A Lesson in Faith

Now that I put in my notice, it’s as if my internal zoo gates have been flung open and all the unruly, exotic beasts in me are running roughshod through my mind. Everything I needed to pen in so I could survive is coming out. At the same time there are moments where I miss Dad so acutely I can’t breathe. What an interesting time.

This weekend was a hand-picked gift, wrapped in the vibrant colors of changing foiliage in the Pacific Northwest and perfumed with the crisp scent of autumn in the air. I felt something more than lucky–I felt as if I was being rewarded for having faith. 

I recognize how silly I may sound when I say the inclination to utterly trust whatever happens began on Friday evening when I found the perfect pair of nude pumps and a non-wrinkle, white blouse both for 70% off, but that’s just how it went. On Saturday C & I headed to Issaquah for a light hike, but instead found ourselves at the Issaquah Salmon Days Festival. In a previous life I would have snootily turned my nose up at almost any festival, but here I was, so I doubled down on my determination to have faith. I felt akin to the salmon as we walked around during peak hours, but was incredibly rewarded when we got to the hatchery. I felt a bit like my granddad, who enjoyed learning about and watching all kinds of animals. And it was so tenderly bittersweet to stand on a bridge overlooking the salmon that were left struggling upstream as the leaves slowly fell from the surrounding trees. Then, on Sunday C & I found a church. 

Before the weekend started I had decided that we should take up our search for a church again. I had previously solicited some suggestions for a church to attend, and after perusing some websites I decided to start at the top of a short list and work my way down. I suspected that the first recommendation could easily be the end of our search, and so it was. Near the end of the service I felt the sorrow of my loss so swiftly and purely that the only thing I could do was live it. And then it passed.

Now the weekend is done, and I’m back trying to process my feelings as I work through the mundane. But I am a different person. I continue to be a different person since the night Dad died. And I am grateful for this first-hand knowledge of the fruits of faith.

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