Kim Novak’s dad, front left, circa 1948, with four of his 14 siblings.
By Kim Novak
Unfolding Spirit
I preface this writing with a disclaimer that this is not a new story: I possess no great wisdom around grief. Others have experienced and lost far more than I, and have written more articulately than I dare try. But I believe it is in the sharing of our stories that we find and feel our common humanity; the cross as a symbol of our shared suffering and joy. I share my stories hoping you will find something that touches yours.
This past March my father died with our family surrounding him. We held his hands and talked. We prayed and we encouraged him to relax into the eternal life we have each been promised. Presence in that moment of his last breath, and then sitting at the side of his “human shell,” was an experience I can only compare to the birth of my children. Sacred space and deep time.
After his death, I escaped for just a few minutes to take a short walk. As Tom and I returned, the funeral home staff had already arrived and were backing out of the driveway. All I could manage in that moment was a wave and a “Bye, Dad,” and just like that he was gone. We walked inside to see my mom already straightening up the space; finding and keeping order is her way of coping with the disordered world.
The days after Dad’s death were that mixture of tears and laughter that color many of life’s experiences. We felt both the emptiness of his chair and relief for the end of his physical suffering. We celebrated who he was, and planned his funeral Mass and dinner in accordance with his wishes and frugality: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, reasonably priced, nothing fancy. Tables were decorated with the hundreds of golf balls he had rescued during his many hours on the golf course.
The time before, and now six months after Dad’s death, have been far more complicated emotionally and spiritually. Nadia Bolz-Weber, Lutheran pastor and writer, once described new grief as being “Scotch-taped” to all our other griefs. Some difficult memories, and the resulting wounds, are pulled to the surface along with the pain of new loss. Many of these are things I considered healed long ago, and yet here they are again, lingering with the tenderness of a bruise.
While families and friends can walk beside us in grief, this transformative work is our own. My brother (six years younger) and sister (20 years younger) have had disparate experiences of the same parents, and different ways of grieving. Even as we share much, some of the pain points are very different. As someone who has had a questioning and curious nature since childhood, I recognize that I was the one that challenged my parents’ worldview the most.
My questioning nature often elicited curiosity from my parents, but also a defensiveness and posturing from my dad that could be unkind and hurtful. As part of their full humanity, our parents are not always who we need them to be. Dad held so much generosity and goodness, but also a need to be “right” that, combined with my own youthful “need to know,” could keep us at odds. I wanted his approval more than anything, but our shared stubbornness (dare I say self-righteousness?) created distance between us until the last few years of his life.
I was reminded recently that “grace shines a light on the stuck places within us.” Sometimes this doesn’t feel like grace, but instead shows up as uninvited awareness, a sudden recognition of our own brokenness, anger, self-belittlement, pride…
In this moment, grace is shining a light on hurt and resentment that I need to release and transform in love.
This is my growing edge, and I have a lifetime’s worth of healing ahead of me. The on-going Paschal Mystery in each of our lives is an awakening and surrender to the conditions of our own humanity, and a rebirth into a version of ourselves that is closer to Christ. After this little bit of brokenness is transformed, grace will once again shine its light with another opportunity for resurrection.
That human shell, on a cloudy March afternoon, contained all my dad’s human imperfections and woundedness. They were never the truth of who he was and are now gone, leaving behind “The Good” — his kindness and generosity, his sense of humor, his love. This assures me that he is healed and he is whole, and that I am a work in progress.
Bye, Dad.
(Kim Novak is a member of St. Thomas More Parish in Coralville.)
