On Grief, God, and the Places Our Parents Still Meet Us
I meant to share this a few days ago — a reflection from my father’s birthday, October 12th.
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When my father first died, I visited his grave every day.
Providence Methodist Church — the same one where I was christened and confirmed — became my compass. It was where I first learned to pray, to question, to sit still. It was also where I learned the rhythm of my father’s silence: his low “amen” beside mine, the quiet drive home, the promise of ice cream across the street at Creamy Corner. Church was where God and Daddy met, at least for me.
After a while, I began visiting three times a week. I’d bring flowers, sit on the cool stone, cry, and talk to him. It became ritual — the only one that made sense in the absence of the chaos of cancer.
One afternoon, after a few weeks, a woman from the church came outside. I’d seen her before — always moving quietly, carefully. She dressed in that way older women do when they were raised to be respectful of the Lord’s house: a neatly pressed skirt, a pale blouse, shoes with a sensible heel. There was nothing rigid about her, though. Her presence felt soft.
She said she’d been watching me come to see him. Then, almost apologetically, she told me,
“It’s no good for you to keep coming here, dear.”
She explained that her husband was also buried just behind the church. She too had come every day, and she recognised the same ache in me that she once carried herself. She said the visits had started to hurt more than they healed. That grief, when you circle it too closely, starts to swallow you whole.
So I stopped going every day. Then every week. I told myself I’d only visit on “special” days — birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries. I convinced myself that was enough.
October 12th would have been Daddy’s birthday.
It’s been twelve years since he passed, and still I woke up with that familiar tug — the quiet invitation to sit with him, as we used to on Sunday afternoons while he read the newspaper or listened to the radio on our white-tiled patio looking out on to the garden. I imagine that’s what he’s doing in heaven now.
So I went. The 10 a.m. sun was unkind, but I went anyway — water bottle in hand, heart in my throat.
Walking through the graves, I always fear I’ll be the bad daughter whose forgotten where her father rests. But somehow, the path unfolds the same each time — careful not to step on anyone else’s ancestors.
As I got closer, the hum of the church service faded. The hymns softened, and the rustling of leaves began to rise — a gentle murmur that seemed to usher me closer. When I finally reached his grave, the rustling gave way to stillness, and I placed my hand on the stone.
“Daddy, I won’t stay long. It’s hot.”
And just like that, a cool breeze swept through the air.
Not a passing one — one that stayed.
And so did I.
I played him videos of his granddaughter. I told him where I’d been failing, where I was repeating his mistakes. I laid all the weight I’d been carrying at his feet — the kind of weight we wish we could still hand to our parents in the flesh.
When I finally stood to leave, the air had gone still again. But I didn’t feel empty this time. I was reminded that absence and presence can live in the same breath.
People say time heals, but I’ve learned it doesn’t — not really. What time does is teach you how to carry the ache more quietly. Life fills it up with movement, with noise, with purpose. You become better at masking the pain, but it never leaves.
Because you never stop needing your parents. And they will always find you — even if it’s just a gentle wind that ripples through your clothes.
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