A month before my dad died, we took what we now know to be the last family vacation. It was a special trip that had been in the works for years. In fact, the idea of it was on my mom’s bucket list long before my sister and I even got married. She dreamt of someday taking her daughters and their spouses on a trip together. And she crossed it off her bucket list in April of 2022.
That trip to Siesta Key, Florida – a place near and dear to our hearts as my grandparents once owned a condo there resulting in many family visits to the epic white sand beaches – was monumental. Introducing our husbands and my sister’s kids to a place we loved, and getting to soak up the memories plus make new ones together, gave me life. On the plane ride home, I wept as a colorful sunset shown in the clouds, and an abundance of gratitude spilled out of me. We had such a great time that plans were already in the works for the following spring break. I was brimming with joy and hope for what’s to come. And then a month later, my dad went to be with Jesus unexpectedly.
After dad died, our trip to Siesta Key became a core memory for much more than a wonderful time together; it was now also a “last” laced with deep grief.
The length of grief
I was texting with a friend recently and sharing about how this year has been a very difficult one and I explained I am still trying to find my feet since dad died. Her response was “I’m sorry it has been such heavy and long grief.” That phrasing got me thinking.
Has it been long?
Has it been too long? I thought.
It’s not even two years yet, that’s not long, is it?
And then I quickly retorted myself with truth – No. Because grief is forever.
Our culture largely acts as if grief is on a definable timeline. Something like this. In the beginning you’re completely distraught, grief unbearable. In the first year you’re still hurting but learning to live. And as time goes on grief goes away and you “feel better.” But the reality is, grief never goes away; it ebbs, it flows, some days its lighter, others it hits you like a bag of rocks, but it most definitely has no end.
My friend was not wrong in what she said. My grief has been heavy, and it is long. But it’s not too long as I think that phrase made me feel because a) there is no timeline for grief and b) because it will go on as long as I live.
The reality of that truth is abysmal at first. It’s terrifying to think of something so heavy not having an end. But what I’ve learned through my deep grief is a lesson only those who go through it can grasp. Grief does not go away. It is forever with you. But that doesn’t mean life will always be as insufferable as it first feels. As time goes on, grief feels different, and you will too.
The first year of life without dad, the thought of returning to Florida without him was like a cruel joke, laughable and an obvious “no”. We were solely focused on surviving the giant waves of grief and staying standing in the long-lasting aftershock of his unexpected death. There was absolutely no way we would consider taking a trip.
This year something shifted. We decided collectively that we were open to the thought of going on spring break together. We knew it would be painful and grief would be heavy, but we also knew there could be so much joy experienced alongside it. So we booked the trip, and flew together for a week in Miramar Beach, Florida.
A difficult, yet beautiful, “first”
The trip was everything we expected, and a lot we didn’t. Anytime you near a “first” in a grief journey it comes with much anticipatory grief and anxiety. You imagine what moments might bring a wave of sadness and try to prepare yourself for the unknown without being able to predict how you might feel.
Many grief-filled moments I in fact anticipated, and others knocked the wind out of me. We shared collective tears when the plane lifted off the runway, missing my dad’s contagious energy as he excitedly explained what was happening when we felt this or that during take-off (his way of calming our nerves). I sobbed when we arrived at the condo – a letdown of the breath and emotion I was holding, uncertain of how we could do this without him; and there we were staring at the beach, without him. And a dramatic orange sunset dripped with emotion as it took me right back to two years prior when my dad and I ran to the beach to catch the giant orange sun before it dipped below the horizon.
The night we watched the sunset, the wind was overstimulating. Turbulent gusts blew our hair straight backwards and sent a steady flow of sand particles across the beach. It chilled the air and compelled me to move. I grabbed my niece’s hand and we ran towards the sun pretending we could grab it before it disappeared. Our joy, overflowed into laughter. When I stopped to catch my breath, I stood in awe of God’s creation and considered how the glory we see on earth is just a fraction of that which waits for us in heaven. In that moment, I thought of the last sunset with dad, and imagined him seeing the same sunset somehow; there with us, but with a much different view. The tension of dad’s absence and the glorious beauty of the sun melting into a deep, vibrant orange hung in the air like thick humidity making it hard to breathe. I smiled, and then I sobbed.
This is grief. The absence of my sweet dad coming with us everywhere we go and melding with the goodness God has before us.
Holding space for grief
I am so glad we took this trip together, even though it was a hard first. We bathed in the sun as much as possible, saw dolphins in the gulf almost every morning from our condo balcony, played games in the evenings, swam, enjoyed exploring a new area we’d never been too, and made the best of every moment.
On Easter morning, we trekked to the beach where the condo we rented was hosting an Easter Egg hunt. Lola and Leo (although poor buddy was sick with an ear infection most of the trip) searched for eggs in the sand, and even got a hug from the Easter bunny. It was a beautiful pastel sky, a soft blue blending into the gulf’s sea green as the sun peeked through a morning haze. The lighting and the beach were a perfect opportunity for a family photo.
As my sister and I looked to see how it turned out, she said what I was thinking, “There’s a hole. In every photo we take, there’s always a hole.” And it’s true. Every selfie or family pic we take has an empty spot - as if dad was off to the side just about to bound into the space we created for him. It’s painful, and beautiful all in one breath. It’s an incredible visual for grief.
There is, and will always be, a hole in my life where my dad once stood. It will never go away because it can no longer be filled by his presence, his love, his laugh. But I know now that the hole doesn’t have to go away for me to experience life. Just as this photo shows, we can go on fun trips, soak up the sun, smile authentic smiles, all while we carry the grief of my dad’s death with us.
There within lies the key to enduring the long journey of life after loss, to always hold space for grief.
When I first became acquainted with grief, I hated its constant existence following me around like my own shadow. I desperately wanted to get rid of it – to somehow taste how life felt before dad died. I’m slowly learning that grief is not my enemy. It’s a new companion, along for the ride of life, reminding me of my dad at every turn and begging for space to honor that loss and love. And I’m okay with that. I might even go so far to say I’m grateful for it.
Grief will be heavy and it will be long, and I believe that’s okay. No matter how long it’s been – whether it’s going on two years as we currently are, or twenty - I will let the tears fall as I miss my dad or belly laugh imagining the silly dance move he’d be doing. It will continue to not be easy, but it will somehow be okay.