The Aches of a Heart.

Today is Sunday, February 2nd, 2014.

Five years ago today was Monday, February 2nd, 2009. The day after the Steelers beat the Cardinals in the Super Bowl. That was the day my father died.

It was a day like any other. I went to school, with plenty going on. Scarlet & Gold, the choir I was in, was busy practicing for the val-o-gram fundraiser that we were putting on in a couple of weeks. In physics we were building roller coasters, which was a pretty sweet alternative to homework. Everything was normal.

When I got home from school I took a nap, did some homework, and before I knew it it was dinnertime. Mom had made sloppy joe's for dinner. We hadn't heard from Dad for a while, but I figured he had been out all day working. It wasn't usual for him to be gone until late running errands or doing things for work. Mom mentioned how she hadn't heard from him since lunch, which she seemed slightly concerned about.

A little later Grandpa Gary showed up. Said he also hadn't heard from Dad in a while. Don't worry about it, I told myself. He'll come home. He always does.

Eight o'clock rolls around and I'm on the phone with a close friend from school. We were talking about all the amazing things that God was doing on campus. I was walking around the house as I was talking to her, and I happened to come to the front windows that overlooked the street. And that's when I saw it.

A cop car, with two policemen, was parked across the street. They were getting out of the car. And that's when my heart sank: the worst had happened. There was no doubt about it. I rushed to the front door, hung up on my friend, and answered the door.

"Is your mom here?" the policeman asked. Before I could even turn around to call for her, my mom came flying down the steps. She was in her bedroom, talking on the phone, but she must've been looking out her window as well. She went out onto the front porch to talk with the officers and I recall going to the kitchen. Franticly pacing because I was getting really worried. A few seconds later I heard it.

It was the wail of a woman who had just lost her husband. The wail of a woman whose world came crashing down. The wail of a woman who was incredibly strong. The wail of a woman whose strength was taken from under her. My strength went too, and my world also came crashing down.

Tears. Lots of tears. I called anyone I could think of, anyone who would care. Most people didn't answer their phones. Go figure, I thought. One of my best friends from childhood did answer, but he couldn't understand me through the emotional wreck that I was and told me to call him back later.

My first prayer: "God, I love You. God, I love You. God, I LOVE You." All I could pray, not just on that night, but for weeks. I don't take any credit for this. I can't take any credit for it. I can't take any credit for it because on my own I'm not great. I'm not some amazing superhuman who can handle anything. I'm not some righteous, better-than-anyone human being. I am just like the rest of you. I have fears, doubts, desires, needs, and everything else typical to humanity. All of this to say I can only attribute those initial prayers to the amazing grace of an incredible God.

Everything from that point on was a blur. Dana, my brother's best friend's mom, came over. Told my brother and I to stay home. All I wanted was to leave. I had to see him. I had to see the dead body of my father to believe that he was actually gone. I was sure I was being lied to. I was sure that it was all a joke. This isn't my life, I thought. This can't be my life.

Eventually my Grandpa Gary and Aunt Christine were over. All I remember is embracing them, along with my brother, and weeping. All of us. Exclamations of grief, questions asking where my dad was, hugs trying to make sense of it all. Hugs that seemed to be our only glimpse of hope.

More family came in that night. Grandma Kathy, Papa Steve, aunts, uncles, more grandparents... more and more people came. At one point our house had 30 people sleeping in it. Floors, beds, couches, and anything else one could sleep on were all taken. I barely slept that first night. Maybe five hours.

That first morning I didn't want to eat. In fact, I wanted to starve myself. I already felt so close to the edge of my humanity and life itself; what was a little more pain? Aunt Misty made me eat. I was reluctant, but did so anyways. Figured it was probably good for me. I'm thankful for people like Aunt Misty to have helped me in the little things at that time, such as eating. She blessed me in more ways than she will ever know.

My friend Lydia called me that morning. Stepped out of class after reading the newspaper. It wouldn't have been hard for her to miss. "Kennewick man dies in fatal crash," read the front-page headlines. Seeing the name "Gary S. Conachan, Jr." didn't help either for I also carry my father's name. Answering her call assured her that it was in fact my father who had passed away and not me. Not that it made it any easier.

Grandpa Ron and one of my uncles (I think?--really, it's all a blur) took me to the store with them. We picked up a few newspapers. I read the words on the page, but I wasn't reading about my own life. I was reading about the life of another 15-year-old boy named Gary. A boy who had lost his father in a terrible car accident. I felt terrible for him. What a loss that must've been. Oh, wait. That's me. Numb. I felt numb.

I didn't go to school for two weeks. I missed classes, val-o-grams, projects, homework assignments--I missed it all. But I didn't care. Nothing else mattered at that point. Friends visited and people brought food--SO MUCH FOOD--and consolations. Pastors came with the same. I've never felt more loved or supported than I did in those two weeks. It was truly amazing.

Life had to go on. If we didn't let it, we'd debilitate ourselves and die of hopelessness. So we got up. We chose to fight, to push on. With whatever fragment of strength and will we had left, we moved forward. It felt awkward. It didn't feel right. But what choice did we have? Time pushed us along; we didn't have any say in the matter.

Losing my dad wrecked me. I lost one of my best friends, the one man who understood me more than anyone. I lost a man who loved me unconditionally, no matter what I did or said. We laughed and joked around, sometimes making him seem like the "third child." We did so much together growing up. He truly was a man with a big heart. He was extremely loving, had a gentle spirit about him, and had one of the greatest smiles--if only he'd smiled with his teeth more. Anyone that knew him knows he hated to do so; but he smiled a lot anyways. The funny, quirky things about my dad that I miss deeply.

Over the next five years I went through a lot. I overcame condemnation, a self-hatred rooted so deeply that it debilitated me. Not only did I not match up to others but I felt like I was far beyond saving. I felt like no one cared. My self-esteem was incredibly low. I was a mess.

I doubted my identity. I doubted my manhood, for if my father was the only sense of manhood I'd had to hold onto, what else did I have? Thus began the search for the thing that was within me all along. The search driven by a perceived lack, telling me that I wasn't enough and that I would only be "enough" via things external to me. Thus began a long and painful struggle. Somehow God was present through it all. Somehow God held onto me. I didn't understand it, but God knew what God was doing. God was in control and that was all that mattered; it's all that's ever mattered.

I stand here today, five years after my dad passed away and I'm a little more pieced together. I'm still broken. I've still got many struggles and things I deal with on a daily basis. But things are getting better. Little by little, things are improving. It doesn't mean that I have to fake it--though it's tempting and I have succumbed to it often--or be perfect. I never will be perfect. But I do have the power to be real. I can be authentic to everyone around me. And so I strive to be.

I also strive to find all my security and affirmation in Christ alone. My identity doesn't depend on the affirmation of others nor the amount of Facebook or Instagram likes I receive. (You laugh, but how many of us subconsciously think that?! I know I have!) Encouragement from others is edifying and taken seriously, but it's not the lifeblood from which I live. I say this more out of faith than anything. I want it to be true in my life. I so desperately want it to be true in my life.

God loves each and every one of you.

We don't understand tragedy and we probably never will.

The One we can always trust in is God.

God is always faithful and always in control.

Whatever happens in life, we can always move forward. We can always pick ourselves back up and choose to live for a purpose so much greater than our own. It's not a life of faking it or having to be strong all the time, no; in fact, it's a life that requires being real and honest, both in the good and the bad, admitting your strengths and your struggles, and depending on God and others. God comes first and is our everything. But we're also called to live with each other. We're to carry each other, sharpen each other, and support each other. If there's anything you get from this post I hope you know that there is hope. Trust and believe that there is hope. You are loved and valued more than you may ever know. Live for God's purposes and God's Kingdom and everything else will fall into place. Again, it doesn't mean life will be easy or perfect--in fact, it most likely will be the opposite--but Christ is the Solid Rock on which we stand.

And it is on that Rock that I share my story.

To GOD be all glory.