Two years ago today, my alarm woke me up and I quietly went downstairs. There in the kitchen just before daybreak, I prepared my dad’s medication as hospice instructed. I dropped the liquid into dad’s mouth as he lay calmly on the hospital bed somewhere between here and there. Worn out from a decade of Alzheimer’s.

I leaned over and whisper in his ear, “It’s OK. Go be at ease.”

I went back upstairs and slept for about 25 minutes. Exhausted on so many levels.

I woke up, paused, and listened.

No sound from the baby monitor in dad’s makeshift bedroom downstairs.

No wet raspy breath.

Quiet.

Sun on his face.

He was gone.

Today mom, brother, and I sat around the small kitchen table with a favorite breakfast: pancakes with blueberries in the batter, crispy bacon, and syrup. Warm beverages, stories, laughter, current events, teasing, Presbyterian something–one long endless discussion when we’re together. Just as it’d always been around our family table during meals.

But there was a hole.

And empty seat.

A broken link in our Oehler chain.

Dad should be here with us.

He would have loved this. He does love this.

But with laughter and tears and hugs, I realized “it’s OK.”

It’s OK because his presence is both missed and felt.

It’s OK because I crave him and am grateful he’s at peace.

It’s OK because I’m alone in our grief and we’re together in our loss.

It’s OK because I carry his DNA, love, spirit, and stubbornness

It’s OK because we have physical touchstones… brother in his vest, me in his old wool sweater, mom with his wedding ring around her neck – touchable reminders when we need him most.

It’s OK because his faith, and ours, reminds us he’s at home, not just with his maker but with those who went before.

It’s OK because I’m sad and know that it comes from immense love.

It’s OK because of the friends and angels along my sorrowful journey forward.

It’s OK because life is a wonderful finite gift, of which death is a part.

It’s OK because my grief has changed over time, less consumption and more mood swing or glimmer into mystery.

It’s OK because when I most wish to sit next to him by the fire and talk through something complex, I realize I still can … I just have to listen differently.

It’s OK because when I see his smile, even in a photo, my heart still feels it.

It’s OK… the grief, the hurt, the sad days, the tears, the ache, the loneliness… because I love him and he’s at ease.