Of all the stages of grief, I find the one I have the most difficulty with is anger. Similarly, others around me seem confounded with the anger. I can appreciate denial, depression, bargaining, and acceptance as natural stages in which it is reasonable to experience without any need to seek a resolution. Anger is a different animal, however.

At its best, anger acts as an emotion or state of mind that responds reasonably to injustice, injury, or simply to things not being right. Anger often moves us to seek solutions to the problems we see. And there lies my difficulty with my anger in my grief. I’ve found myself entering cycles where I am furious at God, Death, or just the fact that my father is dead and then I am mad at myself for being so angry because the thing I want so much is impossible. What solution can come in my angry that will satisfy me? Can I bring my father back to life? I also find myself on edge and in a general state of anger. Little things that normally wouldn’t bother me or might mildly annoy me set me off on tirades.

I’m trying to learn to accept my anger—and anger without resolution in this case—as reasonable. I’m trying not to beat myself up because I want the impossible, as if I would feel better if I only didn’t want my father to come back from the dead. I come from a long line of people who bottle their emotions and so it is difficult to express my anger. Generally, I’m better at distracting myself than with dealing with my anger in the moment. Grief, however, doesn’t allow itself to be ignored.

I know I speak of the stages of grief often and please don’t read into it that I’m trying to compartmentalize mourning—I simply find the stages a helpful matrix to locate myself from time to time.

Yesterday, we celebrated the Lord’s Supper in our worship service. Todd Johnson, a member of our congregation and professor of theology, worship, and the arts at Fuller Theological Seminary, preached about the meaning of Communion using the story of the resurrected Jesus meeting the disciples on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24.13-35). He reminded us that the Eucharist is not only a memorial of Jesus’ death, but also a celebration of the Resurrection and he challenged us to see it as such. When I walked into the sanctuary and saw the table prepared for the Eucharist, I had a sense that there would be something special in that day’s receiving the bread and drink. Todd’s sermon spoke deeply and definitively about having the eyes to see the reality in front of us that Jesus is risen, something which has been hard for me since Dad’s death.

After the sermon, we recited the Apostles’ Creed, in which we proclaim with the whole Church,

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. AMEN.

Given my struggles of faith recently, especially in seeing Jesus as victorious over death, I saw my participation in this creed as an historical statement. In an interview with Krista Tippet on Speaking of Faith, theologian and Yale Divinity School professor Jaroslav Pelikan had this to say about the use of the creeds:

My faith life, like that of every one else, fluctuates. There are ups and downs and hot spots and cold spots, and boredom and ennui and all the rest can be there. And so I’m not asked on a Sunday morning, “As of 9:20, what do you believe?” And then you sit down with a three-by-five index card saying, “Now let’s see. What do I believe today?” No, that’s not what they’re asking me. They’re asking me, “Are you a member of a community which now, for a millennium and a half, has said, ‘We believe in one God’?”

I was in tears saying, “I believe… in the resurrection of the body,” not because I could say it with deep conviction or power, but because I said it as a hope against hope. I said it not as a statement that in this situation, in my grief, I believe in the resurrection of the body. No, I said it remembering my twenty-three years as a member of the Church, which has proclaimed the resurrection of the body for two thousand years. I believe in the resurrection. This was not a confession out of my strength, but out of my weakness. If there was any strength in my proclamation, it came from the Holy Spirit, who invigorates those who hold to this central part of the Christian faith.

In the fullness of my awareness of death’s reality, I walked into the line in the aisle to tear off a piece of sourdough and dip it in a cup full of grape juice. This was my act of allegiance to the Kingdom of God even though I can barely see it right now. Eating that shred of bread and bit of juice was my protest against death in spite of its overwhelming presence in my life. I chewed weakly, praying for hope and choosing belief in Jesus’ victory when so much of the immediate evidence seems to say otherwise. I don’t know where this experience will lead me, but I do know I want another bite, another drink.

A couple of days ago I had my birthday. I’m grateful for the cards, phone calls, e-mails, comments on my blog, and messages on Facebook. Carey made me a wonderful dinner and we had a great time talking before she went to work. Timbo then came over, took me out for ice cream, and we watched The Boxer (I’m on a bit of a Daniel Day-Lewis kick since There Will Be Blood). While I felt loved, I couldn’t shake the cloud of sadness that hung over me all day and continues to stay. This was my first birthday since my father’s death. When my mom called me in the morning, I missed hearing his voice. Their tradition was to call us early in the morning, usually getting us out of bed, and singing “Happy Birthday” before we knew what hit us. When I read the card Mom sent with a beautiful and humbling note, it hurt to not see his signature. I wish I could express how deeply I miss the man who gave me life. Lately I have felt numb, furious, or an ache that draws my attention elsewhere. The thing I want the most is for Dad to be alive and this wish tears me apart for two reasons. The simple reality of his death can incapacitate me at times. But the fact that what I want most is an impossibility, a baseless wish in this life, hurts as well. I can’t make myself stop wishing he was here and honestly, I don’t want that ability, no matter how much pain I feel.

Currently the Church celebrates the season of Easter, the period of the year that we most intently focuses on Jesus’ victory over sin and death. If I am honest, it is really hard to see that victory and hard to believe right now that God’s kingdom has won, is winning, and will win. My eyes aren’t attuned to see the Resurrection; death is far easier to notice. Death’s disgusting stench creeps into nearly any room I sit. In the past couple of weeks I thought that every Christian at their baptism should be given a piece of the empty tomb as a tangible reminder of Jesus’ victory. Instead, I’m left with the fact that Mom doesn’t have of a chunk of the stone that was rolled away—she has Dad’s ashes sitting on the nightstand next to her bed.

Please pray for me, friends. Pray that Christ would make his resurrection known to me, that I would have the faith to believe that death doesn’t have the final word. Pray that the beatitude that those who mourn are blessed because they will be comforted would be true. It’s hard for me to pray lately.

Today marks six months since Dad died. Lately, the reality of his death has come back to shock me. I walk around a corner and I feel suckerpunched. There are moments where it’s hard to breathe. Six months since hearing his voice or giving him a hug. I am immensely thankful for my mom and brother, who have lived through these six months with such honesty and grace.

Here’s an animated version of the five stages of grief.

I may or may not have exhibited these behaviors in my mourning for my dad. (Come on, I have to be able to laugh a bit, don’t I?)

Yesterday morning Carey and I stumbled upon an unexpected gift. We have kept a message on our answering machine of our then four year-old nephew singing “Happy Birthday” to Carey because it was an incredibly sweet gesture. After the song, my mom chimes in wishing Carey a happy birthday as well. Then my father takes the phone and tells Carey happy birthday. There, in our office, sitting on Carey’s desk is a recording of Dad’s voice telling his daughter-in-law that he wants her to have a happy birthday and that the three of them—Mom, Dad, and my nephew—love her. I was in tears for the rest of the day, sad in missing my father, but so grateful to God for this gift.

In the past couple of weeks, Carey and I rewatched the recent film versions of The Lord of the Rings. I love the values of fellowship, sacrifice, valor, standing for what is good, and hope that these stories display. Within the first thirty minutes of The Fellowship of the Ring, I thought, my kids will know these stories. Aragorn, Frodo, Sam, Eowyn, and Gandalf will be household names.

Returning to The Lord of the Rings has been more than a reunion with some of my favorite stories; watching the films has also connected me with my father. For the vast majority of my life, I could not think of J. R. R. Tolkien’s masterpieces without thinking of my father. He read the trilogy while as a student at NC State. My mother bought him nice, leather bound editions of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit for one of their early anniversaries. My brother and I watched the Rankin/Bass cartoon version of The Hobbit often as children. I would pull down Dad’s green hardback book and fold out the copy of the moon map to follow along with Bilbo’s adventures onscreen. In high school I finally read The Hobbit and loved it immensely. During the Memorial Day weekend of my sophomore year, our family stayed at our friends’ cabin at Shaver Lake. Dad and I discussed the chapter “Riddles in the Dark” as we grilled dinner one dusk. When I expressed my amazement of the imagination behind Tolkien’s creation of Gollum, Dad, with the knowledge of the wonder before me, quietly said, “Just wait until you read the trilogy. Gollum’s written even better there.” Dad never wore his emotions on his sleeve like I do, but when he felt excited about something, he expressed it in his unique way. I could sense his gladness that I was reading some of his favorite stories and that we could share our experiences. Later that year, my parents went away on a day trip to the California coast and stopped in Cambria. Dad returned and presented me a small, pewter figurine of Gollum you see on the right from The Soldier Gallery. It has sat on my various desks in high school, college, seminary, and today.

I also find the connection between Dad and The Lord of the Rings sealed within the story itself. In The Fellowship of the Ring, when Frodo awakes in Rivendell after enduring the Ringwraiths’ attack and escaping them at the Ford of Bruinen, this exchange takes place.

“Where am I, and what is the time?” [Frodo] said aloud to the ceiling.

“In the house of Elrond, and it is ten o’clock in the morning,” said a voice. “It is the morning of October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”

“Gandalf!” cried Frodo, sitting up. There was the old wizard, sitting in a chair by the open window.

Dad was born on October 24, 1942. The fact that both the novel and film versions of The Lord of the Rings so prominently mention the date October 24 always brings smiles to my family. It seems fitting that our family’s original and biggest Middle Earth fan would somehow make his way into the story.

As we watched the films, thoughts and emotions concerning my father came to me in waves. (Spoilers lie ahead, but I assume most know the stories by now.) I have never witnessed a more evocative piece of mourning on film than the scene following the Fellowship’s escape from Moria after Gandalf sacrifices himself in The Fellowship of the Ring. Peter Jackson represents the emotion so movingly and so convincingly that though I’ve seen the films and read the books numerous times and know not only that the scene will happen, but also the outcome of Gandalf’s fate, I always cry. This time, however, I said, “I know that pain—I’ve felt it.”

The Return of the King moved me the most as we see many deaths of beloved characters. I found myself jealous of Eowyn for she got to hold her uncle Theoden in her arms as he died. I desperately wish I could have had a moment in my father’s presence at his death. I wish I could have held him or at least touched him before he left us. Similarly, I wish I could have said goodbye to Dad like the Hobbits did with Frodo at the Grey Havens when he leaves Middle Earth for Valinor (the Undying Lands). I don’t imagine the pain I feel would be any less had I been able to say farewell to my father, but I desperately want that last moment of connection. As the film ended, I could only think about my father. I will always think The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and other tales of Middle Earth as my father’s stories.

The writers took Tolkien’s narrative description of Frodo’s first sighting of Valinor from the end of the novel and put the words in Gandalf’s mouth as he and Pippin ready themselves to fight the armies of Mordor in the city of Minas Tirith. The words paint a beautiful image of Heaven.

Pippin: I didn’t think it would end this way.

Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.

Pippin: What? Gandalf? See what?

Gandalf: White shores. And beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

Pippin: Well, that isn’t so bad.

Gandalf: No, no it isn’t.

I hope my father experienced something like this.

Dad was right about Gollum in the trilogy, by the way.

I’ve uploaded a bunch of photographs of Dad. I didn’t take the vast majority of them, but I’ve been editing them in Photoshop Elements. The exercise of editing the photos has proven to be a helpful way of remembering Dad. It feels tangible. A lot of the pictures are old and scanned by a friend of my mom’s who graciously created a digital slideshow that we watched at the memorial service. It’s been good to look at these photos and laugh and cry.

The picture on the left of Dad and my nephew on vacation at Myrtle Beach, SC taken a couple of years ago is one of my favorites from the set.

Carey likes this photo on the right of my dad, my brother, and I decorating a birthday cake for my mom when we were all much younger.

Slideshow.

Last week, we had arguably the most unique Thanksgiving I’ve experienced. First, Carey and I hosted our families, which we enjoyed. We loved having family in our home, relaxing, laughing, and eating.

Second, we had to call a plumber on Thanksgiving. The line from the bathroom to the sewer backed up, bringing some lovely afterthoughts back out the drains in our bathtub and shower—our house didn’t have a clean-out since it was built almost seventy years ago.

Because it is the only bathroom in the house and we had my mother and brother staying with us that evening, we had to call the plumber, which carried an extra charge due to the holiday. The plumber came and snaked the line, finding roots in it. I’ve heard that the day after Thanksgiving is the busiest day for plumbers, but that is usually due to people putting things down the drain that shouldn’t be there, like potato peels. Our problem had no relation to Thanksgiving or human error; it was one that was building and just happened to percolate on a holiday. Unfortunately, the problem wasn’t solved on Thursday since the root problem was greater than what the plumbers could solve with the snake. They had to come back out twice more to clear the lines with heavier equipment. That’s another story that I don’t feel like recounting. Let’s just say you’re all getting my best wishes for Christmas and that’s it. Also, instead of Christmas lights on the house, I think I’ll put lights around the cap to our new clean-out.

The most unique aspect of Thanksgiving, however, was the noticeable missing presence of my dad. Because Carey and I have alternated the holidays with our families, I’ve spent a few Thanksgivings apart from Mom and Dad. This year was different. Mom celebrated with us this year and Dad didn’t. And Dad won’t celebrate a Thanksgiving with us ever again. After Dad died, someone wise said to me that this next year will be a year of firsts. Our first Thanksgiving without Dad, our first Christmas without him, our first birthdays without him. We already celebrated his birthday without him. Mom will have her first Valentine’s Day and anniversary without her husband. Each important event and holiday brings a new kind of pain with it. Another wise person said to me that even though everyone eventually loses their parents, the loss brings unique pains. I can honestly say I’ve never felt a pain like the pain I feel in losing Dad. It’s not a matter of degree, but of kind. It’s not that it simply hurts more than anything else I’ve felt—trust me, it does—but it hurts differently than any other pain I’ve experienced.

No, no, no life?
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never.

—King Lear in William Shakespeare’s, The Tragedy of King Lear, Act V, Scene iii

This season of grief has brought some of the strangest emotions and ideas I’ve ever felt or thought. Some have been quite shocking.

I quote the bit from King Lear above because I can relate to it so profoundly. I knew that bargaining was one of the five stages of grief, but when I had seen others bargain, it was usually along the lines of them saying they should have died instead. I had no such thought. Instead, I found myself, like Lear, asking, “Why does that thing or that person get to live when my dad had to die?” I would look at people far older than my father or who didn’t take care of themselves and wonder, “Why not them instead?” I said to God more than once, “Why not take someone who has had a full life? Dad wasn’t through yet.” This bargaining with other peoples’ lives surprised me and I must admit feeling some guilt for thinking this way.