maybe there's hope

His watch continues to count the hours and minutes as they pass. His dress watch sits on my brother’s arm and his work-out ironman watch sits on mine. His watch does not tell time for him, but counts the time that has flown by since his spirit left the earth.

It has begun to sink in, as I wrap his watchband tightly around my wrist, wishing I could tightly wrap my arms around his living and breathing body, that he is not coming back to us.

The bible and our faith promises us, assures us, that there is more. Faith is hard and confusing and weird, but if it were easy it would not be real. If there was no need to trust, what would a relationship with God look like? There are things we are not meant to understand and questions we must learn to stop asking. God has wrapped us with the goodness and faithfulness of our family & friends, but we still must ride this rollercoaster, strapped in with no exit.

The rollercoaster has moments with beautiful views, memories, wind in our faces, but also moments that leave your stomach feeling as if it is a few feet below you, your heart racing, palms sweaty, praying you’ll survive. Life would certainly be boring without the high highs and the low lows of this rollercoaster, I get that. We would cease living if everything felt flat like a pancake or Midwestern prairie. We must live, not fearful of death or completely changed by it, but aware that life is precious, each day a blessing. 

What made my dad so loveable and why he is missed so much is because he lived with energy, excitement, faith, compassion, love. He signed up for the rollercoaster and he did not chicken out- he did not sit on the sidelines. He loved. He cared. He hooped. He hollered. He danced. He laughed. He made others dance. He made others laugh. He filled us with warmth. He reminded us to pray. He inspired us to work hard. He loved so well.

My mind is filled with maybes. Maybe he’s not really gone.  Maybe it hasn’t actually been more than two weeks since he breathed in oxygen. Maybe his plane didn’t crash.

Maybe he will be there to walk me down the aisle. Maybe he will be around to hold his grandchildren. Maybe he will still sprint past me at the Marble Falls triathlon. Maybe he’ll still hold my mom’s hand as they drive down the highway.

Maybe he’ll come home and lay on his side of the bed so that I won’t have to. Maybe he’ll still meet my brother to play golf. Maybe he’ll still call William in a funny accent or to ramble about baseball. Maybe he’ll still take inventory of Mary’s pantry when we go out to the Chen’s house together. Maybe that buzzing overhead is not a stranger in an unknown plane, but my dad, buzzing the house.

Maybe he’ll build that fence with Drew like he talked about. Maybe they’ll still go smoke cigars and have a man date before our wedding. Maybe we’ll still text about if we’ll dance to “Johnny B Good” or “the Wobble” at our wedding.

Maybe this is not happening. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Just when I think this can’t get more painful, just when I find it too hard to breathe and have to concentrate really hard to swallow, hope forces its way in with those maybes. It’s not a huge amount of hope, but it’s there nonetheless.

Maybe we can get through this. Maybe my mom is as strong as she seems. Maybe all those prayers are paying off. Maybe peace that goes beyond reasoning or understanding exists. Maybe life is not fair, but life is still good. Maybe accidents happen and there is nothing we can do. Maybe if others have done this, we can too. Maybe God’s timeline is vastly different from ours, and days and years have a whole different meaning in Heaven. Maybe He loves us more than we know. Maybe we must press on.

Maybe this is just a stage in the grieving process. Maybe someday I’ll think of my dad and not want to cry out in sorrow, or hit something. Already my smile is genuine, not forced, when I think of the love he had for his family and the zest he had for life. Maybe we are called to emulate that, and move forward. Maybe we are to have more faith, and fewer questions. Maybe we are to have fewer possessions, and more memories and actions. Maybe we are called for more, and we must answer that call.