"God never intended death at all before the fall, our hearts were never designed to handle it, so I don't think there's any age at which loss becomes sensical. Of course, the hope of Heaven makes it easier for Christians, and the natural world teaches us that death is a normal part of life. But death is only a normal part of fallen life - and our hearts are still pre-fall 1.0 designs without the software upgrade to process death." - Me

I'm realizing I never really processed the loss of my dad and being his caretaker during the last two months of his life...

This was her second trip to San Francisco. The first was years ago, before I was born, when she and my dad were first married. She joined him on a business trip and recalled how disappointed she was in a red Golden Gate Bridge. Memories of Irish Whiskeys drunk and streets devoured, and of bell bottoms rocked no doubt. As we road atop the tourist bus a few weeks ago, she spotted the very bar they spent their evenings in. I imagined my dad there, the life of the party to my mom's shy, the story teller to the listener, the extrovert to the odd, the jokester to the laugher, the pianist to the pitch-less. They are perfect in my memories, my parents together, their 42 years, me in 34 of them, my brother in 33. That's what memories do; they become perfect, and the rough edges of people smooth out and they glisten in your mind. 

But my dad wasn't perfect.

Ten years ago, a winter Sunday, I drove my silver Xterra through drifts of white Colorado snow and icy streets to an early morning rehearsal at my church. The one that took place in an old, converted movie theatre with its red velvet seats and candy-counter-turned-welcome-desk. I was playing my violin with the band like I did almost every Sunday, in a room filled with 20- and 30-somethings, young families, lots of flannel, ski buffs, mountain climbers, artists, hipsters-before-that-was-a-thing and Jesus lovers. People came scruffy, with coffee in hand, and if you reached far enough under the tiered, old seats, you'd probably feel the sticky residue of old cokes drunk and spilled. Ghosts of movies watched. It wasn't the biggest church in Colorado Springs, but it felt like home to me, the people like family still. 

It was cold that day, the snow thick outside and still clinging to boots. And as I played with the band during the first service, a peculiar thing happened. A summer butterfly flew in the room and landed at my feet. And stayed and stayed and stayed, with velvet wings slowly dancing. And stayed until the music ended, then flew away. 

Winter. Remember? Weird. 

It's hours, just hours before my Texas-born and Texas-stayed mom gets driven to the hospital for her first surgery. Her first time experiencing that solid black anaesthesia sleep that I know well, her first time being woken out of that sleep into a blissful delirium and hopefully miracle news. A week ago, operating rooms weren't on the horizon, nor was the need for miracle prayers. 

Last Thursday, I woke around 5am and began getting ready to drive to an abandoned Sai Kung village to film a music video for our song This Is How I Know. Our neighbour across the hall has the bone structure of a Donatello sculpture, but that's not why we asked him to be our actor in two film projects. He's majoring in modern dance and there's something remarkably beautiful about the human body when it's used wholly to worship. He was waiting outside our door by the lift when I got a message from my brother. 

"Mom's got health stuff. She wants to tell you, not me."