A dance of joy

My beloved father died in June 2010.

The week before his death was a gathering of family and friends at his hospital bed, where we cried and laughed and reminisced.

Friends came to visit, and stood rooted by shock in the doorway, appalled by how close to death he was. He ministered to them all, disregarding his own pain while he comforted all our fears.

I thought we’d be barred from the hospital, for the noisy laughter and hilarity every time someone retold a hilarious family legend. Dad wept with laughter along with the rest of us, as my brother finally confessed to a secret piece of mischief from his teen years, and how it had spectacularly backfired on him.

He received visitors whom we couldn't see, who seemed to bless his journey with grace - his late mother, his senior medical partner from four decades previously, and others besides.

He mentioned the ‘other bishops’ who were waiting for him, and I have no doubt they were all just as real as the bed upon which he lay, and the endless cups of tea we drank.

I learned that the deep grief of losing a beloved parent is not incompatible with joy.

And I started writing a poem for him.

It arose out of a conversation we had about his death.

I couldn't finish it at first, because the end of the story hadn't yet happened.

And then, in the days between his death and his funeral, the poem finished itself.

My grief ran deep, a river into which I had no choice but to throw myself.

But in a surprisingly short time, I did catch up.

Joy is now my choice, though of course there are days when anger or grief or frustration appear; and even days where depression sweeps me into its shadowy arms.

But I honour those moments when they emerge - even the moments of grief for Dad, which still come upon me from time to time.

I honour them, I let them flow, and then I return to that dancing joy which is my birthright.

Thanks, Dad.

I love you.

For Dad

Beyond these final days, I said to you,
I know there will be joy for each of us;
though you may find it sooner than I do.

And so, I said to you,
I’ll do my best to choose joy now;
though I reserve the right to weep.

You smiled, and nodded certainty,
then said goodnight and slipped away,
your rumpled flesh like party clothes
discarded on the bed.

And now I feel you dancing.
No decorous foxtrot for you,
but rather heel-kicking jive and twist,
whirling, exuberant, in the music of the stars.

My blood hears the echo of that beat
and my heart lifts high and wide,
beyond the tears.

If such a thing as time existed where you are
you’d fill each glorious second
with undoubting bliss.

I will catch up soon.
You have become joy;
how could I be less?