unflinchingly through the living room window at every car passing by. The hilarity of this moment is lost on me now, but it was apparently overwhelmingly comical at the time. On this day last year, I was cheering for one of my friend’s kids at a middle school hockey game (they lost by one point) and sending nerdy word memes to my sister. (I do not remember whether she fully appreciated the “synonym rolls” that were “just like grammar used to make,” but I’d venture to guess that she did.)

This way of memory-keeping is enlightening, often entertaining, occasionally embarrassing, and every once in a blue moon, profound. Today, it was just unexpected. My first thought when I saw the memory pop up went something like, “nothing important happened on June 16, 2013.”

When I re-read my writing from that day, I realized my mistake: June 16, 2013 was Father’s Day.

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Here and now, ten years down the road, there is more beauty from the ashes than there used to be. There is new life, new love, and even new family members — people I can’t imagine life without. In particular, a step-Dad I can’t imagine life without. Nephews I can’t imagine life without, as my brother became a first-time father. There is Joy on this day — big, bold, uninhibited Joy — where there used to be only mourning.

It is good to look back. To see more of the story unraveled now than I did then. I certainly do not see all of it, but there are more connected strands of hope than there used to be, and all of them point to one Truth:
All is not chaos. There is purpose to our pain.

No loss is wasted; no tragedy is senseless in His hands — whether or not we can see it. Even when we look back and see only glimmers of light, like fireflies on the darkest night of July.

He is still telling the story. He does not tire of us, shrug His omnipotent shoulders, and disappear into the ether.

Far from it. Rather than abandon His own, instead, the Author stepped into His own plot-line to shoulder the weight of the world Himself — to bring Hope where there was none. To love those who could never repay Him. To offer Life after death — all of Himself — to anyone who believes.

Life after death is not just some place, but Someone. What a wild thought.

More than anyone, He does understand what it is like to feel alone. Jesus was separated from His Father once, too. Except that He chose it. And He chose it for me.

As the words from my younger self wash over me, I share them again here, not because they are exactly the same thoughts I carry around with me now, but because God has redeemed more than I ever thought possible, and that is a story worth sharing again. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t have believed that Father’s Day could be a great thing to celebrate ever again.

But it is.

Hallelujah.

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from 16 June 2013

No eighteen-year-old should have to walk away from her Dad’s graveside on Father’s Day, says the world.

Sometimes I want to say it with them: how can this be fair?

How can You let the sun shine down on me today like nothing’s wrong?

Why did You take him so soon?

Every once in awhile I can see the beginnings of answers woven into my life and the lives of others, like strands of a spider web that do have a purpose, but aren’t all connected yet.

Other times, nothing makes sense.

But God still holds my hand in His and says, “walk with Me. I will not let you go.”

So as I sit here at the cemetery looking at the yellow daisies on my Dad’s grave, I smile and let the tears fall.

I am thankful for the memories, thankful for the sixteen years I got to spend with a father who loves me.

People say that time heals all wounds, but people are wrong.

God is the One who heals. The One who comforts.

The One who will always be a Father to the fatherless.