Juxtaposition and Grief

My favorite word is juxtaposition. Perhaps you find it odd that I'd have a favorite word, but words are my thing, so I should have a favorite. I love to write it in cursive (try it out...you'll see, but you must use a lowercase j). More importantly, I love to admire the power of juxtaposition in literature and life. In my mind, juxtaposition is my non-science version of Newton's third law...every action has an equal and opposite reaction. When it comes to food, it's peanut butter and jelly; it's prosciutto and cantaloupe; it's cheddar and apple pie. On Sesame Street, it's Bert and Ernie. In home decor it's lime green paired with plum. In life it's day and night, light and darkness, joy and sadness. When items are juxtaposed the differences between them are highlighted, deepening the understanding of each. And, that is where I am right now. I am in a state of juxtaposition at the moment, and my emotions are ebbing and flowing between anger and sorrow.

My father died on Sunday. It was a shock that I knew was coming. It was a phone call I had braced myself for years ago, and in recent years, every time one of my Aunts called me or a text came through from them, my heart would sink. Though, when I got the call that my father had passed, my brain was ready; my heart was not.

If you know me well, you know my relationship with my father has been one full of juxtaposition. We had a relationship of high-highs and low-lows. I'm 36 years old. For the first 18 years he was a reliable, consistent force in my life; for the second 18 years he was inconsistent and absent. He made choices that changed our lives forever, and like people do in all circumstances, my Mom, Jim, Nora and I adapted and adjusted in order to survive. The 19-year-old version of me was full of passionate anger that was quieted (a bit) when I fully embraced Jesus. I told people how I felt without guarding my words or softening the blow. The dynamics of my extended family changed, guilt was served up regularly by those who told me how much my dad loves us. My favorite was when people told me I didn't know how hard it was for him. For him, huh? Come visit us in Grandma Miller's basement and we'll talk about tough times. Though I trust that it was difficult for him, he demonstrated this fatherly love by running away and finding refuge from the storm...New York, Texas, Arkansas. Meanwhile, Jim, Nora and I weathered the storm with support from Kevin, The Millers and friends, neighbors and family along the way. That's not to say we didn't all try to reach out to one another. We did, for years. Sometimes reciprocally, sometimes one-sided, sometimes often, sometimes occasionally. I believed him when he said he loved us and missed us, but those words were always juxtaposed by absence...highlighting the disconnect between words and actions.

I am not writing to tarnish James T. Nagle's character. In fact, I believe that he was a good man in so many elements of his life. For the early, essential years of my life, I learned from him. He demonstrated a solid work ethic and I saw the importance of friendship and family through his relationships. He was a passionate man who embraced The Fighting Irish and taught me to cheer for "The go-go White Sox...and whoever plays the Cubs." He was a whirlwind in the kitchen creating wonderful meals while leaving legendary messes in his wake. I remember so many moments with fondness and joy: frequent trips to Williams Bay, boat rides on Lake Geneva, Trips to Minocqua and Cable WI, intentionally loud and poor singing at mass, Bruce Springsteen's “Born in the USA” on the record player, slow-pitch softball games, Notre Dame blue and gold games, Sunday supper at Grammie and Papa's, long car trips with "Life is a Highway" blaring with windows down. Life was good for so, SO long...and that is precisely why it hurt so badly when everything changed. This was likely when I felt the power of juxtaposition most strongly in my life.

I don't expect anyone to know how I feel right now because I can't even explain it myself. I am deeply sad to know that my dad is gone, yet heavily conflicted about my grief. I have always loved my father. Always. And I trust that he loved us deeply. Yet, here I am, a bit over a year since our last phone conversation, feeling the emotions of an estranged daughter. I am angry that my children don't have a relationship with him and that Connor questions why he never came back home. "He just left you guys?" Yes. He just left. Though, strangely, I am comforted that he found a new life and had his wife and new friends close to love him through his health battles. There are no right or wrong ways to grieve. It is deeply personal, so I think whatever I'm feeling has to be "normal," right? Today, my grief is mixed with anger over abandonment and deep sorrow for the loss of a man who I know was good to me in so many instances. I know some will read this and question how I could "say such a thing" or criticize me for various reasons, but here is what I am asking...I am not asking you to understand my feelings, I am asking you to respect them. My sadness isn't the same as Jim's or Nora's, though we've all lost our father. Our dad left us 18 years ago, and our father died Sunday. Consider, the contrast between Dad and Father.

My Aunts have lost their brother, my cousins have lost their uncle, his wife is now a widow, his friends have lost a friend. I don't know what they're feeling, but I do know my heart is hurting for everyone who has loved my dad. Every single person. He was 58 years old, and now he is gone. That is tragedy enough. So if you see me at his service and I'm not sitting in the front pews dutifully mourning for all to watch, understand that I have spent the last 18 years on the perimeter of his life. It seems contradictory and in poor taste that I would take a front row seat as he is laid to rest.