Surprised By Joy

By Paul Roberts

“I miss my dad.”

It really wasn’t a surprise last Friday night when my emotions began to get the best of me. After all, the 40th Annual Tree Lighting Ceremony at the beautiful Hospice of North Idaho facility in Coeur d’Alene is kind of designed to do that. Before I go any further, let me say thanks to the staff there, not only for the ceremony that night, but also for the love and compassion they show to families like ours day in and day out throughout the year. And special thanks to my sister-in-law Christy for encouraging me, Carol, and our sister-in-law Debbie to join her in “an evening of remembrance and reflection.” So the tears in my eyes that slightly blurred the flame of the candle in my hands wasn’t a surprise at all. But there were a couple of surprises.

Earlier in the day at Shoshone Funeral Home I had the difficult but distinct privilege of officiating at a memorial service for a young husband, taken too soon by cancer. His wife is at a different place in her grief than I am, and my role was to console, not weep. This coming April it will be three years since my father passed away, so when the thoughts of him came to mind as I prepared to close in prayer, I was able to quickly, but gently shunt those thoughts aside. No surprise there. Dad had done that many times in the same building as “Pastor Burt” when he served in the ministry here in the Silver Valley, so I had a good role model.

I miss my dad.

No, the first surprise was that I shared my thoughts and my tears that night with anyone at all. I’m old enough to be part of a generation when men were men and didn’t do such things. After all, Burt Roberts was a big John Wayne fan. You never saw the Duke cry, did you? 

However, I am a rule follower. When one of the presenters suggested during the hospice ceremony that each one of us was brave for being there, and that it was a show of strength, not weakness, to share our vulnerability (take that, Duke), I took it as a rule I should follow.

As Carol and I moved outside to enjoy the luminary walk in the crisp night air, I tugged at her elbow, and pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear.

“I miss my dad.”

Surprise number one, complete.

I knew the tears were going to start again, and they did, briefly, but then came surprise number two. Joy.

Not jumping for joy. Not shouting for joy. But a deep, full, robust sense of joy for the relationship I’d had with my father. Rising slowly to the surface of my emotions, past the sadness and loneliness. Brought on by the act of sharing my grief, sharing my emotions, in a safe place with a safe person. Remember how, in the cartoon, the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes that day? It felt kind of like that.

As I write this, it is the third Sunday of Advent. Carol and I celebrate this Christmas tradition with a few friends at our church, and today it fell to me to bring the message. I like calling it a “message” rather than a “sermon.” It’s a little less pretentious. The theme for this Sunday, according to many Advent traditions? Joy.

Can you guess what story made into my message this morning?

I miss you, Dad.

Care to join Carol and I on our creative adventure at Grow Me A Story?

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