It has been a long time since I have posted anything. I had a hard time writing for the last four years. I felt so weighed down by grief, the cruelty of people, and then Covid. But I am feeling the urge, again, finally, to return to writing and expressing.

I’d like to start out with a piece I wrote for my Dad’s celebration of life. He died on March 6th of 2020, just as Covid was taking hold of the United States, after it had already begun ravaging the globe, and just before schools in the US were shut down. For over a year, I joined in the collective but isolated grief of the world. Then, on what would have been his 76th birthday, we celebrated his life and mourned his death, together.

I love and miss you, Dad, and will always be grateful you were my father. This is for you.

It feels good to finally come together and celebrate my dad. These past 16 months have been so hard. Grief, itself, is an isolation. Having to grieve in solitude was something I was not prepared for. Erin Coriell writes how grief needs to be felt in community. “It is almost indescribable,” she says, “the way grief shifts in the moment it is expressed out loud (to other people). In that brief encounter, one’s grief becomes the world’s grief,” it becomes shared and lightened. “Grief,” she says, “is an invisible thread that connects all of our hearts.”

And so we come together, today, to connect in our expressions of grief, but also in our expressions of joy. If sharing our grief connect us, so much more too might sharing our joy. Here are some of the memories that bring me joy.

I think often about the times I visited my dad. He would greet me with his booming voice, “Hey, Kid!” he would cry out, and wrap me in those big, strong arms. This would, of course, immediately be followed with, “Hey, did I tell you about the …” Do you have a similar memory of my dad, smiling, happy to see you, ready with a joke? Probably shirtless and tan?

And the jokes? Is there anyone here to whom he did not tell a joke? Possibly the same joke…over and over again? And between you and me, they were mostly HORRIBLE jokes, right? But he loved telling them so much that I couldn’t help but enjoy them, just the same. Well, mostly. I will remember his jovial, self-effacing, often cringe-worthy humor. Maybe you can remember one of his many jokes.

I like to think about times we got together for celebrations or holidays. I used to tell people I never knew who was going to show up at Thanksgiving or Christmas — because Dad would bring home anyone he thought needed a place. He was so generous. If you wanted for anything, Dad was going to do his best to make sure you got it. And then feed you for good measure. Or maybe let you move in. I love picturing Dad, happy, plate brimming, a house filled with people laughing. Maybe you were one of those people.

I often think about the times we played cards, or dice or marbles at the family table. Dad would “bock” like a chicken, if I took too long to make a move. Or start snoring like I was putting him to sleep. Or break into a corny song about me being too slow. He was ruthless! But I couldn’t help but laugh. He was just so funny!

And I can’t remember a time Dad didn’t bare his arm to compare tans with me. Everyone knows Dad was obsessed with tanning, but you really can’t understand the level of obsession unless you were with us in a long ferry line one time, mid-day, prime sun-bathing weather. Dad couldn’t stand the idea of not getting some of that sun in his skin, so he pulled out a lounge chair, climbed on top of the van, stripped to his shorts, and laid out until the boat pulled in. Imagine how excited my twelve-year-old self was about that.

I think we all have stories like these to tell.

That doesn’t mean my dad wasn’t a deeply loving man. I am filled with memories of quiet, tender moments that I cherish more than you could know. After each visit, Dad would walk me to my car and we would talk. He might ask me how I was doing, slip me money for the ferry, or tell me how proud he was of me or my children. It was just a time he and I shared. In the last few weeks of his life, we had many of these moments, and I fell in love with my dad on an even deeper level through them.

During the hours we sat together, he talked about his glory days playing basketball in high school. How the coach would always tell the guys to get the ball to Pete, because Pete could score. He told me he wished his coach would have told him that life isn’t about being a hot shot or a star, it’s about being a member of a team; its about sacrifice and support and cooperation.

He talked about how I had always challenged him. How my views on life were so different from his that it was often hard to know what to do with me, but that I made him think, made him evaluate his own ideas, sometimes changing his mind, sometimes doubling down. But always feeling more love.

He told me how much he had loved his life, and how much he looked forward to what came after life, including playing golf with my grandmother, again.

I miss my dad so much. Yet, in the depth of my grief, I find joy. Because I know he is not really gone. He lives on in my memories. He lives on through the people he has touched—the people in this room. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “It is the secret of the worldthat all things subsist and do not die, but only retire a little from sightand afterwards return again.” I find my dad returning in me, when I spout ridiculous puns or sing snippets of songs, echoing a word someone has said. I find him returning in my son, who looks like him and has his quick wit. I find him returning in my daughter, who loves theater and singing and has his compassion for others. Honestly, I see him everywhere.

I’d like to end with a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, because poetry often says it best, and I think my dad would agree.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Thank you for letting me share my joy and grief with you, today. We were all connected through my dad, and now, through our celebration of him. So, in memory of my dad, would you share the love and joy he had for each of you by turning to someone else and smiling.

Thank you.