It was an emotionally heavy week, made more difficult by a busy schedule. Grieving on the run is a challenge. Dad's death anniversary took place while I was en route to a conference. A friend told me that in Jewish tradition, a death anniversary is commemorated with a candle that burns all day. I had R do that, and I pictured it in my mind all day and night. I could see it burning on the table and knew that the little one would be mesmerized by it during her dinner.

Dad and I used to love going to Goode Company Seafood and have oysters on the half shell. I think he and I were the only people that each of us knew who enjoyed them, so it was kind of "our thing." They're slimy and slightly dangerous to eat raw, but delicious. I mentioned this memory to a friend and she suggested I find some to eat in memory of him. I doubted that would work out... so when I found myself with a group of seminary alums at Joe's Crab Shack on Thursday, I shook my head and chuckled as I ordered the oyster platter that was meant to be all along.

During opening worship at the conference there was a line in a prayer that was supposed to say, "Love is stronger than death." Instead the person mistakenly said, "Love is stranger than death." Yes, it is. Death is death, it follows the rules. People live, then they die. Love, on the other hand, can seem to be dead but actually be hibernating, it can come back to life, it can move mountains and make a person to live on in the memory of those who loved him, or in the smile of a dimply almost-one-year-old girl.

C took several steps on her own on the anniversary of Dad's memorial services, and I took my own shaky steps--remembering, grieving, but also feeling relief that the last biggest milestone is over, and now Dad's death is no longer an acute puncture wound, but simply a dull ache that is present some days, and others, in remission.