Drifting away

It's hard to believe it's been more than a month since sorrow touched my life. As Lucy Maud Montgomery wrote, "no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it." As always, time is passing far too quickly. But there's a pain and heartache now. The days since my dad's passing have turned into weeks, the weeks into more than a month and, although I know that even death and time cannot truly separate me from the one I've lost, I feel like I'm slipping farther and farther away from him. I spoke with a friend about this, and he compared it to a boat drifting away from shore. Land is still within sight, but it's getting harder to see. And I can't stop the waves of time. I need to remind myself that my memories hold my father close to my heart, even as the weeks and months pass, and, yes, even the years. I never understood before how it feels to lose someone precious. The finality of death was just an abstract concept. When I see a funeral notice now, I grieve with those who grieve, because I know their pain. I know how much that simple card of condolence means, a smile, a hug that makes you believe life will somehow be okay again, even though "normal" will never be what it was. And, as St. Paul says, I do not grieve as those who have no hope. For "we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands" (2 Corinthians 5:1) A tent is a decent enough temporary shelter when I'm camping in Sandbanks Park but, when the storms of life are beating against me, it's a building with a firm foundation that I desire. The Promise that is ours is what keeps me from losing heart even when tears blur my vision, and my boat is adrift.