April 2026 – The pain starts out as jagged as a rock, the kind with pointed, rough edges too sharp to touch. They’re present, though, these points, and the temptation to reach out is strong, even when doing so will cause pain. When the edges become too sharp to hold, the rock is gently passed to a friend, to hold for a moment, a much-needed reprieve. After weeks, maybe months, maybe years, the edges soften and the points dull, the result of many friends’ support in carrying that rock, countless tears of sorrow from the hurt its jagged edges caused and the certain passage of time. Eventually, touching that rock becomes far less painful until the sharp points disappear altogether, leaving only a smooth, even surface, and the grief transforms into a distant albeit comfortable memory.
A friend shared this analogy with me days after Easter Sunday, a time reserved for rejoicing following the sorrow of Jesus’ sacrifice a week prior. The sorrow I felt, however, did not fade with the bright sunshine and yellow daffodils of a glorious Easter morning, for I mourned more personally the death of someone I had seen firsthand suffer and die on Good Friday: my father. His long road of illness and pain ended in the early morning hours of that sacrificial day. The sadness was mixed with a sense of relief as I knew he was at peace, but those jagged edges had already found their way into my heart.
In the days that followed his passing, I focused more on sustaining my mother and planning the wake and funeral Mass with my brothers than grieving for him myself. That was something I had done over the past few months as I saw his decline each time I visited. My dad grew more frail, more unaware, more agitated, but I’m grateful he recognized me until just before the end. He’d take my hand in his and close his eyes, and beside him, I would pray—for peace, for comfort, for a happy death. Though his passing was expected, every memory of him, every photo and every story I recalled, stung like the roughest parts of the rock that held me down. Feeling the pain would keep him with me, I thought, and I prayed it would not fade.
Throughout those days, I was surprised to feel the roughness smooth out just a bit, not because I missed my dad any less but because of the friends who carried it with me. So many others had known and loved him as well—either personally or through my family—and with them, I laughed and cried and remembered. I saw him—strong and confident again—in the fine, faithful fathers my brothers are now. I saw him—jovial and kind—in the compassionate, loyal young adults all his grandchildren have become. I saw him resurrected, surely not on the third day as Christ our Lord was, but in the lives and spirit of those he left behind.
“We shape the infinite richness of God’s life and compassion in the way that they did, when we pour ourselves into life, as they did,” read a quote that another friend had shared. What better way to remember my father and all those gone before us than to pour and love as they did. It is then, I believe, that a smooth, even surface will emerge at last.
