My dad died on a beautiful day.

My dad died on a beautiful day. The skies were as clear as crystals with bright winter sun dancing across my hair as I laughed with my friends on the playground. He took his final breath right before dawn, unaware of the day that was to become the most memorable of his daughter's life. 

They say death waits for no man, and that one can never predict when one might die. Live each day to the fullest, they say. But I knew. I knew as I left the house that evening that that was the last time I’d ever see my dad’s living face. After all, his nearly lifeless body had been laying downstairs in a hospital bed for nearly a week, scaring me from leaving my room. My once strong father, turning into ash right before my eyes.

I had plans to stay with a friend. How cruel, you might say, that I left knowing my dad was going to die that next day, but you must understand my motives. My house scared me. I was terrified one day I’d walk downstairs staring at my dad’s unmoving body. I didn’t want to be the one to find him after his spirit had left his body. 

Please do not think me heartless. After all, I sat there grasping my dad’s hand, endlessly sending prayers upwards in hopes that somehow, my dad might pull through. But my mom knew, just as I did, that this was his last night. She begged me to tell him it was okay to let go. I refused. It wasn’t okay. My tears spilt onto his skin, but unlike the movies, they did not wake him. Unable to say anything else, I fled. I would not watch him die. I would not pretend I was okay with that. 

It’s a bit ironic, how such a terrible morning turned into such a beautiful day. How something not okay, can look so very okay on the outside with just a little bit of sunshine. 

March 19th, 2011 was a beautiful day. It was one of the warmest days of the winter, giving the people of Western Washington an early taste of spring time. My friends and I made our way to the schoolyard near their house, still damp from the winter rains. My nose was pink from the cold. Maybe also from crying. I dodged a hand trying to tag me, and laughed as we both clumsily slipped in the grass.

My dad had just passed a few hours before. 

I remember thinking, how terrible is it for me to be laughing right now, after such a horrible thing happened? The guilt gripped my heart and turned it into ice. It would take years for that guilt to thaw into a puddle. 

Years later, I am much older and much wiser. I would change much from that day, yes. Now, I would hold my dad tight and wouldn't let go. I would be there for my mother as his body was taken away. I would cry and celebrate and mourn. My dad was gone, but he was no longer in pain. At age 12, I did not do these things, but who could blame me? I was only a young girl too afraid to look death in the eye.

I believe I needed that beautiful day and giggling friends. God provides blessings in the most outstanding of ways. He knew I needed to feel happiness before going to an empty house. It would take years before I could walk downstairs again without thinking that my dad would still be laying there. His helpless body taking painful breaths of air, never knowing which one might be his last. 

I still hold a puddle of guilt in my hands. The ice has slowly been thawed, yet something inside of me can’t let it wash down the drain. The puddle represents the stories I never asked about my dad’s childhood, the cuddles I wiggled out of when he was in pain, the body I abandoned after death. Yet, slowly, I’ve learned to accept that you can’t hold on to guilt forever. 

Guilt has a tendency to hold on and never let you go. But we are not defined by our past. Christ has called us His and we are loved. Let that guilt melt my friends, let it pass between your fingers and welcome in the freedom that is only possible by letting go and trusting Jesus. His grace is abundant and His joy is ceaseless. 

It was a beautiful day, the day my dad died. March 19th. It was beautiful, because the sun was shining as the birds sung their first song of spring. But it was also beautiful, because my dad was no longer sick. It was a beautiful day, because heaven had gained my dad. God had heard my cry. His answer was bringing him home. I didn’t understand it then, but I think I’m starting to now. And slowly, drops of water fall from my hands as my heart becomes warm again.

Thank you, Lord, for beautiful days. 

Here's just one chapter of my story. What's your story?

Elizabeth