Grief, what a jerk, amiright?

The day my dad died I received a text that read: “It doesn’t get better, it gets different.” At the time I didn’t know what he meant but now I’m like: “Ah, yes. So true.”

When my dad passed away, I was in awe how the world kept spinning like nothing had happened. Strangers on the street acted as if it was just another Wednesday while I laid there hyperventilating in a puddle of my own snot and tears. Those first few weeks were painful and isolating as I mined through the grief desperately grasping for the guardrail.

It’s been a little over two months and you know what? He was right. It’s not “better” per se ...but it is different. The strength and peace I’ve experienced every day since can only be described as God-given. I say that with conviction knowing that if I only had my humanness to rely on, this would have completely destroyed me, gutted me even. But here I am, still standing, still smiling and that fact right there blows my freaking mind.

I am never not thinking about him. Anxiously biting my nails, waiting for and praying that people ask how I’m doing so I have an excuse to tell them stories about how great my dad was. How he was larger than life, the biggest heart in the room, the wittiest man this side of the Mississippi. How I hope more than anything I have some of those traits inside of me.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it, every day isn’t sunshine and rainbows. I still cry pretty much every day, but I laugh every day, too.

Brené Brown says it like this: “When we have the courage to walk into our story and own it, we get to write the ending. And when we don’t own our stories of setbacks and hurt—they own us.” So here’s to giving up control, owning our stories and excitedly waiting on the edge of our seats to see how God shows up and uses this for His good.