Fathers Day


I love this song. Check it out:

This weekend, we celebrate Fathers Day here in Australia. I’m very excited because I’m sneaking my way down the freeway to surprise my old boy. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him and I miss him a lot in between times.

But while my head is preoccupied with seeing my dear Dad, I paused this morning when I was reminded of the traditional Fathers Day Stalls that happen in primary schools today.

A friend of mine lost her husband just over 12 months ago.

She’s now raising their beautiful kids on her own, and when she mentioned she had a little fellow who was upset because of the yearly Fathers Day Stall, my heart just ached for her and the kids.

I have nothing to tell her and nothing to suggest for her, because in reality? There’s not a lot that will ease that pain. The kids will grow and learn and change and one day have kids of their own. But every Fathers Day, they’re going to miss their Dad.

And I wish I could change that for them. For everyone who is grieving their way through major life events and moments, simply because of missing loved ones.

But it leads me to consider that if grief is such a universal experience, maybe there’s a way to move through it that embraces that universality of life. A person can never, ever be replaced. But the ability to remember your dad on Fathers Day? That’s something that doesn’t change. The problem is, this is a concept that makes sense to adults.

Kids just want their Dad.

In truth? So do grown ups. But you learn how to lessen the measure of pain by nudging at it with memorial acts and reminiscing. It’s not enough and it never will be, but it reminds you that you’re not all alone.

And maybe that is the universal way of dealing with grief. Speaking about it. Sharing stories and crying together and laughing together. Making moments and traditions that acknowledge the absent heartbeat. Because each word and tear and act signals to another that your grief is still raw. Still real. And that you need a bit of loving.

So, to my friend, I send you and your kids a big smooshy cuddle.

And to my own Dad?

Happy Fathers Day.

Me and my Dad. His moustache is real. image by The Naughty Corner

Me and my Dad. His moustache is real. image by The Naughty Corner


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