The phone rang in the middle of a cold Winter night. It was New Year's Eve, 1975. Even before my husband lifted the receiver, the ringing continued in my mind. Something was dreadfully wrong. My 69-year old father had died. He'd been hospitalized for a fainting spell, but the doctors hadn't discovered the cause. I got out of bed and stepped into an abyss. My daddy was gone. My kind, brave, honest, wise, irreplaceable daddy.

A friend who had lost her father shared her own story. She told me that one day I'd stop crying, and my heart would fill with the sweetest Memories. Grief is the opposite of joy, and as long as we're breathing, we will experience both. This is what it means to be alive.

At the time, I'd been pregnant with my third child, and a few days after the funeral, I knew something was wrong. My OBGY confirmed my worst fears. How much could the heart take? Back then, I felt as if a piece of my soul had been torn off. 

It took another piece to write about it now.

But you know what? Writing has always been my way to make sense of the world. In the winter of 1996, I wrote my third novel, American Pie, and I threw everything I could at the characters. Train wrecks, betrayals, deaths, ill-timed love . . . even a whale. The pages often caught my tears, and I wondered what my editor thought of the blurred ink and wrinkled paper.

The story ended; the book was published. Life went on for the characters (well, some of them), and for me. Nearly twenty-two years later, I miss my daddy like crazy, but the memories no longer have a sharp edge. As my friend promised, the memories are a gift. 

I remember a verse he used to tell me:

"Be courageous. Be strong. And do everything with love."

-- 1 Corinthians 16: 13