They call them seasons of grief. Seasons sounds about right. They’re everchanging. Up and down. As unpredictable as PA weather.

This summer held a season of difficulty.

I had been feeling pretty good, when a season of grief snuck right in. A huge wave of grief came out of nowhere and dumped me into the water. I was drenched and surprised.

The sadness broke the surface of my heart, making its presence slightly known in every aspect of my life again. Tears were standing ready at the edge of my eyes.

My brother recently shared some details of my dad’s stay in the hospital in a message one Sunday, forcing me to go back and feel it again.

It’s not even that I would need my dad in the same way as I did when I was a little girl, but there’s a connection between a father and daughter which cannot be broken, cannot be matched and cannot be forgotten. Until death happens. The severed love threatens everything…even the memory I hold so dearly.

Today, I can talk about my dad. I can tell others about his death (though I still don’t go into much detail) without my voice breaking and tears filling my eyes.

It was coming up on a year after I had a dream of his death—it was February 2017. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office as they were noting my medical history. “And father?” the doctor asked. “Dead.” I responded so abruptly, and almost harshly, that I shocked even myself. Hot tears welled up in my eyes.

The sting of his death isn’t so severe now. And my sorrow isn’t quite so consuming.

I remember when it first happened. I couldn’t think about anything except his death. It was so tragic that my mind blocked everything else out. It was like life had completely stopped and I was unsure how to go on. My smiles were fake. And sometimes they quickly turned into tears. My mind was stuck in a state of confusion and shock. My heart just wept with pain and sorrow. It was so fresh and vivid. It was so unreal. My mind was a short repeating movie loop, playing scenes from the hospital over and over again. Things he said. Things I would’ve done differently. Things I should’ve told him. Wondering what he was trying to tell me when he wasn’t able to speak. Wondering what he was thinking. Did he know it was the end? The questions plagued my mind. The emotions overwhelmed my heart. The shock, the pain, the agony.

I remember the first Father’s Day. We skipped church that Sunday. I didn’t want to face people I knew feeling like a complete emotional mess and being expected to hold it together. Instead, we took our boys to a restaurant for breakfast. What should’ve been a simple placing of orders turned into a disaster. The waitress kept asking me questions about my order and the boys’. I just broke. Tears welled up in my eyes at the mere pressure of ordering a simple meal. (Now I know why they tell you not to make any big decisions right after a death!) I just wanted to run away, scream out, fall into a crying heap on the floor. I did excuse myself to the restroom, arguing silently with God, I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for him to die! It’s not fair. I should be celebrating my father today!

But now—as others said would happen—my thoughts naturally turn more to the sweeter memories of my dad. When I think of him, I smile or even laugh. Time has allowed my mind to see past the trauma of his death.

The tears have certainly not dried up. Oh no. Two days ago was a hard day. It was exactly two-and-a-half years ago. I miss him! And life has changed so much. I want to tell him about the things that have happened, things I’m concerned about, the things God is doing. The good news, bad news and everything in between.

That used to cause such extreme heartache—that he was not here to talk to or to hug. But one is forced to figure out a new normal. Perhaps you find someone else to share those stories and happenings. You still long to share, but eventually you accept that he’s not here anymore.

But I still haven’t watched his memorial Powerpoint from the funeral services since the first year after his death; I can’t bring myself to watch them. I don’t look too long or deeply at his pictures. I still have trouble going into the basement at my mom’s house to see all his coats hanging up, just as he left them. I don’t even linger down there long. I have barely stepped foot in his garage. And I have yet to enter his workshop. If someone speaks of the days in the hospital, or something that was dear to him, I feel emotions rise up and threatened to choke.  I guess there is fresh pain closer to the surface than I realized.

They say, time heals. And it does, because time lessens the pain. But I used to despise hearing that. I remember thinking: How is that supposed to make me feel better? I don’t want time; I want him back. But I can’t, and it hurts so bad!  But they were right. You can’t understand it right away—when the pain is ever so fresh. Not even in the weeks or months ahead. You cannot imagine being okay. The pain of losing a loved one is so consuming, so heart wrenching, so suffocating, so shocking. You cannot imagine healing can take place. You can’t imagine being happy again. Your whole world has just been turned upside down. How can you possibly move on? How can everything possibly be okay?

Yet, time.

Something happens the moment someone leaves us. Their death makes a permanent mark on our life’s timeline. The mark does not travel with us. So, the further you get from it the smaller it gets—causing the feelings, pain and memories to fade. The agonizing pain and shock wears off. Soon it’s replaced with only sadness. Not that you ever forget—you never do—but the pain lessens. Loving that person never diminishes over time because it does not remain with the mark. We carry our love for them with us.

Time is something to be grateful for. Unfortunately, the good memories fade as well.

Once your heart has had time to process—and you go from simply functioning day-to-day to beginning to live again—you realize time has passed. You’re not going to see this while you’re in it. But one day you’ll look back and see the healing that’s taken place.

It takes only a moment to remember someone but the rest of your life to forget them.