Being

I was 49 when my father died. I was old enough to shed a tear and get back to work, but young enough to crash and burn emotionally for awhile. I understood death, of course. Dad was in pain for a long time. The end was a relief. We were glad we had him for as long as we did and ready to let go. What I didn't understand was how to move on without the man who had shown me how to be a man. That sounds so maudlin I am ashamed to admit it, but in retrospect that is what distressed me as I anticipated his death.

To be honest, it wasn't that I asked his advice often or ever. I knew without asking whether I was getting things right or making a mess, and I stopped asking him to fix things because I knew that my problems were my job. It just felt like losing him would be losing my way. So after the funeral, I was surprised to find that I had not lost him. I had him inside. He was part of me. You know what I'm saying. It's so obvious I don't even need to say it. But I didn't truly know until it happened. Dad died and I grew up a little.

Pardon me while I go get a tissue.

Things like this get buried deep and we forget, but however long we live, the needy child is always there waiting for the nurturing parent to show the way. Nevertheless, we grow up. We accept responsibility, make choices, learn from consequences, get to work making the world better. We become our own parent and perhaps a parent to others who need care and guidance. 

 So it is with the God who dies on a remote hill and then is discovered alive within. It's a good, productive metaphor.

Now, what am I missing?