A painful choice

Our old church is celebrating it's 200th anniversary this year. As part of the celebration, Saturday night the choir had a concert featuring a lot of the church's favorite hymns. Past choir members and their families were invited to come. As my father was the director of the choir for many years, our family was invited. This church holds many memories for me, both good and bad. Rick and I were married in this church. It also is the place we held my father's funeral. I have only been back a few times since the death of my father. Rick and I agreed it would be difficult to go back, but that it was the right thing to do. Saturday night came and as we were getting ready, I decided to pull off the directions to the church from their website. As I was perusing the website, there was listed a bulletin for the evening's songs. I pulled it up and there it was, in black and white, all my dad's favorites. I pictured myself sitting up front with my husband, my mother and my sons listening to these songs sung by my dad's choir and directed by someone else. I pictured trying to be able to hold my emotions together for the 90 minutes this would go on. I thought of sitting there with my boys, trying to explain where their grandfather used to sit; where he would stand; how he would look doing what he loved. I tried to push out of my mind that my father would never throw a ball to his grandsons; never hug them; never tell them he loved them. I thought about my boys and how much they would have adored their grandfather. I walked into our bedroom, handed the list of songs to my husband and started to cry. When I finally pulled it together, I looked up and asked him "what am I supposed to do tonight?" He couldn't answer for me and told me as much. It was my decision, he had said, and he would support me whatever I decided. When a door is closed on a chapter in your life, sometimes you are presented with the unique opportunity to face this door again. Sometimes the door is held open for your return, when you are ready, and all you have to do is walk in. Sometimes you have to search long and hard to find the key to unlock it. Sometimes the door is just there, and all you have to do is turn the knob. I sat there on the bed Saturday night, facing what would be on the other side of that door: seeing old friends who meant so much to my family; memories of our wedding day; honoring the legacy of my father whom I loved so much; and reliving, again, this painful loss. I had every intention of going, and for this post to be filled with pictures of great memories of that night. In the end, I chose not to go. My brother called me that night. He didn't even ponder going - he was not about to return to something so painful. When he found out I changed my mind and wasn't going, the first thing he said to me is "don't feel guilty". He knew. After all these years, he still knew the overwhelming emotion I would have was guilt. I am 40 years old now and still, so many of my choices are made based on other's feelings; what other people deem right. If one person is hurt or upset by what I have done; if only one believes I made the wrong choice, then I feel it is the wrong choice as well. This has been a tough week for me to deal with that personality trait of mine. I still feel it would have been the right thing for me to go and that I missed a blessing. However, this decision was not about what was right or wrong. It came down to strength. I didn't have the strength to revisit these memories. I didn't have the strength to sit and listen to my father's favorite hymns as pictures of him flashed on the screen. I have come to terms with his death and the Lord has healed the hurt of his passing. Going back there for this particular night would have been the equivalent of his funeral all over again. I just couldn't do it. Maybe one day I will be able to. In the meantime, the Lord is teaching me to give a little grace to myself for making a tough choice, all the while learning to extend the same to others. Some decisions are not as simple as we make them; and none of them are black and white.