When you were still alive, you used to joke that one day I would miss all of those annoying, idiosyncratic little things you did. You were right.
Not long before my Dad died, he read several biographies of Joan of Arc. I'm not sure what the catalyst was, but he was really fascinated by her story. Today, on the fifth anniversary of his death, my little family went to the church in Rouen where 19-year-old Joan was burned at the stake. Now there's a beautiful, simple, modern church on the site.
What can I say but that my heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice and my eyes fill with tears if I spend too long thinking about the loss of my Dad. So, I don't. I light my candle, shed my tears, and celebrate the life that we are living today. Always in gratitude.
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