I mostly don't think about it because that's how I cope but when I do, it blows my mind that my dad has never met my kids. It was one of the things on my mind when he was dying: the thought of bringing children into a world without him in it. We talk about him but those moments of "your Grandpa Pete used to say..." and, "one time your Grandpa Pete..." seem mostly irrelevant, except for the fact that he was everything to me and I am everything to them.
I love this photo of Dad with my niece, Phoebe. Especially now that my girls are that big (or little). If I squint, I can almost see him with Zoe. He was one of those special, humble souls who believed that having children and making a difference in the life of a child was more important than, well, everything. He would have loved my girls. Mostly, I think, he would have loved seeing me with them. Experiencing what he believed was the greatest thing in life: being a parent.
Life goes on but grief is an uninvited guest that comes and goes as it pleases. I don't always mind, though. It beckons me to remember, to feel and to share.
One of the greatest mysteries of God's goodness to me as I grieve is this: Even though my heart has been broken into a thousand, tiny pieces it somehow still works. And maybe even better than it did before.
