That was so beautiful Rachel. I could not say it like that but I too long for a father now gone. I dream of passing on and reawakening in our small house in Los Angeles with him at the kitchen table yawning loudly in his white T-shirt, hair mussed, as my mom passes him a first cup of coffee. I don't want a mansion in heaven. I just want my tiny childhood home and my Dad.
So vivid, so moving. Anyone who reads your essay will be invited to return to powerful memories of their own, especially memories of loss. But in returning to them, they may once again be found. Perfect for this Easter season. Thank you for what you’ve written.
This reads like prayer—grief braided with glory, memory transfigured by longing. In Desert and Fire, I often reflect on how the eternal slips in through the ordinary: a scent, a stone, the silence at a graveside. What you’ve written reminds us that the Incarnation was not a one-time event, but a continual descent—Christ threading Himself into time, into hiraeth, into our unfinished ache for wholeness.
Your father is not held by memory alone, but by the One who still bears flesh—and who makes even dust a doorway. This moved me deeply. Thank you.
Beautiful writing and reflection. It reminds me of what theologian John Swinton wrote about in his book, Becoming Friends of Time, on time, disability, and discipleship. He talks about how even when death or dementia or other disabilities take someone (or the version of them we knew) from us, their deepest self is not lost because Jesus is with them wherever they are (mentally and physically) and grounding their identity. It was a deeply moving thought to me, and it was equally moving to read your personal experience of discovering that with your father.
"Like a word on the tip of my tongue, my father is almost within reach, held in wholeness, not by memory or by my longing, but by the One who intersects our every moment, weaving together all that time and space would fray." Thank you for sharing. <3
This is beautiful, Rachel. Thank you. I am struggling with the loss of my 15 year old granddaughter. I do not write as eloquently as you, but I've written a book called Out of Time that is due out soon; I wish I had read you sooner - you are a inspiration.
This reminded my of my own father's memorial service. After my siblings and I, among others, offered reminisces, my mother was asked if she would care to offer any thoughts. She demurred, remarking that she would just end up correcting the faulty memories of her children. Then she thanked everyone for their participation in an event which my father would have very much enjoyed.
That was so beautiful Rachel. I could not say it like that but I too long for a father now gone. I dream of passing on and reawakening in our small house in Los Angeles with him at the kitchen table yawning loudly in his white T-shirt, hair mussed, as my mom passes him a first cup of coffee. I don't want a mansion in heaven. I just want my tiny childhood home and my Dad.
So vivid, so moving. Anyone who reads your essay will be invited to return to powerful memories of their own, especially memories of loss. But in returning to them, they may once again be found. Perfect for this Easter season. Thank you for what you’ve written.
This reads like prayer—grief braided with glory, memory transfigured by longing. In Desert and Fire, I often reflect on how the eternal slips in through the ordinary: a scent, a stone, the silence at a graveside. What you’ve written reminds us that the Incarnation was not a one-time event, but a continual descent—Christ threading Himself into time, into hiraeth, into our unfinished ache for wholeness.
Your father is not held by memory alone, but by the One who still bears flesh—and who makes even dust a doorway. This moved me deeply. Thank you.
Thank you very much, Rachel. This was beautiful and insightful. I couldn't held my tears.
Hiraeth reminds me of the untranslatable German word: Sehnsucht.
Beautiful writing and reflection. It reminds me of what theologian John Swinton wrote about in his book, Becoming Friends of Time, on time, disability, and discipleship. He talks about how even when death or dementia or other disabilities take someone (or the version of them we knew) from us, their deepest self is not lost because Jesus is with them wherever they are (mentally and physically) and grounding their identity. It was a deeply moving thought to me, and it was equally moving to read your personal experience of discovering that with your father.
"Like a word on the tip of my tongue, my father is almost within reach, held in wholeness, not by memory or by my longing, but by the One who intersects our every moment, weaving together all that time and space would fray." Thank you for sharing. <3
This is beautiful, Rachel. Thank you. I am struggling with the loss of my 15 year old granddaughter. I do not write as eloquently as you, but I've written a book called Out of Time that is due out soon; I wish I had read you sooner - you are a inspiration.
Yes, I have known such moments as you describe. Thanks for recognizing and describing their preciousness.
Thank you. Knowing that others stand joined with us in a grim solidarity is a gift.
This reminded my of my own father's memorial service. After my siblings and I, among others, offered reminisces, my mother was asked if she would care to offer any thoughts. She demurred, remarking that she would just end up correcting the faulty memories of her children. Then she thanked everyone for their participation in an event which my father would have very much enjoyed.
So beautiful, sending to my grieving friends with haste. Thank you for sharing!
What beautiful and evocative writing. Thank you.
Stunning. Thank you for this, and I'm sorry for your loss.