Archives for category: Nourishing hope

Dear Why,

You have traveled this journey with me as an ever-present companion. We have traversed through this terrain, so unfamiliar and unsteady.

But like a Dear John letter, I write to say that we have reached the fork in the road. I want to travel on without you.

The hardest and simplest truth is this:

For my father, living hurt too much. He chose to end his life.

I must live with that for the rest of my days. But the key words there are

I

Must

Live

I must live with the never knowing.

Live with the loss.

Live with no answers that will ever fully mend that which has been so irrevocably wounded.

But I must also live with purpose, intention, love, joy, and forgiveness. Your grip pulls me away from those things. You yank me back as if I were a child lurching into the street.

I forgive my father.

I forgive myself.

Perhaps one day, I will even forgive God. I believe you stand in the way of that. I still want accountability, an entity to blame. God has shouldered most of that, as I answer you with a finger pointed in the direction of The Divine.

If I continue to hold you, I am bound by the shackles of his suffering.

If I continue to hold you, I dwell in the darkness that consumed him.

If I continue to hold you, my compass will forever point me only backward.

Holding on to you holds me back.

You have nothing left to offer me. I have learned every lesson that you have to teach. I have shared those hard truths in the hopes of helping others whose lives may hang in the balance. You have given me at least that much. Looking back with you has helped me empower others to look ahead for the subtle signals that indicate Danger Ahead. For that I am grateful.

It was an illness of the mind that drove my father to suicide. It was a darkening of the soul, a final act that comes from a depth of suffering I hope never to know.

And it wasn’t my fault.

You must let me go, or perhaps I must let go first. I must surrender to the senselessness of it all. No clue, no warning, no greater understanding will ever give it the meaning I seek.  I know that is why I have tightened my grip. I wanted more than that. Like that childhood game Red Rover, anytime that painful certainty threatened to penetrate, I grasped you with full force lest it break through.

I am deserving of this unburdening.

It has taken me a long time to believe those words.

I loved him. I choose to believe that he knew that. Because that was not enough to save him does not mean that I was not enough.

I will lay you down, knowing full well that at times, our paths will cross again. You will find my shadow and on the cloudiest of days, you’ll visit for a while. You’ll arrive unannounced, uninvited, as is your way.

But I will answer you with this, as it is the only truth that I know.

If he had asked for help, I would have given it.

If he had removed the mask, I might have seen more.

He lost any hope that life would get better.

I will not.

Yes, we’ve traveled hand in hand, you and I for far too long.

Finger by finger, with bare knuckles, I am prying you loose. I will free my grasp to reach toward remembrances of my father in life. That is how I will carry him forward on this voyage with me. Let those memories and reflections be my travel companion. Let them accompany me where once you did. You have asked enough of me. I have told you all that I will ever know. You take up too much space on this path. You cast a shadow that distorts my view.

Absolve me, as I absolve myself.

Exempt me, as I exempt myself.

Release me, as I release myself.

Liberate me, as I liberate myself.

Let go of me, as I let go of you.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering up its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
~ Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

deb dad company picnic

 

 

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deb and dad prego

Belly to belly, my dad and I just before his first granddaughter was born.

 

Dear Dad,
April 20th is coming. I hear it, like a soft drumbeat in the distance, inching ever closer. Soon it will be three years since you died. I blink, and it feels as if time has just flown by. I draw a deep breath and it feels like only yesterday. How can it be that the passage of time exists with such duality?
This year, the blanket of trauma that once enveloped me, has slipped from my shoulders. I still carry it, but it does not bear the same weight it once did. It did not happen magically, rather I have done the hard work of grief, peeling it off inch by inch, layer by layer, stitch by stitch. They do not call it grief work for nothing, this unscripted test of endurance, courage, resilience, strength and fortitude. I have discovered that I carry within me an abundance of these traits, a wellspring so deep and seemingly without end.
Yes, time and process have been like a salve on my many wounds. Some have begun to heal, others are now covered by a thin scab, yet even three years later, some remain open.
Grieving your death has been far from simple. I pass from stage to stage, and back again. It’s as if I exist in a play, a story I never could have imagined. Each act reflects my journey through the valley of the shadow.
Act One
The ground beneath me shifted, and there I stood amid a psychological autopsy, searching for the reasons why you ended your life. My days were spent in hindsight, searching for the missed signs, the things I did not see, the questions without answer. Was there a prelude to your tragic end? Foreshadowing? Guilt and regret consumed me, as the questions played on a never-ending loop in my head. The rearview mirror was like an appendage, a prop that accompanied me every moment of the day.
Act Two
Swept under by the tsunami of trauma, I tried desperately to reach the surface. Wave after wave of anger and abandonment swept over me, and there was a pain so deep I could feel it pulse through my veins. I spent my days fighting the undertow, flailing about, feeling vulnerable all the time. It was a victory if I could simply tread water and stay afloat.
Act Three
On my knees, I began to pick up the pieces of my shattered self. Gently I gathered them together and held them to me, cleaving to the remnants of what was, mourning for what would never be again. Laying them all out, I sifted through each piece one by one, searching for what still fit, what was now unrecognizable, unsalvageable and what might be different but still had a place in this new mosaic of self. It felt awkward, uncomfortable, unfamiliar to carry those fragments, taped together, separated by every fissure and crack that was now a part of me. I wondered if it was even possible to feel whole. Would I always be a stranger to myself?

Act Four
This is where I stand today. Having navigated through layer after layer of trauma, a long, arduous and painful excavation, I have finally revealed the grief. What I feel most now is the sorrow of missing you, not because of how you left, but simply because you are gone. The never of it all breaks my heart.
Never will I …
Hear your voice
Dance with you
Tell you that I love you
Feel the comfort of your embrace
Never will you…
Call me by my nickname
Tell me you love me
Bear witness to the life that I have built
Celebrate the milestones of my daughters
Laugh with me
Cry with me
Reveal your stories to me
Allow me to better know you
Grow into my friend
Answer the question of why you left
The list of nevers goes on.
Three years have gone by. So much between us was left unsaid. Like a silent interlude, there was no goodbye. The conversations we shared ended abruptly, never to be resumed, revisited; there will be no picking up where we left off.
The acts will go on, and time will not stand still. It is unfathomable to me that your story will never have another chapter.
I miss having a father in this world. I miss the certainty of your presence. I miss the belief that we would always have tomorrow. I long to pick up the phone and hear your voice. I still want another chance to save you from yourself. I miss all that was before your final, tragic bow.
My grief has no intermission.
April 20th is coming. The drumbeat grows louder with each passing day. I am healing. The journey is getting a bit easier.
The eternal truth is this Dad, I miss you very much. We were both flawed characters. I loved you the best that I could, and I know you did the same. I forgive you for the way that you left me. I will carry the sorrow of your loss every day. But I am learning to carry the joy and sweetness as well. Thank you for being my father and for the complex, imperfect, at times tempestuous, wounded, but ultimately resilient, enduring, deeply held love that we shared. That is the truth that remains, the encore that follows every act, the final curtain call of our story.
I miss you so very much Dad.
I love you always.
D

Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom. (Rumi)

Last night, we hosted our first seder in three years. These are the words that I shared at the start of our gathering. This morning, I feel proud of myself. I have put my whole heart into the task of grief work, so aptly named for the effort it requires. And though I know that journey is not over, I have marked a powerful milestone in the healing process. And today, my heart is full.

Bruchim Habaim (Welcome Guests)

This is the first Seder that we have hosted in three years. When we lived in Atlanta, our home had become the gathering place for fun, festive and lively Seders. We squeezed friends into every corner of our tiny dining room as we told the story of Pesach, sang songs, shared traditions and created beautiful and lasting memories.
But on April 20, 2015, my father took his own life and my world was forever altered.
This time of year is hard for me. When we moved to Colorado just two months after my dad’s suicide, I could barely get through any of the holidays, but Passover was one of the most difficult for me.
The symbolism & the story were riddled with triggers. I felt as if my father had died in his own personal Egypt. I was left wandering the desert of trauma, grief, guilt and a heartbreak that made it hard to breathe. If my father’s final moments on this earth left him feeling shackled, trapped in a pain that he feared would never end, a pain that left him feeling as if death were his only escape, then how could I simply leave him behind? How could I seek a promised land without abandoning him?
These were some of the questions that I grappled with. That first Passover we opened the Haggadah, and within minutes I asked that we close it. I couldn’t do it. We had a Passover dinner, but there was no Seder. The second year, I managed to get through the Haggadah, but it held no real meaning for me. I was just trying to reclaim some part of my connection to God, faith, and tradition.
These past few weeks have been full of preparations for the holiday. It is the spring cleaning of our people, the clearing out of chametz (leavened foods) from every corner of the kitchen & pantry. There is a beautiful symbolism to the process, even for those of us who hate to clean. That symbolism felt somehow more tangible for me this year, particularly as I reflected on my own journey & the grief work that has been so much a part of my life.
As I delved into the work of readying the house for Passover, the metaphors held a far greater meaning for me. I have had to dig deep, emptying off the shelves of pain, sorrow, loss, regret, and questions that will never find answers. I have sorted through the emotions, trying to figure out what I can let go of and what I can hold on to. I have stared at the empty spaces contemplating how I can fill them up, knowing that some far corners will remain forever empty. I have de-cluttered every broken piece of myself, laying them out, discovering what still fits, what never will again, and what is forever altered but still a part of me. And I have found some healing.
I have discovered that moving forward in my life, and seeking out a place of promise, is not abandoning my father. Just as Moses carried Joseph’s bones out of Egypt, I carry my father with me. I look at the salt water and the bitter herbs on the Seder plate, and I know that I will always carry sorrow, but I don’t have to carry his. I savor the sweet taste of charoset, and I remember that my father’s story, and the story that we shared together, had moments of great joy, love, and celebration as well. And I am finally able to reflect on those moments. I think of Miriam dancing when the Israelites had finally crossed the Red Sea. And I close my eyes and see my father dancing with abandon, the way he did in life and it makes me smile to remember that.
I know my journey through the valley of the shadow is not over. I know that in just a few weeks there is another painful milestone that I must get through. And I know the path is far from linear. There is no finish line, but I do not travel alone, and I have not stood still. I am not wandering without direction. One foot in front of the other, like the Israelites, I am walking toward my own Promised Land.
And so, I finally feel ready to rediscover the joy of this holiday. I feel ready to gather with friends old and new, to create memories and celebrate all that this holiday teaches us. I am grateful to all of you not only for sharing in this Seder with our family but for marking this milestone of healing with me.
Finally, I know that we all find ourselves dwelling in Egypt from time to time. We feel imprisoned by our own demons, held captive to the challenges in life that we must endure. It is easy to feel trapped, shackled, immersed in the darker moments; we lose sight of our own strength, resilience and, the wellspring of courage & fortitude that lies within. I pray that going forward we can each hold on to the hope of better days, believing even in the worst of times that, gam zeh ya’avor, this too shall pass. And with that belief in our hearts, may we each journey forward toward hope, wholeness, healing, and happiness.
Bruchim Haba’im welcome friends, we feel blessed & grateful to have you here.

On Friday we are hosting our first Seder since my father’s suicide. Sometimes there are tangible milestones that allow me to know I am healing.

Year one I could not bear to even read the Haggadah, we simply ate a Passover dinner. Year two I managed the telling of the story, but gone was the joy I once found in the holiday. Those years it was simply the five of us, as I did not want witnesses to my pain & struggle.

But I finally feel ready to open our home and fill that space with friends, music and a lively, boisterous & celebratory Seder. I know that I will never be healed from the trauma & loss of my father’s suicide. There will always be a hole in my heart, and a wound in my soul. But I am healing. I have lived in my own personal Egypt for almost three years now. I have wandered the desert of the valley of the shadow, picking up the pieces and learning to live a new normal. There is no Promised Land that will ever allow me to go back to the person I was before my father took his own life. And grief has no Promised Land that marks a finish line. It’s a lifelong process, this much I know.

The waters of pain & sorrow, guilt & trauma did not magically part. I have had to wade through them, trusting that I would not be pulled under, trusting the lifeboats of love that surrounded me, trusting my own endurance & strength. But in doing so, I have found a different kind of promise … the promise of renewed joy, the promise of letting go, the promise of hope, the promise of forgiveness & the promise of resilience. That is the sweetness that I will celebrate this year. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.

I woke up this morning and sat in the quiet spaces of my home and my heart. And I started to weep. What do I want most in this New Year? What is my resolution?

I want to find a way to let go of the guilt and the anger I carry about my father’s death. I want to find a way to accept that I will never, ever get an answer to the question of “why” he left. I want my mind to stop searching for some way to have it all make sense. It never will. It will never amount to anything more than a senseless, terrible tragedy. If I can surrender to knowing only that it was an illness of the mind, perhaps my quest can end. Perhaps that will be the beginning of healing this rift I have with God and my faith. I still want to hold someone, some entity accountable. And so where do I go? I didn’t stop him. God did not stop him. He did not stop himself. To carry that everyday hurts. I am in pain every single day. I’ve learned to compartmentalize it. But it is palpable to me, even if I hide it from others. I know I’ll always hurt. I know I’m not the same person I was before his suicide. I will never be the same.

But I’ve had moments of healing. I’ve known measurable and tangible moments of joy, happiness and peace. And as time passes, and I do the continued work of therapy, I’ve found a better balance. I’ve laughed more than I’ve cried. The wounds are still there, some fragile scars have formed around them, they’re less raw than they were. It has taken great strength for me to reach this place. I don’t often give myself the credit for that. But I have walked, crawled, trudged and inched my way through the valley of shadows with every fiber of courage, resilience and strength that I possess. And so I have to believe that my wishes for the new year are possible.

I cannot simply make a resolution and have it be so. If only it were that easy. But I can keep putting in the effort, it is called grief “work” for a reason. And I can cleave to the vision of how far I have come, and let that fuel me for the road still ahead.

May this be the year I surrender to the unknowable and unanswerable and find a way to live in some peace with that. May this be the year I let go of the need to punish someone, some entity or thing, for my father’s suicide, especially myself. May this be the year my daily pain, becomes less palpable. May I find a way to give it a nod, acknowledge it and lovingly be able to put it aside. It will always reside within me. But perhaps it can occupy a smaller space and place in my heart, opening up more room for healing, hope, happiness and an exploration of this newer version of myself. May this be the year that I nurture those other parts of me, the goals, the desires, the strengths, the aspirations, The me that is defined not by trauma or loss, but by creativity, compassion & courage. The woman who deserves not to be punished, not to merely survive, but to thrive!

Healing does not mean going back to the way things were before, but rather allowing what is now to move us closer to God. (Ram Dass)

partial-solar-eclipse-clouds

Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do  (lyrics One More Light by Linkin Park)

Eclipse fervor has hit. So many are traveling and planning so they might witness this historic event. The sun will be completely blocked by the moon. Darkness… and then it will pass, and once again the light will shine.

BUT WHAT IF IT DIDN’T? What if every day felt as if the sun were blotted out and darkness surrounded you? What if you no longer knew for certain that the light would surely shine again? That is the feeling so many who are struggling with despair feel. That is what the shroud of depression can feel like?

I can’t help but think about my father today. Oh how he loved the sun. On the coldest of winter days, if the sun was shining, he’d bundle himself up and sit outside. He would turn his face toward the sun and embrace all of the warmth that it had to offer. It fed his spirit, it sustained him and it carried him through darker and gloomier days.

His was a mood very much determined by his surroundings. And when the sun would hide itself away, he felt it deep within. Which is why it made sense that retirement and life in the sunshine state would be so very good for him.

It should have been. It was supposed to be.

But depression, much like the moon today, blotted out the light. It created a shroud of darkness from which he could not escape. And though the eclipsing of the sun will pass, my father came to believe that for him, it never would.

Today is a glorious celebration of Mother Nature for so many. A day to stand in awe of our blessed surroundings and be reminded that we are but a small part of the grandeur of the universe. We will momentarily celebrate the darkness, because we know the sun will shine once again.

Light is a gift. It is a powerful force. It can sustain and nurture us. It may flicker and fade but it always returns to us. We trust in that truth on the darkest of days.

But for my father, that trust was eroded. It was distorted by the clouds of depression and anxiety. And the light he once sought out, the warmth that sustained him, felt as if it had disappeared forever.

Perhaps that is why today’s eclipse is so very hard for me. It is the lens through which I see it that makes it harder to savor. The metaphor of my father’s life is deeply palpable for me today. I feel it coursing through me.

I am reminded that for so many like my dad, the darkness will remain long after the eclipse has passed.

Light lives at the end of that dark tunnel. I believe that. But for those who have lost that faith…

Today and every day, I strive to be a candle.

That is how I honor my father.

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars. Og Mandino

 

 

warning

I want to share something with you, though it is never easy for me to admit. It is incredibly painful and fills me with regret to own it out loud, but I do it in the hopes that it might help save a life.

There were signs that my father was at risk of taking his own life. People have often asked me that question, and in the beginning every single time I was asked, it felt as if a vat of salt was being poured into my very new, raw and open wounds. It made me angry and defensive, as it constantly fed my guilt at not being able to save my father from himself.

The passage of time and my work in suicide prevention advocacy has allowed me to shift my perspective some. I still grapple daily with regret, I don’t think that will ever leave me. But today, when I am asked if there were signs, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath and tell the truth. Yes, the signs were there, but I did not know it. I did not have the training, education or experience to recognize them or to know how to respond even if I did.

Months before my father’s suicide he was struggling. That much I knew, and it was that I tried to love him through. I recognized that he was in the midst of a deep depression and I reminded him constantly that he was not alone, that I was there to listen, to talk, to offer my presence and unconditional support. I reminded him that even in his most broken state, he was loved. I’d like to believe that there were moments when that gave him some relief, some respite from the storm. I’d like to believe that maybe those things helped him to hold on a little bit longer, to fight another day, to cling to that thread even as it unraveled in his hands.

But I also know those things were not enough to save him.

My father had begun to withdraw from things that once brought him pleasure.  He expressed feelings of being a burden & a sense of hopelessness. He wasn’t sleeping and his eating patterns changed. He lost weight, was anxious and agitated.  All of these were signs I only came to know in hindsight, that he might be at risk for suicide.  He did not speak the words out loud that he wanted to end his life.  But his actions and his words whispered hints that I wasn’t equipped to understand.

It’s not that my father didn’t also wear a mask. Like so many who are struggling with mental illness, he could tuck it away, compartmentalize, and put forth an Oscar worthy performance that would convince those who didn’t know better, that he was just fine. And, he didn’t entrust us with his full truth. He didn’t come to us and tell us that he was feeling suicidal.  Though the fact is, I don’t know how long he considered ending his life. I don’t know if he planned it out or if it was, as is often the case, an impulsive act. I will never know that.

This much I do know, and this is what I want to say.  It is true that hindsight is 20/20. And there is often not much good to the old saying, if I knew then, what I know now. The knowing will never bring my father back. And the hindsight remains fraught with pain & regret. But I choose to look at it anyway & I choose to share my story with others. Because I believe that out of the tragedy of my father’s death, lives can be saved.

I chose to get trained in Mental Health First Aid, even if sitting through that class tore away every fragile scab that I had developed. I wanted to ensure that if anyone I loved or cared for was ever at risk for suicide, this time I would be better equipped to respond. This time I would recognize the signs. This time I would know what questions to ask, including the hardest one of all. This time I would know what steps to take to keep that person safe long enough to get them into the right hands and ensure that they got the proper care.  This time, I might just be able to save a life.

Francis Bacon said that knowledge is power.  The newest statistics on suicide are staggering. Based on these findings from The CDC “overall suicide rates have gone up 28 percent since 2000.”  It is particularly staggering to see that “the suicide rate among teenage girls continues to rise and hit a 40-year high in 2015, and rose by more than 30 percent among teen boys and young men between 2007 and 2015.”

But we are not powerless to change this devastating trend. The signs that my father displayed are evident now only in the rear view mirror. But the lessons that his death has given me still have purpose. I got the training in Mental Health First Aid and I share my truth with others because I believe that if we all educate ourselves about suicide risk factors and prevention, we can save lives.

I also believe that it is our moral obligation to do so. Suicide can be prevented. We are not helpless in this fight. Those who are struggling in the darkness need us to shine a light. They need us to be that glimmer of hope that helps them to hold on, to stay and to get the treatment they need. They need to feel that we can be a safe space, that we will listen and that when they show us their pain, we will treat it with compassion, care and understanding.

How do we do that? How do we as parents, spouses, children, or loved ones empower ourselves? How do we do that as educators, clergy, community leaders and people who care about our fellow human beings?

It begins with knowledge. It begins with awareness. It begins with education.

Nothing I do will ever bring my father back. But if the lessons I’ve learned can help to save the life of another, then his death will not be in vein.

To learn more about the risk factors and warning signs of suicide visit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

If you are struggling and need someone to talk to call The National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

To find a course on Mental Health First Aid and further this important cause click here.

“I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.”
― Maya Angelou

 

 

Today marks 20 months since my father’s suicide. I suppose it is time to begin counting not by months, but rather “year.” One year and a half, one year and 8 months… That word… “year” is hard for me. It makes the time since his death loom larger than I am ready for.

I remain fundamentally and forever altered. I’ve set down the advocacy work for now. Though it imbued my father’s death with some sense of meaning, it had begun to take a toll on me. Dwelling in the world of suicide loss and prevention came at a cost. It felt worth it, until it didn’t. And hard as it was to admit, I needed to step away. Harder to admit was that I wanted to.

I need to figure out who I am, outside of being the survivor of suicide loss. Yes I know I remain a devoted mother, wife and friend. But where these newly altered pieces of me fit and how to fulfill and strengthen myself remains undefined. I began building a jewelry business. A business I once found successful & fulfilling. A business my father was so proud of. Ever so slowly it has allowed me to begin to see and slowly embrace a creative purpose, an identity… artist, designer, entrepreneur. These are titles, names that are not a part of the horrific loss I’ve endured. And there is so much symbolism in this endeavor. The beads are the pieces, stringing them together one by one, is like picking up the pieces of my life. They come together to create something new, something beautiful, quite different than before. My journey is deeply reflected in such work. Fragments and pieces coming together in this new self that is unfolding. 

Today marks 20 months. I will never ever be at peace with losing my father to suicide. Every day I strive to learn how to live with it. And I strive for a balance between giving his death purpose, and imbuing my life with the same. I deserve that. Don’t I? Guilt tells me no. But I cannot let guilt define where I go from here. I don’t let many people in these days. I’m guarded, feeling vulnerable and fragile in many ways. But this is my truth. It’s still hard, every single day. But I journey on determined to find happiness, fulfillment and joy. My dad would want that.

20 months… I miss him. I can’t undo his final act. But I’ve discovered that I can’t get lost in it either. The journey is long and hard. I’m tired. But I know there is a resilience within. He lost sight of his. I must continually tap into mine, even when I lose faith in it’s existence. He lost hope. I cleave to it, the notion that it won’t always hurt like this, that it will get better in time. His death has forever altered me. But I cannot let it define me. I still want to bring meaning to such a senseless loss, but I want more than that. I need to find that balance.

So onward I walk, I step, I falter, I stumble, but I get up and keep going. So perhaps I’ve already discovered that this altered self, is strong, courageous and braver than I’ve ever given her credit for. And healing is a continual process… even 20 months later.

And still, I miss him. That will never change.

faith

 

Dear God,

I have been angry at you for a long time now. Even as I have moved forward on this grief journey, my faith & willingness to trust in you has remained stagnant. I forgave my father for leaving me, for leaving our family, the way that he did. I came to accept that it was the illnesses of depression & anxiety that metastasized into his soul and his spirit, blinding him to anything but his distorted sense of self and the pain that he carried. His soul withered under the constant barrage of falsehoods that depression shouted at him, a daily mantra that grew so loud, it drowned out the voices of love that surrounded him. His inner light flickered, growing smaller & dimmer, until it was extinguished by the anxiety that consumed him. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t really his choice. He wanted only to stop the pain.

But you see God, the soul that I speak of, the spirit and the light within him, those are the very things I wanted to believe that you would tend to. So many of the prayers that I uttered to you in the course of a lifetime reflected that belief, that sense of faith that though you did not control the world with a divine hand, you could, when called upon, lift up the fallen and tend to the weary. The soul was within your purview. And reconciling that belief with the way in which I lost my father has felt next to impossible.

And, let’s be real, it has been no secret to you that I have maintained the need to place blame for this senseless tragedy on someone, somewhere, to lay it squarely on the shoulders of an entity that could carry it.  And you simply fit that bill. I don’t know that it was a conscious choice in my part, perhaps it grew out of the conflicting feelings of the God that I was called upon to exalt and praise in prayer, and the God that I could not find or feel in my deepest moments of trauma. I couldn’t reconcile those two things and it made me angry to have to work so hard at trying to. So it became easier not to try.

Perhaps I laid blame on you because I knew that you could take it. You could carry my rage, my outbursts, my railing against you and you wouldn’t leave. You would bear it. You would wait for me. Somewhere deep inside, maybe I believed that. So why not saddle you with the blame?  But the blame became too high an obstacle.

And I’ll confess God, I don’t even know if my father called out to you. He was a pragmatic man, not deeply spiritual, and it is possible that he never once turned to you in prayer as the darkness descended upon him. But what does that mean? It doesn’t make it easier to let go of the anger, because surely you could see his pain. Must we ask before your loving presence comes to us? These are questions with which I have struggled. These are the questions that bring static into my fractured sense of faith. They are the impediment, the stumbling block when I have tried to find my way back to you. They are questions without answers.

I wrote recently of that very thing, finding my way back to you. The broken pieces I have carried with me, were laid down in front of you and you implored me to entrust some of my pain to you. And I did. The tenuous first steps of our reconciliation had begun, with a single baby step; trusting a piece of me to you.

I still do not trust the universe God. I don’t know that I will ever trust in it again. Life as I knew it was shattered with one phone call. And I do not trust in the ground beneath my feet, for fear that it will shift once again. But I have found the strength to push through that sense of distrust, to not allow it to define me or narrow my experiences in the world. I may inch forward with trepidation, but my feet still carry me toward life. And somewhere along the way, in this past week, I found myself ready to forgive you.

I don’t want to blame you anymore God. You loved him. He is with you now and I want to believe, no I choose to believe, that you have tended to his wounded soul and brought him peace. He is held in your loving embrace. He is not alone. And when he weeps at the devastation his suicide caused to those he loved the most, you wipe his tears.

I still do not know how to talk to you God. I do not know if prayer will ever be the same for me. But I suppose it will take time to figure out our new relationship with one another. The language of reconciliation is sometimes difficult to decipher. So I continue to entrust you with my pain, bit by bit and piece by piece. And I open myself up to the blessings that you have instilled within me; strength, resilience, hope, courage and an abiding love of life. You have surrounded me with a family and circle of friends that embody your divine spirit. They are all the reminder that I need that never once, have you turned away from me.

Forgiveness is about letting go, and I no longer want to carry with me anger toward you. It’s too hard and it hurts too much. I need you in my life God. My father died of an illness. It will never make sense and I will never make peace with his suicide. But I can learn to live with it, ever so slowly. And you and I can find our new normal one breath, one prayer, one letter at a time. Our covenant is weathered, cracked and touched by the most painful elements of life. But I see now, that it is not broken.

For too long I have felt shattered. I tenuously set the fractured pieces in place. I tend to them so they may heal. I strive toward sh’lemut (wholeness) and shalom (peace). And neither is possible without you in my life. Rumi said, “The wound is the place where God enters you.” So I open myself up anew to receiving your divine light and love.

Adonai is close to the brokenhearted, And helps those crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:19

Writing is the painting of the voice. (Voltaire)

It is Friday night, and the whirlwind of these last days have died down for now.

I don’t know what I said in that letter Dad to have been the recipient of this outpouring of compassion. I don’t know what I said that took this letter on such a journey out into the world of social media. But it has in fact gone viral.

Here is the truth as I know it Dad. Those beautiful strangers who stood with me on that horrible morning, they are the true authors of this story. They wrote it in deed, I simply gave it wings and words.

Here is the other truth I know. I would have given anything in the world never to have had reason to write that letter in the first place.

I miss you so much Dad. It has been hard revisiting that moment that I learned you were gone, over & over again these last few days. I’ve faced a lot of hard moments, but none like that one.

Dad, I only hope that given this opportunity to share this letter, that I have helped to humanize the issue of suicide loss. I hope that every time people look at that beautiful smile of yours, that they understand that you had a life full of much joy. I hope they see their own family photo in that precious moment we shared on the dance floor three years ago. It is my favorite picture of us. I hope that helps them to understand that we were just a normal family. We loved, we laughed, we fought, we made up, we celebrated, we mourned and we cherished one another. And even with all of that, we lost you to suicide.

I think I’m probably babbling by now Dad. But here is the thing, I just want to pick up the phone and tell you all about what has been happening, all of the good that I am trying to do, the compassionate words that have been shared, the brave truths of my fellow survivors. I want to tell you all of it, because it was you who loved my writing most. But you are not here and that void feels so very palpable tonight.

I hope you see it all Dad. I hope you know what I am trying to do in your memory. I miss your voice. I miss being able to pick up the phone and talk to you. I miss you just being on this earth with me.

Thank you for every kind angel you have placed in my path these past few days. I’d like to believe it is your love reflected back to me in their words.

I can’t type anymore.The tears won’t stop. So I am going to go miss you and cry, like I sometimes need to do. Like I need to do now.

D

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