Loss.

I wish I had bigger words, and better, for all of this. I wish that, right now, I knew how to explain the emptiness his absence leaves. I wish I could do more than know that, for the rest of my life, I will think of his and how it helped to prove mine. I wish I could adequately -- effectively -- say how grateful I am for the many, many kindnesses and thoughtful words that have been shown to me these past few weeks.

My father died unexpectedly a month after my last post. More than anything, I wish that I could parse out the pieces of hope I find in knowing what I know and how I know it: that death and life walk hand in hand with one another. That they give each other meaning. That there is life and hope beyond this, and that it was the greatest honor I have known, and an even greater measure of Grace, to hold my father's hand as he entered into it at last.

This is faith, then. To believe in what you cannot write with your hands, what you cannot form with your tongue. To choose to see when the way ahead is dark.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

- Walt Whitman