I went through that morning in a haze. I stood in the shower and sobbed – hoping I could shed my pain to keep it together during the funeral. It was robotic getting ready – putting on a black dress, and wondering why the hell I was bothering with mascara.
By the time we piled into my brother’s truck to head to the church, I was numb and already defeated. We all slumped against the leather seats in silence as he hit the starter. Three words blared at us in response – don’t stop believing. We exchanged wide-eyed glances as the song filled the cabin, doubling over in surprised laughter and tears. It was exactly the sentiment we needed to hear.
That song has followed us everywhere since. It comes on nearly every time we’re together. I hear it whenever I am home, or on my way to or from it. It comes on in moments when dad would normally be our voice of reassurance – like when mom’s car gave out with the two of us in it, or when I got a flat tire on the highway. And it comes on whenever I’m missing him and wishing somehow I could be with him across the stretches of place and time.
That’s how it was the other morning. Just after losing dad, a friend gave my mom a book that offers a thoughtful message for each day. They’re short passages that help normalize your grief, and have been a real comfort on most days. But lately, I haven’t been reading it. Life has started to even out and I’ve been eager to let it. But the other day I reached for it and thought about how I haven’t felt in a long while that dad is, in whatever way, still here. I made a silent wish for some cosmic wink that would make me smile – and wouldn’t you know what song came on when I started up the car to leave for work just moments later.
It’s still a comforting message – and an anthem of sorts these days – but believe in what I’m still not sure. That dad is still with us. That there is so much more beauty to thrill our hearts with. Maybe just a nod to carry forward – because that’s what he would ask of us.
But something happens when I hear it. Dad is with me. Not as if he were nearby – but the ways in which I am so innately like him come alive. It’s as if that love is given room to dance.
I recognize that what we interpret as signs can be tricky, even ridiculous. That in the swells of our grief, we cling to anything. We look for them, and perhaps force our faith onto coincidence in an effort to make ourselves feel better. And that’s OK. But also, at least for me, some things have happened that reason is hesitant to explain.
And no matter what – I won’t stop believing.
A REKD GIRL 