While normally Easter is a sunny, colorful day… I woke up somber.

On the way to church tears fell. No reason, just release.

I sat in church and accepted it.

I felt dad’s absence. I felt a friend’s concern of an extended job search. I felt a friend’s pain of her husband’s addiction. I felt a friend’s abyss with the death of his mother, now both parents gone physically. I felt my friend’s anxiety from her house burned this week. I felt a friend’s new tradition to honor her deceased child with flowers in her Easter basket rather than sugar treats for an eternal 6 year old. I felt a friend’s exhaustion, anger, and fear as her transgender kids face the world. I felt a friend’s concern as her special ops son is on assignment in the world, in parts unknown. I feel a friend’s hopeful caution as she seeks to provide her gifts to the world with a new business.

While I sought the “normal” of Easter, it would not come. So, I sat with the somber.

The tears sat on the rims of my eyelashes, periodically one would fall from the weight of the world.

Then the & arrived.

For the first time, the congregation was invited up to go up and stand in the chancel with the choir and sing as we could Handel’s “Hallelujah chorus” (forward to 3:30 at the end with the glorious Westminster Presbyterian Church choir. Each section holding up a sign to help guide us forward to a place of belonging: alto, base, tenor, soprano.

& so, I accepted the invitation.

I walked forward and found a place. I stood on the edge. The fringe of the sopranos.

I fiercely followed the words, using my finger to keep pace on the sheet music.

& I let it all go.

Boldly loud. Fully felt.

Absorbed in community, feeling a new emotion through song.

& walked back to my pew, refreshed in a new way, more centered than somber.

Because the & is present, always.

I just have to exhale & find it.

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.

To end 2025, I tried to catch my breath. In the process I found a piece I wrote at a writer’s conference with poet John Roedel in August of 2024 in the mountains of North Carolina. It feels right to share on the start of a new year.

The guidance was to find a spot and write for 12 minutes without stopping or editing…

Here I am. Soul open. A sponge to absorb it all. Fresh Air. Strong sun. Nature sounds. Universe in every way. Peace of night. Warmth of day. Silliness. Openness. Laughter. Openness. Longing. Openness. Pain. Openness. Desire. Openness. Pain. Openness. Next. Determination. Next. Love. Next. Success. Next. Me. Next.

SHIFT

TWIST

MOVE

I want to go forward but it all feels so vast. Am I frozen, fearful, furious, forlorn?

Tired… weary… exhausted… connected… tethered… tentative… expectant.

If I move what will be lost? What will I gain? Hope is here.

Why am I stagnant? Am I waiting? Mind full or mindful? Patient? Lost? Lonely?

Untethered.

Do I want to be grounded… what will I find or leave behind?

Clock stopped. New guidance to keep going for another 12 minutes…

Is grief opportunity, escape, avoidance… a desire for lingering connection to him and to “Him”? The veil thin. The energy big but simple.

Hopeful. Still.

Am I tired or has my frequency changed? Is my dial down low… was it even good before? Did I override or overload? Is the space needed, necessary, or a hack to avoidance?

Will my energy return? Is it really gone? Is my vibration off or just more seamlessly aligned—smooth with less resistance?

LESS RESISTANCE

My call… what sparks, what nags, what excites, what yells, what bellows, what beckons?

I am good. I am different. I am grounded in space.

INFINITY

Each year, near the winter solstice, my church holds a “longest night” service when there is more darkness than sunlight. This year titled “Lament & Hope.” This slow-paced contemplative service strips away the pageantry of a typical Sunday morning worship service and provides a quiet protected space to acknowledge life’s hardships–the grief we carry. The loss, the worry, and the fear are the focus. No urge to fix. No meaningless platitude given. No should-haves spoken. Just acceptance that was is felt is real and accepted. A key part of the service is for participants to light a candle for items, people, issues that are heavy on their heart… the candlelight, created in community, lights our path as we leave the sanctuary. Here is what I wrote about this years’ service…

Last night I sat in sanctuary… both a place and sensation.

Low lights with soft shadows… both a balm from life’s holiday glow and reflection of our insides.

A large, vaulted ceiling room adorned with holiday greens, candles, and religious icons… both cavernous and comforting.

Row after row after row of empty pews… both a sense of lonely isolation and representative of loved ones no longer present in our lives.

A small group of individuals with space between us… both a physical bubble as our tenderness emanated around us and yet clustered in one section craving company.

Spoken scripture, sung songs, shared meditation… both comfort and not enough.

An invitation to light… both a lifeline and heavy hearted step to take.

Others rise, reflect, and reach to light candles for their loss, loved ones, unknowns, fears, pain… both to honor and claim them in an effort to live with them in the “and” between love and loss.

The pause… both weighted and overwhelming.

The exhale… both to release and take in.

The tears… both endless and not enough.

The grief… both alone and in community.

The glow… both a call and comfort.