We've all heard that time heals all wounds. I don't find that to be necessarily true. My perspective is that it's not the amount of time that passes that heals us; it's what we do with that time that makes all the difference. (Actually, that's part me, part Dr. Philism. But I tend to agree).
It's been exactly 1 year since I lost my father. The news that cold February morning took my breath away. One minute I was happily enjoying a waffle; the next minute I was being consoled by my husband. No matter how old you are when you lose a parent, you can't help but feel like a little lost child. I had been there to comfort James through the loss of both of his parents---being on the receiving end made me feel vulnerable.
If the death of my father has done anything, it brought closer an already close relationship with my siblings. During the year following our loss, I have chosen to concentrate on the positive legacy my father left behind. I could stew in the bitter juices of disappointment, but I chose to savor the love I have for my sister, my brother, my nieces...my children.
My father is gone. But there are glimpses of him in Isaiah's mischievous grin. I see him in Savannah's athletic abilities. I hear him in Mariah's belly laughs. And every time I look into the mirror, I am reminded: my father lives on.