Sunday was graduation day for the WCS class of 2017.

Except, my daughter didn’t graduate.

And I don’t think either one of us were prepared for the sudden wave of grief that has us still feeling soggy here a few days later.

It’s been three months since I last posted—a casualty of time/energy conundrum as work and personal life have been busier than normal.  And while a lot has happened in the past six months, a lot has also stayed the same.

Trying to keep up with life when you’re both ambitious AND sick is tricky.  Add two teens, one of which is also sick, and a husband who likes to occasionally have his existence acknowledged, and there are days when you feel like you’re barely hanging on to the wing of an airliner as it pushes toward maximum speed.  You’re keeping up, but your fingers are slipping and you’re vowing to never complain about flying economy class ever again.

Like, EVER.

What that means—this unplanned three-month sabbatical from writing—is that things have snuck up on me.  Not the normal things that sneak up on me—the due date for the science project or the date of the track banquet or the refills for our medication or the appointment to pick up the new glasses—those things continue to sneak up on me whether I write or not.

No, what sneaks up on you is the emotion.  Because you’re not in tune with it.  You see the date on the calendar.  You get the party invitations.  You buy the cards and the gifts.  You know the event is coming.

But when the time comes, you find you just can’t get yourself to go, because you weren’t prepared for your feelings to catch up to your reality.

And your reality is that you’re very, very sad.

Keira and I were talking about the upcoming weekend last Thursday, both trying in vain to keep our composure.  Baccalaureate was the next evening and graduation two days after, and both events were happening at our church this year, which somehow made both sting just a little more.

And you guys, this is what my daughter said to me:

I’ll be okay.  I really will.  I don’t regret what’s happened.  I have no regrets.  This has made me who I am today.  It’s made me stronger.  It’s made our family so much closer.   It’s made me closer to God.  And I wouldn’t change it.  But I am mourning it a little, and that’s okay.

My daughter, in the long run, has gained so much more than she’s lost, and she’ll be the first to tell you that.  But I’m not going to lie—when you see the caps and gowns and the group pictures and the montages of treasured high school memories, your thoughts can’t help but go, even if only for a weekend, to the things that have been missed out on.

In my heart, my daughter was still part of the WCS class of 2017. Just like she was when Todd McIntosh greeted prospective parents in 2004 saying “Welcome to the parents of the class of 2017” and my eyes filled with tears as my mind flooded with images of caps and gowns and happy-go-lucky kids waving excited goodbyes.

But she’s not one of them any longer.

And that’s okay.

My daughter will graduate in 2018, from a class of one, and will hopefully take 11 free college credits with her into her next chapter of education.

There won’t be a cap and gown.  Not this time.  Perhaps in another three years.

But there WILL be one HELL of a party.

The School of Suffering class of 2018.

And my daughter, praise be to God, is at the head of her class.

courage faith grief growth loss spiritual growth