My dad fell down the stairs at home, landed on his head, and died two days later, surrounded by my mom and my sister and me.

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I wish I didn't have to start that way, but there is no other way.

 

My dad died, and I see the whole world differently.

My dad died, and my life is forever changed.

My dad died, and my heart has been broken open, and God has given me greater sensitivity and compassion and knowledge of His love and mercy than I ever thought possible.

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As I move through this season of grief (a season that will change, I'm sure, but I imagine will endure for the rest of my life), writing seems to be one of the very best ways for me to process, heal, and make sense of the profound mystery of it all.

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One of the last things my dad ever said to me, when I called him on Father's Day, was, Your writing keeps getting better and better. If for no other reason, I'll keep on writing because of him.

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This one's for you, Dad. I sure am proud to be your daughter.