Today is
the anniversary of my father's death.
Not a particularly unusual circumstance, except that he died 50 years ago when
I was just a few days past my 10th birthday.
Even
after all these years, it still feels raw and freighted with emotion. I think that's largely because, in an
attempt to reduce my hurt, the adults around me didn't talk much about him. It
was left to my headmaster to break the news that I no longer had a dad. Or at
least one that was alive. "Least
said, soonest mended," my mother
explained years later. Which is about as far removed from the theory of
appropriate grieving as you can get.
I wanted
to commemorate this sad anniversary and, as we often do, turned to religion. I
don't have a particular faith myself, although am respectful of all. But I have a strong sense of
spirituality, and am particularly drawn to the tenets of Buddhism.
But today
I fell back on Christianity; the faith
of my parents and my childhood. But
where to go on a Monday in March? To my
slight surprise, I discovered the office of morning prayers, starting at 7:30am
at Wells Cathedral.
There
were about a dozen of us, all middle-aged or older and mostly male and dressed
for the reality of an early-morning service in a cavernous cathedral on a
bitterly cold morning. Strangely, or
perhaps not so strangely, I found the silences more profound than the litany of
the psalms and Bible readings.
I sat
looking at the beautiful, ancient stained-glass windows, and experienced both
a heightened sense of loss but also gratitude for my life, and the reality that
I have already outlived my father by 22 years, with hopefully many more to
come. But, as evidenced by events this day 50 years ago, you never know.
If
nothing else, I owe it to him to live each day to the full and make the most of
every moment.
Thanks, Dad.
Labels: anniversaries, Dad, Death