By guest writer Carla Bellamy
For years, my sister and her husband have graciously and generously opened their home to our family for Thanksgiving.
And there have always been extras.
You see, in our family, there's always been room for one more. Family has never been defined by blood alone. Friends have become family, and others have simply found a place among us.
This year, more than forty of us gathered around my sister's enormous kitchen island and joined hands, as we have so many times before, to give thanks for the meal and the blessing of being together.
But someone was missing – My dad.
For my entire life, Dad had been the steady presence in our family. A man of unwavering faith, quiet strength, and a love that never left me questioning whether I was treasured.
As the patriarch of our family, Dad had always been the one to lead us in prayer at Thanksgiving. His voice was the one we heard as we stood together, holding hands around that island, thanking God for His faithfulness and provision. And now, for the first time, we were gathering without him.
I wondered who would pray. It seems like such a small thing, doesn't it? Who will say grace before Thanksgiving dinner? But suddenly, it didn't feel small at all. Then my oldest brother began to pray – I couldn't take my eyes off him. As I watched him, I became painfully aware that the mantle my father had carried for so many years was now resting on my brother's shoulders. He was now the head of our family. I wondered if he felt the weight of it. If he, too, was aware that something had shifted. That the man who had gone before us, who had led us in prayer and faithfully pointed us toward the Lord, was no longer standing among us.
My heart ached for my brother. I wondered how he was carrying this new responsibility, while grieving the loss of his own dad. And my heart ached for my sweet mom, standing there without the man who had stood beside her for sixty-five years. The man whose voice she had heard praying over their family for so many Thanksgivings. And I missed my dad terribly.
After we prayed, we did what we've always done. We crowded together in one corner for our traditional family photograph. More than forty of us, all gathered together – But Dad's beautiful white head was missing.
I'm discovering that grief has a way of finding us in moments we aren't prepared for. Sometimes it comes while we're standing in a crowded kitchen, surrounded by people we love. Sometimes it catches us in the middle of a familiar tradition, when something that has always been suddenly isn't anymore. And sometimes, it makes an ordinary goodbye almost unbearable.
That same Thanksgiving weekend, I said goodbye to my son James as he prepared to return to Cambodia. He had come to be with family and to pray next to his Papa’s hospital bed – now we were saying goodbye…again. I've said goodbye to that boy more times than I could count. He's travelled the world, and over the years, I've learned ways to prepare my heart for those departures, to manage the emotions that come with releasing him into the life God has called him to live. But this goodbye was different – It was the hardest one yet – my heart was not ok.
Since the beginning of July, when my dad was hospitalized, I feel as though my heart has been slowly shredded. And now, even the goodbyes I've learned how to navigate seem to sting more deeply. Perhaps because, having so recently said my final earthly goodbye to my dad, I'm painfully aware of how precious our time together really is. Or perhaps because losing someone we love changes the way we hold on to everyone else.
I suspect it's both.
My dad went home to be with the Lord on August 3rd. During those final weeks, standing beside Dad's hospital bed and watching him slowly leave us, I knew we were standing on holy ground. I witnessed my mother's heartbreak and the rare privilege of loving someone all the way to the threshold of eternity. It was there I came to understand something I couldn't have learned any other way. Dying is holy work. I believe that with all my heart but I'm learning that grieving is holy work, too. And it's some of the hardest work I've ever done.
Unlike those final days in the hospital, there is no clearly defined moment when the work is finished. There are no more hospital visits. No more medical updates. No more waiting for the phone to ring or wondering what the next day might bring. There is simply life, moving forward while some part of me is still standing in that hospital room, holding a hand I would give anything to hold again.
I remember pressing Dad's hand to my cheek, trying to memorize its warmth and weight. When I was a little girl, I loved sitting at his feet while he gently stroked my cheek or brushed my hair with his thumb. I was his third child, his first daughter, and I never questioned my place in his heart. Even at sixty, I was still his little girl.
Oh, how I loved being his little girl and now, one of the hardest things to accept is that I'll never feel his hand against my cheek again. I'll never sit beside him and reach for that familiar touch. Something that had brought me comfort for my entire life is now something I can only remember.
There was something wonderfully reassuring about knowing that somewhere in this world was a man who had loved me from the moment I arrived. A man who knew my story from its beginning, whose prayers had followed me through every season, and whose love had never depended on my getting everything right.
I know not everyone has experienced that kind of love from an earthly father. I don't take it for granted. Perhaps that's part of what makes this loss so difficult. I'm learning to live in a world where that familiar love is no longer within reach.
I've followed Jesus for most of my life. I believe wholeheartedly in the promise of eternal life. I know where my dad is, and I have every confidence that I will see him again but knowing where he is doesn't make me miss him less – Faith doesn't make grief disappear. And I don't believe it was ever intended to.
When Jesus stood at the tomb of His friend Lazarus, He wept. He knew death would not have the final word. And still, He entered into the sorrow of those standing around Him. Jesus wept. There is something profoundly comforting about knowing that the One who conquered death also understands the pain of separation. He doesn't stand at a distance, impatiently waiting for us to pull ourselves together. He draws near.
I'm beginning to understand that grief isn't something I need to hurry through to prove my faith is strong. It isn't a lack of trust in God's goodness or a failure to believe His promises. It is the natural response of a heart that has loved deeply. And perhaps that's what I was witnessing around my sister's kitchen island. Not simply the absence of my father, but the continuation of something he had spent his lifetime building. His son was praying. His family was gathered, along with a few extras, as always. The faith he had lived before us was still very much alive.
Dad often reminded us that more is caught than taught. And standing there, watching my brother pray, I could see just how much we had caught.
I'm still learning what it means to grieve. Some days I can speak about Dad and smile while other days, the smallest reminder brings tears I cannot contain. There are days when I'm afraid to let myself feel the full weight of this loss because I'm not sure how deep the sorrow might go.
Psalm 34:18 reminds me that the Lord is near to the brokenhearted. Not simply waiting for us on the other side of our grief – Near. Right here, in the middle of it.
I don't know what your grief looks like today. Perhaps you're mourning someone you loved deeply. Perhaps you're grieving a relationship that has changed, a dream that will never be realized, or a season of life you desperately wish you could revisit. Whatever has left that empty place in your heart, I hope you'll give yourself permission to acknowledge it. To weep when you need to – To remember. And to trust that even here, especially here, you are not alone.
I'm discovering that grief and faith can occupy the same heart at the same time and that the presence of sorrow does not mean the absence of God. Sometimes, it is in our deepest sorrow that we become most aware of just how near He has been all along.
And that’s what remains.
