For good reason, I am wary of conversations with parishioners that begin this way. I have dreams about them, too - mostly anxiety dreams in which I can't locate my sermon, forgot it was Sunday or neglected to wear pants for worship. In one such dream, I hastily fashioned a dress for myself out of a large brown trash bag I found under the sacristy sink. Cinched with an extension cord I unplugged from the wall, no one seemed to notice my makeshift apparel or my extreme embarrassment.
"Actually, it was a dream about your dad."
Whoa, that hardly seems fair - he rarely appears in my dreams since his death last August. As Dad's health declined but before he was so miserable I had stopped praying for more time, I did dream about him - whole and healthy, thin and weak, laughing and too silent, living and already dead. In the last year, I have been surprised by the breathtaking completeness of his absence. Going to the cemetery, walking in his footsteps, eating peanut butter kisses, listening to a Chicago Cubs' game - nothing works to conjure a feeling of closeness.
"I'm supposed to tell you to write down your stories. It might help."
What to make of this dreamy beyond-the-grave declaration from a church friend? Writing has been complicated by grief - pulling together a sermon or newsletter article or sometimes a single good sentence demands more time and energy than it used to.
On the eve of All Saints' Sunday, a day we remember and celebrate our place among the saints of all time and all places, I think I'll try. When Dad was dying, it was my goal to send him a note every day - something I remembered, something I was grateful for, something that made me laugh or something I deeply regretted. Perhaps I will start there. Stay tuned.
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