“Well what’d you do wrong??”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m calling you!” I replied, exasperated and frustrated.  I could almost hear the smirk on his face as he questioned me.

I had attempted to make my Daddy’s brownies.  The ones everyone ohh’ed and ahh’ed about at every family gathering.  The ones he had trialed and errored to create.  The ones for which a written-down recipe didn’t actually exist, so I was going off the version I had scribbled down based on his directions over the phone.  It had resulted in a hot mess when I had tried to bake them myself.

“They just won’t bake!” I explained, “They’re still gooey in the middle and they’ve been in the oven for almost double your 22-minute bake time.”

“Ok, tell me exactly what you did,” he answered, trying to help me figure out where I went wrong.

As I recounted all of my steps with him, I had a confident peace and assurance knowing that my Dad would fix it, as he had so many other times before.  But when I finished walking him through my process, he simply said, “Eh, sounds right to me.  So how’d you mess them up?”

“Dad!”  I shot back at him.  Perfect, I remember thinking.  Somehow I had messed them up while following his directions, and his sarcastic comments weren’t helping.  I was annoyed.

“Oh wait,” he interjected, “How’d you mix the batter?”

“Um … with beaters?” I replied, more as a question than an answer.

“Oh!” he laughed.  “Well there’s you’re problem.  You have to mix it with a fork.  You probably got too much air in the batter.”

“Seriously?  Your directions didn’t say to fork-mix the batter.  They just said ‘mix until blended.'”

I’m sure my Dad had a quick answer ready, but it’s been so many years since the brownies phone call, I can’t quite recall it anymore.  Time has a way of making you forget those smaller details that seem sort of trivial at the time.

By the end of the call though, as was played out hundreds, or even thousands, of times, over and over, I remember laughing and carrying on like we often did.  He was always the person I called when something needed to be fixed, or I had a question, or I just needed to chat.  And though five years have passed since he suddenly went to heaven, the sting of not being able to do that still hurts.

Grief is a funny thing, isn’t it?

You can go hours, or days, or even weeks, and not feel that sting.  But then something happens, or a memory enters your mind, or someone makes a passing comment, or you experience a moment that you know your missing person would’ve simply loved … and it nearly knocks the wind out of you and makes you feel like you can’t breathe.  Almost suffocating to the point that it feels like your heart might actually physically break.  And you just crumble and fall to the floor consumed in sadness and tears.

It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since they breathed their last.  You simply never get over the loss of a loved one.  Earthly death always sucks for those left behind, which makes the promise of our eternal heavenly reunion so meaningful and hopeful and sweet.  I cannot imagine a life without that sacred covenant.

Grief is a journey that never leads to full healing, just a different, scarred way of life.  Which is why, every Christmas Eve since his passing, I take time to reflect and think about my Daddy and all the ways he is still shaping my life.  (Here is my journey of thoughts on year 1, year 2, year 3, and year 4.)

It’s my version of self care.  Grief self care.  Because if I’m not intentional about it, Christmas would easily come and go without much pause.  Because though our celebrations will never be the same without my Daddy, I have found joy and happiness again in these sacred moments of remembering the birth of Jesus and His sacrifice for us.  Always bittersweet, it’s a place where joy rests with the sorrow.

On Christmas, especially, I’m so thankful for a heavenly Father who meets me in the bittersweet, without judgment of my feelings, whatever they may be.  He walks alongside me, feeling the sorrow and feeling the joy.  In fact, He is the Master of being with, just like He was when He came down from heaven and lived on Earth among His people.  Grief and pain and weariness are welcomed by Him, because He offers rest for our souls.

Especially as you are missing loved ones this Christmas, I pray you find that rest, too.  Merry Christmas, friends.