Since Thanksgiving, there has been a greater awareness (within our family) of the 1 year mark of dad’s passing approaching.  Last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, my husband took my daughter and niece downtown to take in all the Christmas displays, the gingerbread village at the Sheraton, and to experience the holiday spirit.  Before heading home he treated the girls to frozen yogurt sundaes when the three of them had a somber déjà-vu moment when they realized the last time they were downtown together was the night my father died, just two days after Christmas.  They found themselves sitting at the same table as last year, eating frozen yogurt, and being surrounded by familiar festive holiday lights.  They were sitting at this table when I called my husband last year to tell him my father was badly hurt in an accident and that I was heading to the hospital.

As we discussed this, it never occurred to me how my daughters and niece felt when they received the dreaded news over the phone.  So many things happened so fast that I was more concerned about how they were doing once my dad died, not during the hours leading up to us at his bedside saying our final goodbye before he was taken off life support.

They too, experienced shock, denial, fearing for the worst, and a shroud of panic just like the rest of did.  I still remember as if it were yesterday where I was in the house, what I was doing, and everything that happened shortly after.

I don’t struggle with my dad being gone so much these days.  Yet, I’m realizing there is this painful heaviness in my heart when I rewind the details of the night of his death in my mind.  How he died was so unexpected and undignified that it bothers me, still.  Honestly, I don’t know how to reconcile the anniversary of his death without having to relive how he died. I’m not sure if I ever will.  What I do know is that these intense feelings feel very raw and fresh. 

Throughout the year I’ve stuffed my feelings down so deep in order to function as normal as possible.  But these feelings I’ve buried are suddenly showing signs of unearthing to the surface of my consciousness.  I hate that.

I accept that this is part of the cycle of loss and grief.  I’m giving myself permission to give a voice to these feelings.  It’s my way of surrendering them so that I can fill my heart with more peace, love, and joy in its place.

On a side note, my father’s birthday was a couple weeks ago.  A week later we adopted a new dog from the Humane Society rather spontaneously.  When I brought Phoebe home, my mom was rather amused by our newest family member.  She went on to tell me she was never a dog person but that my dad loved dogs.  I’m convinced if my dad were alive he would think Phoebe is the best belated birthday present, ever.

Last Saturday my dad would have turned 69 years old.  Every year my sisters and brother along with our families would meet at someone’s home to celebrate dad’s birthday with a potluck style dinner and a sugar-free apple pie -a favorite of dad’s because of his diabetes.  This year we met at the cemetary in the cold rain.  My youngest sister brought fresh cut dahlias, the last of the season, from my parents house.  She placed a few stems in the holder next to his grave stone and we circled around in silence waiting for direction on what to do from my mom.  It was kind of silly when you think about it because there isn’t any type of ceremony or rules when it comes to this kind of stuff.  So we waited for something to happen.  As my mom stared down at the granite marker, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through her mind.  To some degree I wondered if she would  start sobbing.  But true to her form, there were no tears.  Instead she had this look on her face, the type of look you give someone when you feel sad for them.  She knelt down and picked off the wet leaves on the marker making sure it was clean from nature’s debris.  It was her loving gesture as my father’s wife to still care for him even though he is no longer with us. 

The ackward silence finally broke when my sister pulled a small clear sandwich bag from her coat pocket.  Inside the bag were pieces of sugar-free chocolate coated peanuts, another of dad’s favorite.  It was a brilliant and thoughtful thing she did.  The bag was passed around from person to person including the kids as each person took only one gumball size piece.  “We remember and honor dad by eating his favorite candy.”  She said with humor and sincerity.  Like eating a small piece of wafer cracker at communion, we chomped on that little piece of candy in remembrance of dad. 

As mom and I drove away from the cemetary I said to her, “If dad could see you now, he would be so happy to see you are doing so well.”  Mom replied with a soft “yes” while remaining deep in thought.

Throughout this year our family has gone through major life adjustments with our deepest concern being for my mother.  We’ve gone through many “firsts” as a family without dad with a hyper-sensitivity towards my mom to see how she copes with her new normal and the reality of what her life looks like now in dad’s absense.  

Having remained strong in our faith throughout this journey we can boldly declare it it only by grace we have not suffered more.  Instead, our hope has always been in Christ, the lifter or our heads and the pillar of our hearts.  I can only describe it as a supernatural type of grace which goes beyond any human comprehension.  God’s love, mercy, peace, and compassion on our family has been more than sufficient and beyond what we could have ever asked for ourselves. 

To God be the glory, we are doing more than okay.  Our hearts are full with gratitude and hope knowing this journey we are on is covered by His grace.

The last twenty-four hours has been an emotional whirlwind of sorts.  Last night my baby sister (Janice) gave birth to her second son (Titus) while her older son (Isaiah) stayed with us.  When he was dropped off, he transitioned into the fun, vibrant kid I know him to be playing with his cousins (my kids) until he wore himself out.  As soon as he was in bed for the night I left my house to the hospital to meet my new nephew.

It was a surreal feeling to drive to the hospital so late at night.  The main entrance to hospital was closed and I had to enter through the Emergency entrance.  The moment I walked in I could see distraught people waiting for triage which triggered a noticable anxiety within me. Even though I knew deep inside me I was at the hospital for a joyous occasion, I could not shake feelings of deja vu from the night my dad was killed. I checked in with security and slowly made my way to my sister’s room.  As I walked through the halls I was caught off guard by thoughts of my dad.  The last time I was in a hospital late at night was the night he died.  I recalled how distraught I was as I tried to emotionally embrace what could be very bad news.  I remember every detail of that horrible night with such clarity starting with the phone call I received from my sister about dad being struck by a car to holding his hand next to the hospital bed as I cried out to his lifeless body. Just being in the hospital last night brought all it back to remembrance.  But strangely, as weird as it was to be there, I was relieved to know that I was about to walk into my sister’s room where the joy of a new life was waiting for me.  And with that thought, my sadness diminished just as quickly as it attacked me.

I walked into room 550 to the sight of my mom holding her new grandson, her 15th and quite possibly her last grandchild.  With each new grandchild my parents would come to the hospital and stay for hours just relishing in the joy of a new life being born into our family.  But this time around it was just mom.  I sat next to her and asked her, “Are you okay?”  In a bittersweet yet gentle and quite voice she replied, “I’m okay.”

As I caught up with my sister about how the delivery went, I was pleasantly surprised to hear my sister and brother-in-law named Titus’ middle name after my dad.  It was a great sign of respect to do this and made me wish all the more my dad was here to enjoy the moment.  Mom and I left shortly after to give my sister and her husband much needed rest.

The next morning I drove my kids, Isaiah, and Rob to the airport.  Rob was taking the kids to Ohio and Michigan to visit his family while I stayed back to help my sister and get our house ready to put on the market.  As Isaiah and I drove from the airport towards downtown, I could tell he knew something was going on.  He was lethargic.  He wouldn’t answer any questions or make eye contact with me.  Instead, he stared out the window.  Up until that moment the only reference of his new baby brother he had known was his mom’s belly.  But I told him on the way we were going to meet his new brother and I knew that he knew this didn’t mean “let’s go visit mom who happens to have a baby in her belly”.

But as long as we were going downtown, I thought we should at the very least go visit my favorite coffee house.  So we made a pit stop at Stumptown Coffee for a latte, juice, and two scones.  Poor Isaiah.  He barely ate his scone and I had a lot of compassion for him.  His world was about to get rocked whether he liked it or not.  In his mind, something was about to change and the unknown of it was scary.  The more I thought about this, the more I thought how applicable this is to my life right now.

To make what has become a long post short, Isaiah met his new baby brother Titus.  At first he was uncertain about this new baby.  But after a couple hours of us all hanging out together, Isaiah went from lethargic to the happy kid I know him to be.  Before we left he gave his brother a kiss.  We held hands as we walked back to the parking garage.  He asked me, “Where’s my brother?”  The moment this happened I knew he would be okay.

Life is crazy.  You just never know what’s going to happen.  I was reminded today that there is life after death.  Even though dad is gone, I’m thankful for Titus and the tremendous joy and hope he adds to our family.

Mom has been living with us for six months now.  We’re getting used to each others idiosyncrasies which I’m still adjusting.  I’m doing my best to rinse the dishes in the sink instead of leaving them there to pile up, just like mom asked me.  I hate having to apologize for leaving them in the sink if I don’t have time to deal with them right then and there.  It’s a struggle for me and I feel conflicted.  I grew up in a household where respecting my parents and elders was the only option.  There was no such thing as defiance, unless you being punished.  Yet, here I am, thirty six years old and trying to figure out how to assert myself as an adult, mother, and wife in the presence of my mother, who sometimes makes me feel like I’ve eight years old – not by anything she says but by her sheer presence in our home.

As a twelve year old, I remember how all I could think about is turning eighteen years old.  Every birthday I reminded myself I was one year closer to freedom.  I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and move out of my parents house to be free to be me without having to be accountable to my parents, particularly my father.  I couldn’t wait not to have a curfew and to do what I pleased, including not having to wash the dishes for our household.  In our home everyone had a job.  My job was the dishes and I loathed doing them.   Washing dishes pots, pans, plates, bowls, and silverware for eight people, by hand, drove me nuts.  It is worth mentioning I was given this job when I was around eight years old.  Years of washing dishes all the time seemed like eternity for me.  On some nights I asserted my rebellious spirit by washing all the dishes but leaving the silverware in the sink.  This really made my father angry.  I knew I would have to go back into the kitchen and finish what I started but leaving the silverware in the sink was my passive-aggressive way of letting my parents know I was challenging their system of doing because I knew, that they knew, one day I would be free from their control.

When I moved out, I relished living on my own and moving into an apartment and letting the dishes stack up, sometimes for days.  Not only that, my apartment also had a dishwasher.  No longer was I the dishwasher. No longer did I have someone hassling me to get my chores done.  Living on my own suited me very well.  And if you’ve been following my journey, you’re well aware of the fact I have issues with washing dishes.  So much so, this issue actually became a “hot topic” during our premarital counseling with a pastoral friend and resurfaced again years later in marriage counseling.  Yes.  Dishes.

Three generations of strong women living under the same roof is both a blessing and a challenge.  Mom is very traditional.  Ideally, she believes a wife should do the housework so the husband can come home from work and relax.  My dad never cooked a meal, changed diapers (for his six kids), washed dishes, or did laundry.  Their system of doing things may have worked for them but it sure as heck wouldn’t be the way I would allow our house to run.

On the other hand, my husband and I have an understanding on how we do things around here.  It’s not traditional but it works for us.  But now that mom is living with us, she tells me how I need to be more traditional. And when she starts these types of conversations with me, I listen patiently for a few minutes before retreating to my bedroom for a break.  We live in a tiny house so having a safe and peaceful place to retreat to has been a saving grace to me.  Mom has been very respectful not to enter my bedroom even though I know it drives her nuts that it is completely cluttered.  I like it cluttered and I’ve been appreciative that she has enough sense not to parent me like I tell my daughters to clean their room.  That is, until tonight.    Even yesterday I had this thought…. “I am so glad I can have one cluttered room in this house she won’t challenge me on.”  As if she was reading my mind, she brought the topic of my room up tonight using Rob as the reason I should keep it clean.  “Alice, I know Rob would appreciate if you kept your room clean.  How do you think he feels?”  What!?!!!!

I looked at her and said, “I like my messy room and I know exactly how Rob feels.  He doesn’t like it but it doesn’t bother him enough to make an issue of it.”  Honestly it does bother him a little bit.  But he is also very compassionate with me.  I just didn’t want to play the “obedient” daughter role when it came to this issue.  Fortunately my mom backed away from the issue because she could sense I wasn’t going to budge.  So she switched the topic of conversation back to the dishes. Oh brother.

Fortunately, I reminded myself that unlike the time when I was twelve and couldn’t wait to move out the house, my mom is old and her time with us is less and less with each passing day.

“Aren’t you happy how nice it is to have a clean sink?” She says.

“No.  But I’m keeping it clean for you, mom.” I tell her.

Looking at her gentle face I could see how it pains her to be living without dad and feeling like a burden to us while still trying to assert some control over her life even if it is being directed at me.

“I will not bring up the issue of your room again.  Sorry I brought it up.  But the dishes… you must keep them clean.” She says in a very soft but in an authoritative tone.

“Ok, mom.”  I tell her before heading off to my messy bedroom.  Surrounded by clutter, I  breath a sigh of relief and get into my unmade bed without an ounce of guilt about it.  Thank goodness for an unmade beds and dirty socks on the floor.

Father’s Day started with waking up with a text from my sister reminding me not to forget to meet at the cemetery at 2:45 pm today. I shouldn’t have checked my phone first thing in the morning because reading her text set the tone for the rest of the day, in a not so good way. Poor Rob. What should have been a nice day to honor him was instead a day of making sure I was alright. I had the best intentions of waking up early to make him a great Father’s Day breakfast. I had even told him last night I was willing to wake up at 6 am this morning and go golfing with him, something I haven’t done in years. But no. I, not he, slept in and by the time I did get up from bed, there was no energy left for a celebration. In fact, if I could have, I would have crawled back to bed and slept most of the day.

After attending church I decided to try to redeem the morning by recommending we all go to Starbucks in honor of Rob. Even as I drank my latte and nibbled on my doughnut it was clear to everyone my head was in a fog. I felt terrible, selfish, and at odds with myself all at the same time.

In our family, Father’s Day always meant gathering together with my parents and siblings for a meal to honor dad. Without his presence this year, it just felt so sad and meaningless. I say this not to disrespect my husband but to just share out loud honestly.

By 2:30 pm the kids, Rob, and I jumped into the car and headed towards the farmer’s market to pick up a bouquet of wild flowers to bring to the cemetery. As I looked at the different bouquets, I tried my best to find the most masculine bunch there was. I grabbed a jewel-toned bouquet and jumped back into the car. As we drove on windy roads towards the cemetery my heart felt suddenly very heavy. We arrived to the cemetery where my sister and brother with their respective families were waiting. Minutes later my mom arrived with my older sister and her family.

We stood in a circle around the cement marker etched with my dad’s initials. A fresh bouquet of flowers were resting in a flower holder when we arrived which meant my uncle probably had been there recently. My siblings and I waited for mom to say something. It was awkward. She just stood there with a fake half smile knowing we were looking to her for some indication on what we were suppose to do. She looked up and asked the grandkids to sing the song they sang during dad’s funeral. My children, nieces, and nephews reluctantly but obediently opened their mouths and sang,

“Count your blessings. Name them one by one. Count your blessings. See what God has done.”

After my brother-in-law said a prayer, the grandkids were given flowers from the bouquets my sister and I brought and added them to the one my uncle left. It was déjà vu. The last time we were all gathered together was the day of dad’s funeral. On the day of the funeral, each of the grandkids also placed flowers on dad’s casket right before they lowered it into the ground.

Fortunately for my family, my uncle who died a few years ago as well as my grandparents (mom’s parents), are buried in the same cemetery within close proximity to each other. After leaving fresh flowers for dad, we all walked over to my uncle’s burial spot leaving flowers for him and then to my grandparents doing the same. In some strange way just knowing they are all buried together is comforting.

From there we left for my sister’s house for dinner. We could all tell mom wasn’t herself. She hardly said a word during dinner and I could tell being there seemed to be a painful reminder of the reality of dad’s passing. Dad loved Father’s Day and she relished in his joy. We relish in her joy and today has been a hard, strange, and sad day for all.

I want to thank everyone who has sent me an email or left a message on my Facebook wall today. Your encouragement and thoughtfulness is like a tall glass of water in a drought of heartache.

Yesterday while getting my kids ready for school my mom appeared in the kitchen dressed in a black pant suit. As I made myself a cup of coffee I asked her what her plans were for the day because she was obviously dressed to go somewhere. “I’m going to a burial,” she told me. I looked at her with concern because I worried it would bring back painful memories of dad. I’m like my mom in this sense, we stuff our emotions down so deep you never know when a conversation or an event will trigger a flood of emotions like to explode out of nowhere. Even now, almost six months later I know I haven’t fully grieved my father’s death and neither has mom.

Later in the afternoon mom came home. I studied her face and body language for any tangible signs of distress. Judging by her outward appearance she seemed fine. As she made her way through the kitchen she stopped and turned around at me and in an upset tone reminded me I needed to clean up better after myself in the kitchen. How we both handle cleaning in our home has been a point of stress for me. I like to let my dishes stack up through the day and clean them in the evening. She likes to clean as she goes. It’s small differences like this which cause stress for me because I’m trying to assert my own independence from her while also trying to respect her wishes too. As she speaks to me in a motherly tone I interrupt her. “Mom, we need to find a better system of doing things….” Before I could even continue talking, she started to wail and cry so hard I wasn’t sure what to do. My mother rarely cries or complains and I wasn’t prepared to deal with it. She was crying so hard and trying to speak she couldn’t say much more than a word or two with each breath. “I watched them lower the body into the grave, that is where dad is,” she sobs uncontrollably. Then she called for my daughters to join us in the kitchen. “I went to a burial today to deal with the fact that this is what happens when people die. I needed to face reality that I’m alone now and grandpa is no longer with me to keep me company.” So there we were, the four of us. My daughters and myself wrapped our arms around mom and just held her there in silence as she irrupted like a volcano so many emotions she had been holding back. I felt a bit guilty that I, myself, wasn’t in tears. In fact, I was unmoved. One of us had to be tough and I wasn’t about to let this moment take me to a place I wasn’t ready to deal with myself. Fortunately for me my husband walked through the door shortly after. I gave him the run down of what happened in our bedroom and then left the house for an event I was already a half an hour late for.

Once I arrived back home I sat in my living room asking my husband how the rest of the night went. Rob went on to tell me he listened to my mom very patiently most of the night processing her emotions. He is a much better listener than I am when it comes to mom.

I suppose we all deal with grief differently. If there was any vindication of anything yesterday it was this. I looked at my husband and said, “see… I’m not the only one who stuffs things down and have it violently spew out over silly little things like dishes.” With that I didn’t check in on mom but instead just went straight to bed knowing this morning we would all wake up with a little bit more patience, understanding, and compassion with one another.

With mom living with us now, I never know when an epiphany will happen. Sometimes she and I will be in the car driving somewhere and she will initiate a story about dad. Like the time I was driving her to a doctor’s appointment and her eyes began to tear up as she shared the story of my father’s hard life as a homeless orphan in Korea during the Korean War. He was seven years old with a slightly older sister and a younger brother sleeping under bridges as their makeshift home. For food, the three of them would wait until the open air market closed in hopes of finding left over fruit peels to eat. Mom tells me that dad told her those fruit peels were so delicious and sustained them as the three of them did whatever they could to stay together and survive the harsh life on the streets. This story alone answers so many questions about why my dad would get so angry with us kids if he ever saw food go to waste in the garbage.

Trying not to be distracted by her delicate words, I drive without making eye contact with her, knowing if I do I will lose it. Yet, hearing this story for the first time proved to be more than I could emotionally handle as I fought back tears streaming down my cheeks. It is no wonder my dad had a hardness of heart most of his life. He was always in survival mode doing whatever he could do get by, doing the best he could for my mom and us six kids.

My epiphany came to me when I realized how wrong I was about dad for most of my life. It had always upset me that he could never show or tell us how much he loved us with his words or actions. The way dad expressed love was to provide food in our bellies and a roof over our heads working odd jobs and building a small business with my mom from the time I was born. Only once did I ever hear him tell me he loved me, and this happened after I was married.
Although we loved our dad, he endured unimaginable things as a child which jaded his perspective of the world. His life was always about survival and less about enjoying the fruit of his labors. Looking back to my childhood, I could never understand why he couldn’t be a “normal” dad like the rest of my friends’ fathers. It all made sense to me now.

I am so thankful for the unspoken life lessons he taught me about persevering, working hard, and doing the best I can under any circumstances. He taught me through his journey to live a life worthy of the sacrifices and hardships both he and my mom endured so these things would not be experienced in vain but would be a foundation for future generations to build upon.

It’s with a burdened heart I write this post today. Like many of you, I’ve been fixated on news, photos, and video coverage of the tremendous devastation of the recent earthquake and Tsunami in Japan. I cannot imagine the suffering happening as families are coping with the loss of loved ones. Countless stories of children being swept away or spouses missing is just too much for me to comprehend on the scale it is happening. It is not enough to just pray for Japan. We must also do what we can to help in the relief efforts.

So I’m asking you to give out of your wallets, generously and sacrificially. I know many people are suffering economically, but this is a time when giving beyond yourself in the spirit of humanitarianism would seem appropriate. There are many ways to give. You can give $10 to the Red Cross by texting REDCROSS to 80888. You can also text JAPAN to 90999 (Salvation Army). The Huffingtonpost has also posted this link on “How You Can Help” of various organizations doing relief work in Japan you can donate to.

Say a prayer for Japan, but don’t forget to also donate with your finances too.

The last few days I’ve been more intentional to just sit with my mom over a cup of tea and just listen to whatever is weighing on her heart. I realized recently that although she is living with us now, I cannot and can never replace the companionship my father offered her. My role has always been the daughter that gets things done. If either of my parents needed anything, they would often call my youngest sister or myself first and we would take care of whatever it was needed. Most conversations I would have with my mom (in my adult years) was very typical in my mom giving me advice (whether I asked for it or not). We would talk about what types of things she was up to but we rarely had those deep conversations where she or I shared our deepest pains, hopes, and burdens. After all, I save these conversations to for my husband, sisters, and closest friends. But here I was tonight, sharing tea with my mom in a new role – companion.

I’m not good at being a companion for mom, I even told her so. I’m good at making sure she’s provided for and her needs are met. I even joked with her that this is why she had so many children because if she needs someone to talk to, two of my other sisters would be better listeners than me. We both laughed but I was convicted after our conversation that I need to be less like Martha and more like Mary, the two sisters portrayed in the bible – one a task manager, the other a listener.

Tonight instead of retreating to my room like I have been, I asked my mom if I could make her tea. I made two cups and set them on the dining room with a little chocolate treat. Mom sat down and like an awkward first date I tried very hard to ask her questions unrelated to dad. Eventually she started to tell me about my childhood and what it was like for her. I just sat there and listened attentively as she processed thoughts, emotions, and buried feelings. When our conversation was over I retreated back to my room.

I realized that part of my life journey is to be a friend to my mom. That taking care of her is more than making sure she has what she needs. It’s about strengthening our relationship in new (although awkward) ways. So much ahead of us, but at least we forge ahead not alone.

The last couple months has been a time of great transition for me. Mom is moved in and it’s hitting me that her stay is permanent. It is a strange thing to live with my mom again, but this time in my home. There have been days I have hid in my room just to have privacy and my own space with empty bowls of late night desserts serving as evidence on my nightstand table. I also know it hasn’t been easy for mom either, which explains why she retreats to her room often as well.

There was one evening I felt as if I was 12 years old again being lectured for something I can’t even remember in the presence of my children and husband. And just like a 12 year old, I closed my eyes and blurted out, “Is this really happening, and are you really telling me this in front of my kids?” And her response was, “I’m still your mom.” This is when it really hit me that I am no longer in charge of my household. It is a position I am now sharing with mom and my husband – like it or not.

I don’t want to paint my mom as an over-bearing person because she isn’t in the least bit. However, she is a human being with opinions which influences me more than I would like to admit. Also there is the whole cultural aspect of respecting elders I adhere to very much when it comes to her.

Most days I can’t leave my house the least bit cluttered or else she’ll come in right behind me and clean it up which I feel guilty about so I do my best to keep things clean, which for me, isn’t very easy to do. I long for the days I could leave a little mess here and there and clean it up later. But the loyal daughter in me hates the idea of my mom cleaning up after me.

Even as I try to get my life back to some resemblance to what it was before dad died, circumstances beyond my control insist on constraining my resources and energy into the needs of my mom. Her worries have become my worries. Her burdens, mine.

In all honestly, I know this awkwardness we are both experiencing will pass. I wish for her sake, we could get beyond understanding what our roles are now. But for the time being, I think I’ll go grab another bowl of ice cream and head for my room with a good book locking the door behind me.