Comfort and Joy
12 years ago, my dad passed this very week. I will never forget it. Such a strange moment, filled with family all gathered together and this elastic feeling to the passing of time. I was actually at his bedside with my sister when he passed, and witnessed first hand the natural, calm transition from one dimension into the next. His skin took on a waxy pallor as the life left his physical form. I almost couldn’t believe how simple it was, like walking through a doorway or turning the page in a book. For some reason I always thought death would be dramatic, filled with terrifying moments and loud screams and I suppose in some cases it probably is. But not for him. It was just the slipping off of a coat that no longer fit.
During that week that I was at home with my family, we held on to holiday traditions as best we could, and made a few new ones. We drank the bourbon he loved mixed with Squirt grapefruit soda. He used to call that drink “Something Else” when as children we would ask what he was sipping. Mixing up those drinks brought us a little closer to him somehow. We shared memories and listened to holiday music. The one song that really stood out was about tidings of comfort and joy. It was what I wished most for him as he was in hospice and then for the rest of us as we dealt with the loss of such a powerful, beloved man.
Comfort and joy.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all experience some comfort and joy?
Thinking about that, I actually let myself lay down and close my eyes today — I never do that. Comfort. I stayed in my leggings and t-shirt and cuddled my dogs. I had an extra cup of coffee and ordered the ingredients to make a homemade maccaroni and cheese for dinner. I put on some soft music and lit a candle in the afternoon. Sanctuary, comfort and yes, a little joy.
I turned down a couple of invitations and opted to just relax. There has been precious little of that lately. I let myself have the luxury of time to think about my dad and the things he loved most during the holidays. His love-hate relationship with the outdoor lights in the trees. His obsession with flash lights and this little thermometer that snapped onto the zipper of the ski vest he always wore. The way he toasted each of us on Christmas Eve and told us what he loved most about us. God, I loved (and still love) that man. He brought comfort and joy to a lot of people during his lifetime. I was lucky enough to to be one of them.
In that spirit, I am sending out my love and gratitude to you, wherever you are as you read this. Thank you for sharing this space of sanctuary with me as you read, and for shining your beautiful light in the world. May we ALL find some comfort and joy today.
Lisa