The days after my Father’s death were mostly a blur. We did what we had to and prepared for a funeral. I accompanied my mother to the funeral home to make arrangements for him, the service and the newspaper announcement. I remember that as we made decisions for each of these things, I couldn’t believe that we were even doing this. I wanted to drift to the past for comfort yet found myself violently jerked into the present, with each decision that had to be made. I was still very much in a fog and was just doing what seemed required, trying to support my Mother in the process. There was a very prevalent heaviness that escorted us wherever we went. But we did what needed to be done and just kept trying to move forward, regardless of the fact that our feet felt like they were stuck in quicksand.
Their was standing room only at the funeral. The room spilled over with people. He had touched so many lives, changed so many lives, helped so many people. He had saved marriages, families and individuals who struggled in many different ways. His legacy was like a giant ocean wave that hovered over all of us, too grand to be taken in all at once, but encompassed all of us - in one way or another. There were so many emotions that day and they were running over...that wave, ready to crash into the sea with intense energy. It was unreal. The sadness was thick and heavy. So many grieved this loss, yet we were lost in our own emotions, not able to relate, even though we were all in grief. My mother handled the funeral beautifully, even though I am not sure how. People stayed for a long time, visiting and talking with each other, helping each other to try and make sense of this tragedy. It seemed like it would never end. Finally, when people started to leave we cleaned up and gathered our personal photos and all the things we would want to take home. Before we left, my Mother picked up my Dad’s urn and was carrying it around with other things. At one point it became to heavy for her and she asked me if I would take it to the car with me. My stomach lurched and I felt so uneasy. My face must have showed it and she said, “That’s alright, you don’t have to.” And I said, “No, I’ll take him.” When she handed it to me I couldn’t believe how heavy it was. It wasn’t just the weight of it, but the gravity of what I held in my hands.
In the days following the funeral, I could tell my Mother was in shock and seemed to be somewhat adrift. I was worried about her. This was such an unexpected tragedy that would affect all our lives in such a significant way. Her life had revolved around him and their ministry. They had such a purpose together - what would she do now on her own? She knew no other life. These questions would not be answered quickly, if ever. There wasn’t a whole lot I could do after the funeral except spend time with her and try to talk to her. There were so many things that couldn’t be said. It was just too soon. One day we were in our family room and she broke down hard. I knew it would come and I wanted to be there for her. When she started to sob and tell me how she didn’t know how to go on, I began to get emotional too seeing her intense pain and loss. Before my first tear fell, she stopped and looked at me and said, “DON’T DO THAT” very firmly. All the sudden it was if she was scolding me for having emotions. I was so confused. Immediately I retracted my tears and held it all in as if my life depended on it. I hadn’t realized it then, but that deeply affected me and did something to me I wouldn’t understand. If my tears and sorrow were going to cause her more pain, I could not let them out, I wouldn't. I would keep them inside and not let them show. It is what I had to do. There was no question. I could not cause her more pain. I didn’t know what that would do to her, and I couldn’t risk losing her too. I could see she was fragile and on the verge of breaking. So the last thing I would do now is cry, or express my pain and my sorrow. Nope, that was not allowed I told myself.
I decided I would focus on fulfilling the promise I had made to my Dad on his deathbed, of publishing his story. I began doing research for the book. I set up interviews with family, friends and people affected by his ministry. I went from home to home, taking notes, recording conversations, and learning personally the affect his life had on theirs. I also spent time with his brother, who drove me around and showed me where he grew up, the places he worked as a young man - giving me a historical perpsective on his life and on his younger years. It was fascinating and I enjoyed every minute. My father was born just after the depression, so many cirucmstances he grew up in were extremely rough. I hadn’t realized just how bad it was and to what extent. I was taking it all in and it really expanded my view of who he was, in ways I hadn’t always paid attention to. Once I got as much information as I could think of, I tucked it all away in my suitcase to take home.
When I had done all I could, and thought my mother would be well taken care of - between all my other siblings - I returned to Beverly Hills, California. It was so hard to leave. In the same way if I didn’t go, I felt that I would be consumed by the grief that surrounded me. Like I would be swallowed into the darkness of a bottomless pit. I needed to go. I needed to give myself space and some time. I honestly didn’t know what else to do but try and return to my life and my husband. I needed someone to look after me, someone that would be concerned about me and help me through this life altering tragedy. I didn’t even know where to begin or how to communicate that I needed help. The crazy thing about the death of a loved one is once their gone and the funeral is over, everyone returns to their life and it is almost impossible to return to yours. The landscape of everything looks different. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is normal. What do you do? What do you say? How do you express that you are suffering and in pain? People ask the normal questions and expect a typical response. When they ask you how you are, do they really want to know? You know it’s too much if you tell them the truth - so you don’t. You give them the answer they expect. The typical response. They seem content with that, and most people don’t actually want to know. No one knows what to do with that kind of pain and most don’t like talking about death or loss. This was my first experience with such a tragic loss, so I didn’t know how this goes, what you do, how to handle anything - yet everyone seemed to think I did, or at least that’s the way they acted. Like there was some written handbook I should’ve been given with step-by-step instructions, and so I was all set. Nope - never got that. It is crazy to me that the time you need people, and need someone to talk to the most, everyone is silent. Completely silent.
♥️LGOF