My dad died twenty-five years ago today, and I’m still processing the loss of him. He was a large presence in every room he ever occupied, and still my life feels too quiet without him.

Last week, a childhood friend of mine who was very close to my dad texted me some photos from the 1980s, photos of my dad that he had run across while moving some boxes in his office. How funny these photos appearing on the eve of the twenty-fifth year of Earth without Jim Pratt. What good timing the appearance of these long-lost photographs.

The spirits of our dead have the power to find us. Or we have the power to find them when we need them. However you choose to see it or believe, these reunions are undeniable.

When my dad died in 2001, I was a stressed-out and overworked thirty-four-year old wife and mother of young children. I worked full time, was building a career as a historian, and was a doctoral student. I didn’t have time to pee, let alone process my grief. I administered my dad’s estate, but I didn’t have time to tend to my heart. It was an enormous sorrow to lose my fifty-seven-year-old father, but I didn’t know how to step off the treadmill. I missed my dad. I talked to him. His spirit walked me through every big decision. But life, as it always does, moved on, and I moved on, too, without a proper period of grieving. I didn’t take time to be still long enough to tend to my loss, and so I never really grieved.

The years sailed by, and then Mack died in 2014.

And then, for me, the world stood unbearably still.

I had to be still, and I let myself fall into the arms of my grief. Losing a parent is expected, but losing a child is not supposed to happen, and if you do not stop to grieve the loss of a child the pain of it will kill you. All I did for the next four years after Mack died was grieve. I grieved for Mack. I grieved for me. I grieved for our family, especially Savannah who was now an only child. I grieved for all of Mack’s friends and all of the people who would never get to know her.

And I grieved for my dad.

Finally.

And still.

I am grieving.

Life has moved on, it is still moving on. Without my daughter. Without my dad.

But now I know that when grief steps in I need to slow down. To soften. To be still. To sit in the fire. To process my pain and then make my peace with it.

Because during the last three years, and particularly the last seven months, I have been learning to be still. Practicing stillness and presence. Practicing sitting with my feelings, processing joy on the good days and grief on the sad days, and finding contentment despite my losses.

For my dad, I’ve been sitting still all week. Twenty-five years seems forever ago, but my memories are vivid like yesterday. All week I’ve been sitting with my dad and sitting with Mack, and my favorite grandmother who died in 1993, and some of the bitterness of past disappointments that have lingered in my bones. Grief is funny that way when you are still. It has a habit of bubbling up to the surface from the various vacancies in your heart, testing you, keeping you honest, and making life real.

These are two of the photos my friend sent to me. Both made me laugh. Both made me cry. Grateful for both emotions and a little time to sit still with them and remember. Thanks, Matt, for sharing them.