Strange.
That's the only way I could explain it. As I prepared to make what will likely be the last trip ever to my mother's lake home, someone asked me how I felt about the place being sold. Strange. The place was my father's idea (and dream), and since he's been gone, the family has made less and less of an effort every year to spend time up there. As things progress and it gets closer to the day when the keys are turned over to the new owners, there have been a few loose ends to take care of. I spent a little time this past weekend removing the last of our personal items from the shed, so the place is now "ready-to-use" for the new owners as soon as the deal is done. Over the past 5 summers, I've made several trips up by myself to putz around, put in the pier, mow the grass, etc. Those hour-long drives up and back have always been a really solid time to reflect on memories of dad that surround that place. The sadness that wells up when I consider the reality that in a week it will no longer be ours to visit, and the reality that those trips will be gone forever is just strange.
I had a friend with me to finish up the work, which was a welcome distraction. I think if I had been alone it would have been a lot worse. The task was completed swiftly and without incident. But throughout the remainder of the busy weekend, I kept finding myself drawn back to that sadness...drawn back to trying to figure out what is so frustratingly grey about the thought of the lake place being sold.
Here's what I discovered about myself in that reflection: I'll surely always have my memories of my dad, of that I'm certain. But I've also realized that there are still tangible things that connect those memories of him to me, to "now"... things that I've made into monuments in memory of him. There are physical, real things that remind me of him and while they always invoke some degree of sadness or grief, I'm always strangely grateful that they are there. Maybe it's because I can see them, feel them, experience them, and still keep on living daily life. Maybe they help reassure me that I've truly moved on, but without forgetting.
The lake place has easily been the biggest monument of them all that has required my attention and interaction. The location itself embodies so much of what my dad was. It's a monument that will now be just a memory itself, and I think the sadness comes from feeling like there's one less strand connecting the vapors that are the memories of my dad to the more substantial here-and-now. One less thing to keep him real. I know that there are other such places that I get to encounter that will eventually pass from my reality, but the lake place is by far one of the most fundamental.
I'm still not sure if what I feel is good or bad. To me, sadness is not always bad. It can be really cleansing when I work through it and discover what's driving my emotions. It's just hard after 5+ years to have this much sentiment welling up inside again and not know what to do with it. It feels like it needs to be directed somewhere... maybe to a different monument so the feelings are not lost forever, and another connecting strand can then remain intact for a while longer.
I continue to pray and give thanks for the family I've been given. We all feel something different right now, I'm sure. But it's a monumental time for us, and it's necessary. We're built to feel this way, I think, but I believe we are also built to realize that this is not where we are rooted. The monuments that we build here are temporary, just like we ourselves are temporary. Sometimes it seems so silly to feel so strongly about such fleeting things... but to know that kind of emotion makes it possible for me to love my God the way that I do. I don't know that I could feel about my heavenly Father the way I do if I hadn't been created to feel so strongly for my earthly one.
Peace,
Mike
