Wading Through Quicksand

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
This column has been slow in coming. Grief does that. It slows time down. Sometimes ploughing through the “valley of the shadow” is like wading through quicksand. Movement is difficult and exhausting when pushing against the suction of tears.

My dad died a year ago this June 27th after a long and debilitating illness. He spent his last year mostly bedfast and in perpetual pain and discomfort. In many ways, his death was a blessed release, not only for him, but for those who knew and loved him. As a believer, I know he is in a “better place.” Most days, I am in a “better place.” But sometimes, the unfinished grief sneaks up and taps me on the shoulder.

It happened this week when I saw an ad touting Father’s Day gifts. The pang of remembrance tugged at my soul as I realized I wouldn’t be buying a Father’s Day gift this year. In some ways, that’s a relief. My father was impossible to buy for, a “don’t worry about me” kind of dad. Eventually, I learned to ship him a box of chocolates from a world-class candy company in California. That was a hit. But what pleased him most on gift-giving occasions was a donation in his honor to the Salvation Army.

What I miss most about my dad was his plainspoken, take-no-prisoners honesty and commonsense. He kept me grounded. He kept me from taking myself too seriously. Once years ago, I signed something I had written, “Bob Setzer.” He didn’t like that at all. “You’re not Bob Setzer,” he told me sternly. “I’m Bob Setzer. You’re Bob Setzer, Junior.” Never again did I sign my name in such a way as to usurp his place in the world. These days, I sign Bob Setzer, Jr., proudly. The “Jr.” reminds me of where I came from and the unpaid debts I owe.

One morning this week, I discovered I was out of powdered creamer for my coffee. I looked in the fridge for a substitute, but 2% milk is not much of a creamer. Then my eyes lit upon a pint of whipping cream. “Now that would be an unhealthy, decadent delight,” I thought. Normally, I would push the whipping cream aside but for some reason--that particular morning--I used it to turn my coffee into a enticing milky white concoction. My coffee never tasted better. As the aroma filled my nostrils and the whipped cream bathed my tongue, a memory of my father slipped unbidden into my mind: He always put whipped cream in his coffee.

Yes, most days I am in a “better place,” as is my dad, but grief still demands its due. I don’t run from its tap or recoil at its touch. Mostly, I welcome grief as I might embrace an old friend who reminds me of good times, now past. We share a few laughs, maybe a few tears, and then part to live into God’s future where someday, I will see my dad again. He will nod in recognition, give me a hug, and say, “Welcome home, Junior.”