bounty.

there is something so mighty about brokenness.

about being shattered into a million fragments that could never be pieced back together without gaps + flaws.

about being destroyed to such a degree that nothing of value seems to remain— only tragedy + sorrow + pain.

have you ever been there before, sweet friend?

are you there right now?

. . .

i have been in a very dark tunnel for quite some time— mostly regarding Dad’s terminal illness and his dying days. days that seemed to stretch on without any sign of reprieve while simultaneously feeling as though Life, as i had always known it, was suddenly over. i miss him so much, and yet, i am so tremendously glad that he is Home.

i thought i saw him yesterday— at a business lunch in a little locally-sourced spot. an older gentleman with perfectly silvered hair that curled just so at the nape of his neck— dark rimmed glasses. not too much of the stranger’s profile for my eyes to discern that i was looking at someone else— and not the physical presence of my Daddio.

the experience took my breath away. it’s the first time i’ve felt like i actually saw my Dad since his death. fleeting though it was— it was tender + simple + pure.

i was and am consistently reminded— my Dad did not leave a broken Daughter behind.

. . .

parenting note: i challenge you to be the kind of parent that when you leave the people of this world behind, you’re not leaving broken children because of what you did or did not do while you were here. let the only pain that your children must face be that you are no longer physically near to help them know what Love does.

and if you’re reading this, + the damage has been done, i suggest you get busy healing that stuff up. as in. begin today.

. . .

disclaimer: above encouragement can also be applied to all *important relationships in your life— spouse, child-to-parent, lifelong friends. God.

*keep noticing how some of y’all are so worried about impressing the wrong people, that you’ve forgotten who really counts.

but that’s enough about that. moving along now…

. . .

the freedom to dream has come back to me.

Dad’s last year on the planet was almost like the 1st year of an infant’s Life. as if his Life + health became the very axis on which my earth spun. and while in no way was i his primary caretaker— that role belonged to the powerhouse that is my Mother— i was nearer to the situation than most. and his final turn around the sun became all-encompassing for me. his imminent death the filter through which i passed every decision.

and my how my dreams suddenly didn’t seem so important. as if my dreams were nothing without resolving this Man’s Life well. as if any further progress in my own journey was dependent on how i helped him finish his.

my Hopes + dreams have long been a cerebral happy place that i frequently visit to discover, build, grow positive momentum towards my future. but this imaginative space increasingly became a lustful escape from the tragedy of watching My Archetype Dad + real-life-in-flesh-Dad die a little more every day. my dreams become antagonizers to the reality of Dad’s end— a jeering mockery of the timeline of uncertainty.

. . .

but then.

as suddenly as his final march towards the Light began, it so ended. and the suffering stopped in one final exhale of Faith.

now the dust has all mostly settled to the floor. and i don’t have to remind myself to breathe quite as often as i did before—

and i’ve return once again to my dreams.

. . .

you see— i didn’t quit my dreams while Dad was dying. i simply put my time with him as high up on the importance ladder as it would go. making memories with Dad became my new favorite way to create art. the authoring of my character in our final scene— the genius Father + his protege / prodigy / prodigal Daughter, when she realizes that fighting for his blessing was only a portion of her ultimate role goal.

receiving his blessing, though—

that had to be accomplished, too.

. . .

+ that’s the part i’m still working on— the reaping after the sowing of that which is beautiful.

i spent so many foolish years of my youth learning how to reap what i had sown in wild chaos. in other words, not whole, nurtured fruit, but wild and unpredictable bearings of haphazard whim.

Papa has taught me many lessons with the rotten fruit of my own garden.

‘enough for me to know that if i want a luscious return, i must do the work to plant + nurture + tend lusciously, first.

so that when the harvest comes in—

it is full of ripe, luscious, nourishing, beautiful, abundant, Life-giving fruit. but there’s more!

to then so graciously + humbly pick each gift of the bounty from its vine with penetrative gratitude, knowing that the work was accomplished in tandem with Agape. acknowledging that the fruit is real and ready to be enjoyed. + receiving the blessing of your Love labor.

learn how to do it well. + then do it well.

Love you. mean it.