“Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” – John 16:22

They say losing a child is the most unnatural of deaths, and I am sure this must be true. The cycle of life calls for parents to leave this earth before their kids, but when that happens, it somehow feels just as unnatural.

Regardless of whether your parents are your best friends or complete strangers, you were made by them. You inherit, in some shape or form, the good and bad, the beautiful and ugly. I am my father’s daughter: analytical and philosophical, bent to think before I feel, stubborn and independent, smart and full of pride. And while the past eight years of his life were filled with complicated ups and downs, it’s still strange to think of a world without him.

We found out his cancer was back three weeks ago – a mass blocking liver function, causing GI issues and jaundice. He decided he had lived a full life and did not want to continue treatment. He passed away 18 days later, on Palm Sunday.

I don’t think this is a coincidence. Holy Week marks Jesus going from King to crucified. This Friday, we will mourn Jesus’ death, and on Sunday, celebrate his resurrection.

In our own lives, the resurrection often doesn’t look how we expected it would. Jesus didn’t appear the same after he rose from the dead, after all. Maybe our rebirths look different too.

If we allow it, we can have a million deaths and rebirths in our lives. This week alone, I know I’ve had a few, surrendering to the paradoxical nature of this existence. And embracing the “yes, and…” of the present.

There is beauty in these ashes.

There is joy in the mourning.

There is peace in the grieving.

My heart hurts and also feels free. I am both burdened and lighter. The streams of grief and gratitude flow gently side by side, filling the lake of my being. There is a calm amidst the chaos of a world in crisis. There is acceptance, goodness, and light. It seems impossible, but it really is well with my soul.

And whether you believe heaven is a real place with actual mansions or a state of ultimate consciousness full of joy, I know my Dad is home with a healed body and sound mind. He is free. His feet are set to dancing. His laughter knows no end.

After he was gone, in the still, early hours after a sleepless night, my dad whispered to me, “It’s beautiful here.”

I believe the Creator is whispering the same to all of us.

[Photo: My dad as a young man – finding a box of albums and photos like these was an unexpected blessing of cleaning out his place.]