Grief has been an odd companion this year. It’s morphed within me month over month.

What began as drowning, shifted.

What became erratic, evolved.

What became a shadow, loosened.

What became a constant hum, faded.

What came in November was a backlash.

The Tears

Ten months of my emotional evolution in mourning landed me back in grief’s grip. Back with vengeance were the at-ready tears.

This time however, I met grief more equipped. I knew it. I accepted it. I let it be… to run its course a bit, me just along for the ride.

It wasn’t that I was more sad or felt bad. Perhaps it was my body’s way of processing my next level of emotions. An excavation of the deeper unknowns in my heart, and tears were pockets of lost love that needed release for the wound to heal more thoroughly.

So, constantly throughout my fall and early winter days, I just let the tears fall.

No questions. No withholding. No stopping (as if I could).

They just fell now and then throughout each day – almost like a dusting of snow; gone before you realized their presence – a light cleansing.

As Christmas closed in, I knew the pain the tears sought to wash away… or soften the sting. Dad was Christmas. In so many ways he embraced the full magic of the season—from the Jesus to Santa, the nativity to the angel on our Christmas tree, he delighted in it all.

• I listened to every single Christmas Eve sermon he delivered in my life.
• I drove through a massive ice storm watching car after car after car slide off the interstate so I could hear him read a story to the young children on Christmas Eve, often from “Angeles and Other Strangers.”
• I would hold my breath at the end of each Christmas Eve service waiting in anticipation for him to shout with full delight: Merry Christmas!  
• I would watch him package up a gift for mom in an unusual way, from nesting boxes for a tiny item to a house-wide scavenger hunt.
• I would wait and see which package bow he would remove and wear on his head Christmas day.
• After retirement, between mom and I in the pew, I would savor how he sang “Joy to the World” doing the echo bass refrain against mom’s soprano voice … “and wonders of his love—and wonders of his love” as his body bounced to the tune; the tune we closed his committal service with.

And like has happened throughout my grief journey moments arose between the tears. Moments, no, golden threads to him emerged that stitched through my heart like internal scaffolding. Strengthening fibers of nostalgia as I lived forward. December’s thread pulled me in through grief on Friday.

The Visitor

On Friday afternoon, I noticed the songbird sound of my Uber driver’s voice. “You have such a beautiful accent. Where are you from?” I laughed internal as I remembered Dad would always ask others about their accent – curiosity leading to connection. “Ethiopia.” We talked a bit about the wonkiness of the English language and then she shared, “I came here to have my son. It was a 17-hour flight. After I got here, he had problems–his lungs weren’t developing, and they did a c-section at 34 weeks.” (Note, full-term is 40 weeks.) “Oh my, is he OK?” “Yes, he’s well now but the bills are a lot.” “Do you have friends or family here?” “No, I’m totally alone. Just me and him. But I wanted a child for so long, IVF. It’s OK. We go back to Ethiopia in a month or so.”

A single mother.

An unknown country.

An unexpected child.

A faith of gratitude.

I could just about hear dad’s voice from the pulpit share this story in his Christmas Eve service and smiled.

She stopped on my street and parked for me to get out.

A golden thread tugged at my heart. I thought once more of Dad – one to give freely to those in need, especially at Christmas. I leaned forward in the car… handed her the $100 bill Dad taught me to keep in my wallet for emergencies… and with all my George Oehler delight said, “Merry Christmas!”

As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For September 2024, the quote that centered me was “stay fully wild, star child.”

November is many things. The unofficial start of the holiday season. A month centered on gratitude and decadent food. But for me, it’s mom’s birthday month. For those who don’t know her she is a 5’2” red-headed force for good. A preacher’s wife who hugs everyone, dances as the mood strikes, dishes out delicious southern food, lives as a faithful Presbyterian, enjoys adventures, has a competitive streak, is quick to laugh, and is surrogate mom to many. And, she embodies my quote this month.

Here are quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught my attention during the month…

• What is the work your soul must have?
• Stillness is another door into the temple
• Taste your words before you spit them out
• Silence is a massage for the soul
• Don’t ever believe we are thinking machines who have feelings – we are feeling machines who on occasion think
• You pick who disturbs you
• Love loud and shine bright
• Grieve the past and the present, but don’t grieve the future—we’re not there yet
• You threw dirt on me and flowers grew; I’d be mad too
• Worrying is like worshiping the problem
• Time is available to live in
• Silence is a symphony of truth
• I go in search of a great perhaps
• Scapitude: a combination of scappiness and fire in the belly that gets shit done
• Beautiful means “most self”
• Evermore

Respite Adventures…

In the weeks after my father death from Alzheimer’s, mom and I stood side by side in the kitchen and erased his upcoming appointments from the family calendar. The months suddenly looked overwhelmingly open. What remained was the standing Thursday calendar block for respite, when she’d take Dad to a wonderful half-day program for fellowship, and she had a break. In the moment, I offered, “Let’s keep respite on the calendar so we focus on fun.” She quickly agreed with a sparkle in her Carolina blue eyes.

For four months, our respite adventures together were weekly as I stayed with her as we both shifted from the loss of her sun and my moon. As I merged back into life and work, we connected each month for joint respite. For those not familiar with respite, it’s defined as, “a short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant.” For full-time caregivers it’s essential, and I’ve come to believe critical to everyone as we move through the complexities of life.

For 10 months, Mom and I have respited in a variety wild of ways – big and small. We ate (all the biscuits), drank (an Old Fashion everywhere we respite), played, laughed, and cried with each adventure. Indoor skydiving, lunar moments (beach sunrise, solar eclipse watching), star gazing,  Cheerwine festival, fried local oysters, shoe shopping, flamingo feeding, artistic painting, pedicures, movies, Swan Lake ballet, the oldest saloon in Texas, her first Uber (a Tesla with rainbow interior lights), our first Airbnb, fondue, Van Gough immersive experience, climbing Pilot Mountain, and plenty of ice cream  – just to name a few of our respite adventures.

These adventures soothed my soul and generated incredible memories. But the best part is to be in mom’s presence, fully wild as a star child. She remains curious, eager to learn. She literally stops and smells all the flowers and communes with the birds – my own Snow White. She is truly with people she meets – open, sincere, supportive – friend and stranger alike. Simply put, she lives with her heart.

And…

Our respite adventures have not been all joy-filled as grief now resides in our bones. But with a focus on rejuvenation, we learned to live together in a space of “and.” Laughter and tears. Delight of new memories and ache from old ones. Action and stillness. Anticipation and sadness. Moving forward and looking back.

And, the understanding that love exists in it all.

I walked to yoga early this morning. My path is down King Street — a long historic area lined with shops.

In the darkness I noticed the city hung little white lights in the trees that line the brick sidewalk for 1 mile. The lights brought to heart my dad … a life long Santa Elf, eternally age 6 at Christmas time—a true believer and filled with wonder.

He would love this.

Tears fell. Ten months into grief after the death of my dad, I’m now use to their spontaneity and just let them flow.

Sadness swirled. Lights twinkled. Tears fell. I walked on.

Two blocks later I looked over and saw this new display. My heart fluttered with wonder. I walked up close and inspected it with a dorky kid smile on my face reflected in the window glass. I walked on.

As I neared the yoga studio I looked up with light in the sky and cotton candy pink clouds. The smile on my face moved to my heart.

Hey dad.

I thought about skipping this one and instead sitting back in my chair with a book down at the ocean’s edge. It was the last day of vacation though and I would not squander a walk along the waves next to the white sand dunes under the Carolina blue sky.

SPF 70, straw hat, and big Jackie O sunglasses – and off I went.

I chose a lazy pace. No music or audible book. Just me, mindful of all around me, with my feet in the edge of the cooling water as the sun’s heat gained intensity.

About halfway down, I saw a fairly large white shell. Thin, delicate, with frayed edges. This one spoke to me. There was a luminosity to it. A delicate strength. Imperfect but strong. I picked it up in remembrance of Dad. He always came back from the beach with shells in his pockets. Each one a magical treasure.

Farther down the beach, I walked in a shallow pool of water slowly being filled as the tide rose. As I waded out of it, I saw a clump on the beach. What at first looked like a piece of driftwood, I realized was a piece of coral reef. I picked it up as well, smiling at all the times Dad found and tossed icky seaweed at us over the years with the giggliness of a 10-year-old-boy as mom and I would squeal and splash away.

Soon after, I climbed up the hot sand dune to the welcoming spot of all who wonder in faith. A 50-year-old weathered wood post hoisting the Kindred Spirit mailbox as a beacon. Framed by a wooden bench on each side, pews for those called.

As was often the case, there were other travelers there. They’d come to write thanks, hopes, heartbreak, memories, and dreams in the notebooks the Kindred Spirit mailbox always contained.

I put my collected offerings on the bench next to the man. His wife standing beside the mailbox writing a note. I got another notebook from inside the Kindred Spirit mailbox and sat down.

“Honey, what day is it,” she asked the man next to me.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

I chimed in, “that means you’re on vacation” – and we all laughed in appreciation.

With a thick Boston accent he responded, “yeah, but they always go so fast. I’m just now ready for summer and fall is almost here.” He paused and added, “I think it’s the eighth.”

I looked at my watch and shared, “well, actually, it’s the 16^th – so you must have had a great vacation.” We all laughed again, and I thought of the thousands of little interactions Dad had with strangers along his way; always sharing his warm hearty laugh.

“Would you like a picture?” I asked them.

She asked, “Do you want one George?”

My breath caught. Chest tightened. Tears welled up.

“No, we’ll just keep the memories,” he replied as he stood, and they began to walk down the sand dune. His wife adding to me, “have a great vacation.”

George.

We’ll just keep the memories.

George?

We’ll just keep the memories.

George!

We’ll just keep the memories.

There I was at Kindred Spirit. A heartfelt laugh. An offering of treasures. Sitting next to George, my Dad’s name.

Alone but with him.

I’ll just keep the memories.

I stood there. 

Feet planted.
Shoulders back.
Spine straight.

Still, in the frenzy of those around me.

Breathe. Listen.

There I was in the midst of 37,000+ people in Fenway Park. Surrounded alone.

See. Feel.

I recognized the panic in my head and the twinge in my stomach… but I stood planted accepting of the inevitable.

The first tear ran down my cheek. Then the next one fell.

I let them come. No wiping. No concealing.

Grief found me again, swelling, releasing, and consuming.

I stood planted, and let it move me and move through me.

I then leaned into the moment and the music that stirred my sole, and joined Foo Fighters’ Dave Grohl sing “Under You” – written after the death of their drummer Taylor Hawkins.

“I woke up and walked a million miles today. I’ve been looking up and down for you. All this time, it still feels just like yesterday. That I walked a million miles with you.

Over it. Think I’m getting over it. There’s no getting over it.

There are times that I need someone. There are times I feel like no one. Sometimes I just don’t know what to do. There are days I can’t remember. There are days that last forever. Someday I’ll come out from under you.

Someone said I’ll never see your face again. Part of me just can’t believe it’s true. Pictures of us sharing songs and cigarettes. This is how I’ll always picture you.”

My brain lost in the moment, the music, my memories.

Drowned out by the speakers. My heart singing loudly, a declaration.

“Over it.
Think I’m getting over it.
There’s no getting over it.
There are times that I need someone.
There are times I feel like no one.
Sometimes I just don’t know what to do.
There are days I can’t remember.
There are days that last forever.
Someday I’ll come out from under you.”

Each tear a release.

… Dad loved music… listening, playing, singing—feeling it.

… Dad loved his friends… there I stood next to a bestie who brought me here as a gift of replenishment—feeling it.

… Dad loved to provide comfort to those in need… as I looked out I saw the connection of all these people, each one with a personal loss as they sang—feeling it.

… Dad loved to play… this trip had been filled with fun adventures as we “had the journey that was meant to be”—feeling it.

I stood planted. Tears fell. Words sung. Emotions felt. Gratitude given.

Because as the Foo Fighters later sang that night — and I with them smiling…

“…I’m a wild light, blinding bright, burnin’ off and on.
It’s times like these you learn to live again.
It’s times like these you give and give again.
It’s times like these you learn to love again.
It’s times like these, time and time again.

I, I’m a new day rising.
I’m a brand-new sky to hang the stars upon tonight.
I, I’m a little divided.
Do I stay or run away and leave it all behind?

It’s times like these you learn to live again.
It’s times like these you give and give again.
It’s times like these you learn to love again.
It’s times like these, time and time again.”