Today marks two years since we buried my father. A late March snowstorm is bearing down on us here in Minnesota - half a foot and it's still coming. It makes sense to me. Winter seems to hang on for too long - longer than it has a right to be present.
In a sense, I too have been in the ground for two years. Only it is my task to climb out, to live. It is my task to climb out and not die with the dead. Living, for now, is my task.
I have climbed through fear, fruastration, incoherence, confusion, anxiety, failure, humiliation - the muck of living. I have slipped and fallen, gulped in some sludge and nearly drown. Loneliness is so much a part of grief.
I have also seen Hope. She finds me when I want to be alone, but not really alone. Hope knows me better than I know myself and knows when I need her.
Hope pulls me, hands me a towel, and speaks kindness into my soul.
I don't have my father, but I have Hope.
I can live with Hope.