Beyond measure

Every time I see him, I want to cry.

And no, this is no ex-boyfriend who broke my heart. In fact, he's nearly a perfect stranger. I've only talked to him once, briefly. I first noticed him several months ago at Sunday Mass. He and his two sons filed in to the front row, a brave place for parents of little ones to sit, especially in the vast cathedral I attend. They happily followed their dad, clearly accustomed to this weekly routine, and settled in to their regular spot, one on each side of him.

It didn’t take long for me to recognize that there was something a little different about the older son—autism, maybe?—and that this father possesses an extraordinary amount of tenderness. As his son fidgeted and turned around and waved to the strangers behind him, his father gently redirected him, rubbed his back, received his cuddles. Every once in a while he’d just turn to him and smile, as if he couldn’t help gazing upon the son whom he loved. He’d turn, too, to look at his younger son, who was quiet and content to take in the splendor around him. When the older one pilfered his phone from his back pocket, he swiftly and gently took it back, restoring a little order in that front pew.

While I couldn’t help but notice all these goings on in my direct line of sight, I wasn’t the least bit distracted. Well, maybe my attention was somewhat redirected from the reading or homily or prayers, but I wasn’t distracted from worshipping God. In fact, the sight of this dad and his boys enhanced my worship. For I saw before me a tangible image of God the Father, one who loves with gentleness, corrects with care, gazes with delight at the very sight of his children.

It's been one year today since my own dad died. And while it’s very possible I’d still be attuned to these sorts of things without his death, I find that my loss and grief have heightened my senses, that my heart is ever eager to take in these images of fatherhood around me, that God is ready at every turn to put His love on full display.

I’ve been rereading my old journal from last year, pages full of shock and sorrow, grace and gratitude. I scribbled prayers of desperation in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep and made list after list of moments and people and memories that filled my heart. My heart isn’t so raw, of course, but I think it’s still just as breakable. Still just as ready to suffer and rejoice as the days come and go, as that night of my dad’s last breath moves farther and farther away.

It used to be something I’d volunteer upon meeting perfect strangers, or the first thing someone would know about me before we even met. That’s the girl who just lost her dad and left the convent. But those two pieces of my story are tucked closer to my heart, unknown to even the people I spend eight hours a day with at the office. And mine is a heart that’s been broken open and pieced back together, the cracks still shining brilliantly as proof of God’s healing touch. Still it aches, but the ache has softened. Still I miss him, but the missing is sweet. Still I stop and marvel, in awe of all that’s happened throughout this year, the most eventful of my life.

It’s a year that’s changed me, irrevocably, for the better. A year that’s taught me who I am, a little girl in her Father’s arms, loved beyond measure.