“When pressed hard, I cried to the Lord; he brought me into a spacious place.” – Psalm 118:5

You’d think during these strange Coronavirus times, we would all be forced to face the fact that death is an inevitable part of life, yet our limited minds cling on to the idea that we’re invincible. The fact is that we are too afraid of dying to give it any real study or discussion when we are living.

So, when faced with the passing of a loved one, we have to navigate it blindly, having no idea what we’re doing.

It’s been just over 40 days since my dad died. In Biblical times, 40 was thought to be the number of testing. It’s how long the Israelites wandered in the desert without a home after escaping slavery in Egypt. It’s how long Jesus was tempted while retreating in the desert. It’s a common number of days to spend fasting during Lent.

Certainly, I have felt tested in many ways over this month-plus. The resolve needed to take care of the multitude of legal and financial matters when a parent passes. Packing my dad’s room and furniture by myself because assisted living centers can’t allow more visitors than that during COVID. The reliving of unpleasant memories caused by his bipolar and other complications. A broken heart attempting to reconcile all the versions of my dad I experienced over the course of 44 years.

My dad was a proud man. A kind man. An extremely intelligent man. Stubborn. Philosophical. The kind who would give up his seat so you could sit down. A father who told me I was beautiful long before that was true. A protector and provider to the best of his ability. A dad who walked hand in hand with me at Disneyland, teetered on a see saw with me, and taught me how to ride a bike and drive a stick shift.

I miss that. Having him as “daddy.” But I also recognize how lucky I am to have known him through all the seasons. Through all the versions of him – loving and healthy, good and bad, unhealthy and stressful, and everything in between. It was as much a privilege to be in charge of his healthcare at the end of his life as it was a burden. I knew he was grateful, I knew he was proud of me both personally and professionally, even if he wasn’t skilled at expressing himself emotionally. He was perfect in his imperfection. But there was never a question in my mind that he loved me and my sister. And in his chemically imbalanced mind, my mom too.

So yes, my 40 days, has been full of testing. But I’ve been brought into “ravach”* – a spacious place of remembering, cherishing and healing. Not from his death (maybe we never fully heal from that type of loss). But from the later, harder years of his life. And for this, I’m thankful.

*Ravach is Hebrew and means to breathe freely, to revive, to have ample room.

[Photo: My dad and I at Fred Flintstone Park – one of the sweet discoveries unearthed by sifting through his old photo albums.]