Melancholy Monday

I always feel blue during the first week of October.  It was the last week we had with my dad before he died, and in particular, the weekend of World Communion Sunday (first weekend of October) is always a poignant one because he died the next day, on a Monday.

Eight years ago right now I was out in SoCal where I had the unique privilege of getting to spend his final weeks with my dad, and was able to say goodbye to him.  He was dying of terminal cancer at the much too young age of 75. I had been there since Sept. 12, and had not gone to church during my stay but that first weekend of October I decided to go to church on World Communion Sunday -- to a little liberal UCC church my mom had attended many times, and where I had gone a few times.  They were a lot like NCC, including having a jazz pianist play secular music, responses to the sermon, and being open and gay friendly.  They were a bit smaller than NCC but in most every other way, the west coast twin of our congregation.  And on that weekend, as my dad was slipping away more quickly, I felt the need to be in a spiritual setting with progressive Christians.

I remember arriving and being greeted warmly by the pastor and a few members who recognized me -- they all asked about were loving and kind and supportive, and I was glad I was with them.  We sat down, and as soon as the pianist started playing prelude music, reminding me so much of Lloyd at NCC, I lost it and started crying.  And I cried and cried and cried (quietly for the most part, no gasping sobs) and they found me a box of kleenex and let me just sit there and cry, with an occasional hand resting on my back or shoulder.  They didn't try to fix me or stop my tears -- they just let me cry.  And as I recall I cried through most of the service, with my head down, lost in my grief but knowing I was surrounded by the love of these strangers, and at the end of the service, when I had finally stopped crying, we stood in a circle for the closing blessing and instead of their usual dismissal, several of them took the time to say words of comfort. I went back home and the next day, Monday, October 7 at 3:15pm, he was gone.

October 7 is a Thursday this year, the official anniversary of his death, but for me each year, it's the Monday after World Communion Sunday when I grieve the most.  Hard to believe how much I still miss him after eight years, and what a hole he's left in our hearts. But he also left a lot of laughter, and love, and tonight Bob and I will have dinner and toast him, and tell some of the stories about him we remember most fondly.  And then Mom will be here Wednesday and we'll remember him again the next day, with her.

I don't believe in heaven in the conventional sense that most Christians do -- in fact there are times I'm pretty sure that this temporal plane is all there is.  But in spite of that, I feel him all around, all the time.  He's gone but not gone, here but not here, and I am content to dwell in the mystery.  At his memorial service, which was filled with music, at the very end the whole family went up and gathered around the piano, which my brother David was playing, and sang "I'll Fly Away," for him, for us.