Hoping in a Promise — Tumlinwood Farms

These weeks after my father's death on October 4, I am carrying countless stories and sweet memories in my heart. Until my father’s death, I didn’t fully realize the significance of people attending a loved one’s funeral and being present before and after. Friends and family listened to and shared stories; they laughed and cried with us, or sometimes simply sat quietly but close.

Grief is a protracted pain that constricts and squeezes our hearts; remembering together allows grief to breath for a moment. Community to grief is like a pacemaker to the heart; it has a way of regulating the beat. The night before dad’s funeral, people were gathered at my parents’ house. I stopped and looked at all my dear people, and I felt held by love. While I ache that he is gone, I breathe a little easier when surrounded by those who, with me, generously keep my father’s memory alive.

In the midst of our grief, a new chick was born on the farm and Pip- a sweet, cuddly puppy joined our family. I call Pip my grief pillow because he is soft and sits so quietly in my lap. Each night as I pray with my ten-year-old son, Ben, he reminds me that our separation from our loved ones "is only temporary." Ben, a host of loving friends, and new life on the farm keep me hoping in this promise that death isn't the end of the story.

There is life and light, even in the darkness. And, literally, on Bainbridge Island right now, the sky is blanketed with darkness and a constant sheet of rain. Despite the rain, there is indeed a palpable hope on Tumlinwood Farms today. I'm waiting for my rainbow.