It's been a long time, Jer.

My heals sink into the grass as I make the familiar walk to his headstone after work. I've walked this many many times before but today it feels different. As odd as it sounds, tip toeing in my high heals evokes a new trigger. If you've lost someone before, you know how unpredictable those can be. This is what hit me:

High heals. Working. A working mom. An adult. 

My word, I'm an adult. 

And when he died, I was a new teenager. I was fourteen heading into high school. And now I'm married, with a toddler, living in our own home, having a full-time career.

A lot can change in thirteen years.

And for some reason, this grieves me. It makes him feel more distant. As always, I brush off his headstone and get irritated (and disgusted) by all the bugs. I take a second to let the world grow quiet, like pushing my own mental mute button. I find the small wooden box on the back of his headstone and fish out the small journal tucked inside. I find my usual seat on the benches behind his grave and prepare my heart to hurt as I open the pages. Instinctively I'm drawn to find my father's handwriting. There's something raw about someone's handwritten thoughts. My father is extremely loving and approachable but I treasure this peek into the deep places of his heart.

I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Everything overwhelming in my life gets simple. Prayers become simple. My purpose seems simple. It's the beauty of perspective.

As part of my normal routine, I pick up the pen and write my own entry. Eventually I pack up, putting the journal away, and hover over his gravesite. Deep sigh.

t's been a long time, Jer.