One year ago today, my father passed away.

I flew to Michigan early that morning with the experienced observation of a close family friend ringing in my head: It won’t be long. The flight was flawless and landed early. When the rental car clerk learned why I was in Michigan, he expedited everything, and I was on the road in minutes. Traffic moved. The pavement was dry. I drove the limit and made myself relax, reflecting that this was unfolding in God’s time, and I would arrive when I should.

I arrived just in time. My sister came out to greet me in the driveway and said she thought Dad may have just stopped breathing. I went in and held his hand, which was warmer to my touch than it had been in years. I spoke to him softly, telling him it was okay, telling him to go to the Lord and not to be afraid, telling him we were okay and would take care of each other. 

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My mom and sister wept, but I felt great peace in those first moments of his passing. A month or so earlier I had spent a night alone with Dad while Mom got some much-needed rest at a friend’s place. During the day, we listened to old music and visited like we used to, about cars and critters and past hunting and fishing trips. When the sun went down, it was harder; I believe that I channeled my mother, his mother, and Our Blessed Mother to keep him indoors, get him in bed, and coax him to sleep. The last words he said to me that night he spoke with his eyes closed and his hands holding both mine: You’ve come to tuck me in. 

I had prayed to Mother Mary moments before. I had prayed to her again the next morning when Dad, Mom, and I sat in the living room and Dad asked Mom, in various ways, whether everything was ready and we would all be okay. His mind had faded in many respects, but he knew he was going soon.

I had prayed, and Mary urged me to kneel in front of him, hold his hands again, and tell him everything was alright, he had done everything well, there was nothing else he needed to do. I told him we would be okay. I told him when it was time to go, he could.

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So when January 28 rolled around and I arrived at his bedside, I had nothing left to say. I could be present with my family and try to ease his passing and their pain. I was grateful.

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It was a few days before the grief really settled in around my heart. Tears would well up unbidden, over the simplest, sweetest little things. Over time I realized I was doing what I needed to, but not particularly enjoying it, and I struggled to be present to Jodi and Lily at home. I prayed a lot and thought about counseling. A “Healing the Whole Person” study helped, as did the return of our older kids from Rome and New York to Michigan for a wonderful memorial gathering in July. I began to feel as though my legs were back beneath me. From late summer until Thanksgiving, I worked harder and faster than I had in a long time and felt joy in my work. It occurred to me that I hadn’t ever done my current job (contract communications for our church and other Catholic clients) at full strength: I took on the role right before COVID, after dad was already sick, and there had been no sense of normalcy since.

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The holidays were wonderful in so many ways, but the grief returned, too. In part, I was missing Dad during family celebrations, but more than that, I realized I was burying myself in work. The pendulum had swung too far, and once again I wasn’t present to my family. I set out to work on that, just in time for this first anniversary of his passing.

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This year has been unlike any other, but really, that’s nothing new.

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This past weekend, Jodi and Lily went into the Cities to babysit our nephews and niece. I had big plans for the weekend at home, but quickly realized the Lord was expecting less from me. I went on a visit for St. Vincent de Paul, then went home and cleaned the garage—listening to the radio, talking with God, and reminiscing with Dad. 

When I finished, I headed into the house. I caught my reflection in the windows of the front door and startled; for a moment it was his face I saw, and I choked back tears.

I walked the dog. I began to make supper, restlessly pacing the house, wanted to distract myself from the heavy gray clouds gathering around my heart. Finally I found something to watch: the 1989 TV miniseries Lonesome Dove, which I had watched with Mom and Dad in high school. It seemed like an appropriate distraction (Dad would approve) and long enough that I would be dead tired before it was done.

If you’ve not seen it (or not recently), it’s a wonderful Western—but it was not a distraction. Themes of aging, death, and what it means to really live; friendship and loss; fatherhood and manhood had me thinking non-stop of Dad and choking back tears until the wee hours of the morning, when it finally ended.

I was tired, but I went to bed and lay awake nonetheless. I began to cry, hard, and tell God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit how much I miss my dad. I begged their help—I don’t want him back, not the way he was, but it hurts to be without him. 

Then I began talking with Dad again. I told him I missed him, over and over. At one point, I said out loud, “I wish I’d been a better son for you.”

I don’t know where that came from, except my own insecurity, but the Lord pulled me up short. It was as if He said, “Stop it now. You did your best. You all did. He’s okay, and you’re okay. He’s free, and you’re free.”

I cried and laughed and fell asleep.

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In the days since, my prayers, scripture reflections, and even the Rosary in a Year podcast Jodi and I are pursuing together, have emphasized freedom. My constant worry and guilt about what everyone thinks and how I measure up are insecurity and vainglory, rooted in nothing. 

Dad was not a religious man, but he knew this, and strived to be free—to do the right thing, whenever he could, regardless of what people thought. The best I can do is pursue holiness in the same way.

We are the captives to whom Jesus proclaims liberty. He wants our freedom. He gives us freedom. We have our freedom. Let’s not waste it. Let’s spend the time we have like Dad did: living.