Eight years ago today, doctors delivered the devastating news that my dad was brain dead and was unlikely to survive the injuries he sustained after he was hit by a woman who ran a stop sign. Eight years later, I’m able to say that matter of factly because it’s a story that I’ve explored every inch and corner of, frontwards and backwards. There are no more surprises in this story and no more unexpected catches in my voice when I tell it. There was a time when you could find me at the bar on April 5th, June 15th or 16th, but that phase of grief ran its course. Now I just settle for eating Cool Whip out of the tub—the recovery time is significantly shorter. Now birthdays and anniversaries come and go, no longer leaving days of numbness in its wake. Anyone who has lost someone will tell you—it’s never the anniversaries and birthdays that get you. I guess it’s because you spend the days leading up to them bracing for impact.
No, the days that get you are the ones with unpredictable moments that trigger memories that trigger startling emotions. Today was one of the days that got me. Coincidentally, it’s an anniversary day, but coincidence didn’t have much to do with it. It was more by accident than by coincidence. I was dusting a shelf. If you’ve lost someone before, I know that you understand. It’s the normal, every day, little things that knock the wind out of you. On this shelf is a framed poem that my dad wrote to my family years ago when we were going through a difficult time. I’ve read it again and again, including in front of hundreds of people at his funeral service. I can recite most of the lines by heart. That poem doesn’t get to me anymore. Or at least, it didn’t until today.
Remember all of those posts I’ve been writing lately about my addiction to achievement, my tendency to chase and my heart that’s running on empty? I told you that I didn’t know where I got it from and I told you that I didn’t know why it was weighing on my heart so heavily lately. But today I know. Today I read the poem as I dusted the shelf, and realized for the first time that each line in the poem was a personal account and full-disclosure confession of the struggles that my dad faced with an addiction to achievement, a tendency to chase and a heart that’s running on empty. And in the words, were all of the answers to the struggle. How I could read that poem almost every day and never notice the “like father-like daughter” resemblance is beyond me, but like I said, it’s the unexpected moments that do the most damage. If you’ve been walking closely with me as I uncover more and more threads that need un-knotting in this identity crisis, you’ll find that the words my dad wrote are almost identical to words I’ve written on the subject.
The Man in the Mirror
To: My girls
From: Dad
The man in the mirror, the man that I see, was not the man that I wanted to be.
Selfish and stubborn, arrogant and proud, his greatest fear was not pleasing the crowd.
He worked like a dog, didn’t want to be poor, yet at home, he had people crying for more.
The treadmill of life was wearing him down. “God, I’m so tired, please help me down.”
He ran a hundred miles an hour, bought lots of things, houses and cars, Harleys and rings.
Had a hole in his heart that he could not fill, but God always whispered, “I can and I will.”
He messed up his life, tore his family apart. In the process, he broke his wife’s tender heart.
But God knows the future and He had a plan, to bring His great peace to this family and man.
See, when your life falls apart and your pain is intense, the worst place to be is riding the fence.
Because Jesus is loving, He’s faithful and true, all He wants are three things from you:
What He wants is your body, your mind and your heart. In return, He promises a brand new start.
The man had some friends, some people to trust, bared his soul, honesty was a must.
Asked for forgiveness, for God’s loving grace. Asked for some courage, for things he couldn’t face.
The darkness no longer holds terror for me because the truth of God’s love has set me free.
The face in the mirror is starting to smile. Had to take that first step, had to walk that first mile.
Heaven’s ahead. The man won’t always farm, but now he is safe in the strength of God’s arms.
The future is bright. There’s the gospel to share, to show hurting people that God really cares.
I’ve been burying myself in book after book finding encouragement and hope in the words of strangers when the entire time, I had the story that mattered the most right in front of me. What I love most about it is that the beginning hurts, the middle is hard, but the ending is hopeful. In the second to last line, the story ends for my dad. And it’s almost as if he knew it would end there. I think he wrote the ending that way because he was hopeful. And I see in this story, that it’s my story too. I find myself being written into the words “the future is bright. There’s the gospel to share, to show hurting people that God really cares.” Today, when I read it, I felt like he was handing the last line to me. His end of the story feels like it’s where mine begins. I think the end is where it could begin for you, too. So this is me handing off the last line to you…