not always

Oh, Dad. 

Today a year ago was the last time I saw my dad, and I knew when I left that next time would be healed and whole, soon and also not. I knew my heart was full and broken, and today it just. still. is. 

Full I had a mom and dad who made it their aim to be empty of them and overflowing with Him. Full I had a dad who stepped into mom and dad, grandpa and grandma.  Full I had a dad who became Matt's, too, who always called and checked on us, who remembered hard days and birth days and job interviews and doctors appointments and victories. Full I had a dad who came, who called, who cheered, who cared.  

Full that this day last year, saying goodbye, Lisa and Cindy and Adam and Aunt Sharon were with me...what grace!...and full that today began at church with Lisa and Cindy and Adam and my nieces and Matt and my dear children. 

Full, most, that while I don't begin to understand how God could possibly redeem these losses--as if they'd never been suffered--I don't want to. I'm not interested in redemption I can wrap my finite brain around, not interested in work small enough for my own calculations, not interested in timelines I can mark in my calendar.

Cried all night and cried through my shower, heart full as it is.

And that's just part of it, this side.

Not without hope, and not without tears. Not all broken and not all complete, a year later. But not always.