It was a good service this morning. We sang, gave praise, received new members into the church body, and 'digested' a good message brought by Pastor John Williamson.
After church, we headed over to Dad's house for lunch. It's been surreal, now that it's just Dad's house, as if it's a house half-empty. We ate good - as we always do - and visited and wrestled a little bit, then it was time to go home.
Sydney rode with me, and as we came back into Ft. Gibson, I asked her, "Have you been to see your Nana's grave?" She said, "No," to which I asked, "Wanna drive by?"
"Sure."
Mom's headstone is all of twenty feet from the curb, and we could pull up almost to it. As I slowed to a stop, I pointed out the window about the same time that Sydney's eyes found the marble marker on her own.
I've been by to see Mom's grave about seven or eight times in the past almost five months since she was laid to rest. As matter-of-fact as I am about her battle with cancer, the funeral, and the graveside as Gus loaded her casket to take to its final resting place, I wonder if I'm not a dealing with denial or repression, because there's still so much unpacking to be done.
Now, I'm listening to the rain and the thunder.
