One (More) Way To Grieve

Modern Notes to the Dead

In March, I will wake on the 19th anniversary of one of my greatest losses. When I was seventeen, my dad died of a heart attack. And I have lost count of how many blog posts begin with a sentence similar to this one. On the one-year anniversary, I couldn’t believe it. Five years recalled feelings of shock and disbelief. Ten years? Impossible. Seventeen years wrecked me with the realization that since his death, I lived the same number of years that he was in my life. We shall see what twenty years bring.

In every year, though, God remains faithful and good. This I truly know and believe.

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

But right now, on the eve of the nineteenth year marking my father’s passing, I want to share a way I chose to grieve this year.

I text messaged the dead.

When I turned sixteen, my parents gave me a cell phone, primarily so that I had a phone with me for emergencies when I was driving my Forest Green 1995 Ford Taurus. But of course, I also used it for talk and text—back in the times of “daytime” and “weekend.” Flip phone text messaging was a learning curve, but I learned quickly! My dad didn’t text, but he would practice writing text messages and proudly show me. I think he had multiple drafts in his phone of “Whazzup.”

So, you know, I can’t pick just one thing I “miss most” about my dad, but his “dadness” was so classic—as evidenced by his preparation to be a “cool text-messager.” My greatest sorrow is that my husband and children don’t know him; that my sisters-in-law and nieces and nephew don’t know him. My greatest ache is that they can’t experience him in real life today. Most often, when I cry or feel down about his absence, the catalyst is a desire to tell him something fun or exciting about my, Marty’s, or my kids’ lives. Or perhaps the longing to tell him about a hard day.

I long to talk to him about my kids’ achievements, favorites, and quirks—Thomas’s first season of house league hockey and his progress in karate, Millie’s love for gymnastics and her elephant, Jay’s humor and master puzzler skills. I want to tell him about what Marty is studying and preaching. I want to hear how impressed he is with Marty’s deck-building and construction skills. I want to tell him Marty is an incredible dad to our kids, just like Dad was to my brothers and me. Oh, how proud he’d be to see his sons be dads and grown-up humans. He’d welcome his daughters-in-law in as if they were his own. If only the kids could know Grandpa Magers, not just through my stories, but by being in and loving his company.

And oh, how I long to hear his input on my writing, his celebration of my accomplishments in school and in work, his thoughts on the Westminster Dog Show, and his pick for the Kentucky Derby. With the Super Bowl approaching, I remember the Super Bowl before he died, he sent a delicious crockpot chip dip with me to my best friend’s house for the game. Colts vs. Bears (Colts win, Colts win!).

Heartache comes with every celebration of any achievement, every moment of growth, every sadness, hope, and dream in myself or my family members. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, I typically mutter to myself as I blink away tears and move forward through my day (even as I know nothing happens outside of God’s grand program).

About a year ago or so, I decided to start text messaging him. His cell phone number is still saved in my phone—I will never delete it. For a time, I had his voicemail message saved, but that was on an old phone, and I fear I’ve lost it for good. In any case, when I want to talk to my dad, I now write out a text message. It could be a quick note or a longer message. Then, I screenshot the message and delete it (I’m sure someone has his number now). I’ve saved the messages, and I like to look back through the year and see what kinds of things I said to him throughout my days. “Speaking” to him this way helps me in a way that speaking into thin air doesn’t quite fulfill. Regardless of the theology of what people can or cannot see after they die, talking to him through text temporarily soothes the permanent void that losing him left in my heart.

So this post is for anyone who wants a creative way to grieve their loss. Maybe for you, it’s not text messages. Maybe it’s writing emails, journaling, voice memos, or something else. I just wanted to share this, on the eve of my loss, to let you who grieve know that you are not alone.

And always, I will find rest in God, in whom death has lost its sting, in whom darkness has not overcome, through whom I will live to see face-to-face and embrace my dad again.

Where, death, is your victory?
Where, death, is your sting?

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!

1 Corinthians 15:55-57

Warmer days are coming. Peace to you and yours,

Kelly

A candid little look into my conversations with my dad.