This Spring it has been hard for me to let go.

Last week in NC, the rain was teeming down in the yard as I plucked the bright daffodils to bring inside.

All around me Nature seemed to mirror my dad’s presence

The surprising perennials planted by a previous renter, the resilient white clematis.

The bluebird.

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And grieving my father’s death that day made me want to do this inconsequential thing:

To tug at the glaucous necks of the green stems one by one. To see the silky serum squeezed out of the stalks.

To yank the tender throats and clutch them. To place them in a bulging bouquet – something that would last forever.

But the bounty of Spring doesn’t last forever, you can’t hold onto it –

Just as I couldn’t hold onto my father.

And yet in my bones I will always feel his love.

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I think many people looked at our family and saw a perfect thing. But of course this wasn’t true

Being Jim Lewis’s daughter was not uncomplicated

But I always felt Dad’s love for me as fierce and constant, even though at times it would seem that the church came first.

Someone else’s needs often pushed mine to the side

I had to share time with God

But over 3 years ago, Dad and I started to FaceTime each other, every Friday without fail. What we called our “Friday afternoon dates.”

I would call him before dinnertime at Edgewood Summit and we would talk about a host of things:

Politics of course. Family memories. Books. My chickens.

The gossip at Edgewood Summit. His great-grandson Thomas.

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But what was curious was how he insisted on the Face Time format. And I came to realize that he loved the fact that we could actually look into one another’s eyes.

A simple thing – but each week I always experienced such uncomplicated joy and adoration.

Such love that bore deep down into my core.

And during the call, if I stayed long enough in the warmth of that gaze, I felt seen and known.

And I knew he loved me, deeply. And that I came first, with no waiting in line.

It was like a meditation of love. A mirror of new possibility, the more I looked the more I could absorb.

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And so I do need to let go,

But I want the reassurance of the withered, spent little daffodil bulb curling back down into the black earth –

waiting, waiting in the dark, faithfully, for next year’s sun.

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And next Friday afternoon I will walk out into the backyard, and daydream about new chickens, and bluebird nests.

And I’ll look for the yellow butterflies and think of Dad. Because they were his motif – he loved all things about butterflies.

And I’ll watch them flutter and fly as they go on their way

And I’ll try to let go.