Lessons at Midnight: Grieving My Father

11:35 p.m., April 27, 2019.

I had left a comedy show about an hour before. I had laughed so hard, my neck, throat, and stomach were sore; I even joked around I wouldn’t be able to sing the next day because I was so sore from laughing so hard. A few friends and I had decided to go to Cheesecake Factory to grab a late night bite to eat. We were about two-thirds through dinner, laughing and chatting, when I noticed my mother had sent me a text message. Then a second one. The second one read “Please call home now.”

This must be something fairly important I thought. My mother normally did not text me this late at night.

I excused myself and walked outside the restaurant, where it was calmer and quieter.

Me: Hey mama, I saw your text messages. What’s going on?

Mom: Are you still out?

Me: Well, I’m getting something to eat with some friends, but I saw your message and stepped outside. What’s going on?

Mom: *begins sobbing* It’s not good, Drexler. It’s not good.

Me: *starts to panic internally* What’s wrong mama?

Mom: *sobs harder* Your father…he’s dead.

Midnight had begun…

Remembering My Father

I didn’t talk about my father as much as my mother, but he actually preferred it that way. He liked to move in silence. I don’t know if I’d call him a private person, but he wasn’t as outgoing as my mother and I were. And he HATED to be on social media; he would actually be upset when me or my younger sister would post photos or videos of him on our Facebook pages. He always would tell us that he may be wanted by the FBI or the IRS and didn’t want to be easily found. Of course, we didn’t listen to him (in this case), and I’m glad we didn’t.

I also think people expect me to always talk about the big things my father did in my life. And he was big in more than one way. Two roles I’ll tell anyone that he always played was a PROVIDER and a PROTECTOR. My daddy was one of the hardest working men that I knew. He worked long hours when my sister and I were younger as the manager of Marshall’s in Sarasota before he became a school bus driver. But outside of those jobs, he worked a variety of side hustles, the most memorable being a delivery man for the Bradenton Herald, my hometown newspaper. And I always knew that,  when the going got tough, my daddy had my back and was the superhero to swoop in and save the day when I was in trouble. He was the last line of defense, but I know once he stepped into the picture, it was handled (Olivia Pope, take notes).

But it’s the little things about my dad that I remember and treasure the most. Yes he was a provider when it came to finances, but he also provided love and support like no other. He was the parent who always accompanied me on school field trips in elementary and middle school, and I felt proud to have that cool dad that everyone loved and wanted to be in my group during those trips because of him. When my mother expressed her concern about his work schedule at Marshall’s taking him away from his family (my sister and I often told our mother we felt like we lived in a single-mother household because people very seldom saw our father around us), he made the choice to quit his job to find a more flexible one. For a year during my 7th grade year, he was a stay-at-home father, spending mornings and evenings with me and my sister while my mother worked. During that time, he would be the one I’d have sign off on my homework assignments (and failed English tests…oh the irony) and take me to school. It was during those trips to school that he introduced me to Chick-Fil-A; every Friday, if I got up early enough, he’d swing through the drive-thru and buy me a chicken biscuit (or two) and I’d eat them on the way to school. He was also a fierce protector of his family; when I was in 8th grade, he became my temporary school bus driver. I’ll never forget the speech he gave the kids on the bus: “My name is Paul James and I will be your bus driver the the next few weeks. My son rides this bus and his name is Drexler. I’m warning you right now; if you have a problem with me and my rules, you come and address it with me, not my son. If he tells me that any one of you bother or bully him to get back with me, I’ll come after you myself.” No one bothered me then.

There are even more personal and intimate memories and details that stand out about my father that I hold close to my heart. I remember when I was about four or five and my mother had left town that weekend, how he took me down to the Manatee River to watch the sunset and accidentally left me standing in a fire ant pile (my mother went crazy when she found out later), but his heroic efforts to ease my pain that weekend and make it up to me that weekend. I remember him taking me and my sister to the park across town following a major rain storm with our bicycles and he let the two of us ride through the mud, laughing when my front tire got stuck and I flipped over into the mud and came out looking like the creature from the black lagoon. I remember begging to stay home with my daddy on weekends when my mother and sister would go out of town and being able to eat whatever I wanted and do as we pleased, living like men in a frat house (without the wild parties). I remember watching all types of TV shows and movies with my daddy, even shows that my mother thought was strange for us to enjoy together, like Scooby-Doo. I remember watching the movie “John Q” starring Denzel Washington with my father and looking over to see him crying throughout the movie; the first example in my life of a man unashamed to cry. I remember riding with him to my grandmother’s house late at night on Christmas Eve after he got off work, listening to Luther Vandross, Gerald Levert and other R&B/soul singers. I remember during my time of growing pains and puberty, his stories of how he adjusted to his own voice changing when my vocals got deeper and scratchier, yet I was still fairly high-pitched as a teenager when I spoke or sang. I remember, as I got older, him coming to my school plays and debate team competitions, encouraging me to strengthen the skills and talents I was best at. I remember the lessons he taught about manhood, teaching me that the definition of manhood the world teaches me isn’t the definition that I have to subscribe to, that it’s okay to cry, to love hard, to like to cook and clean, to wear the color pink, that I didn’t have to rush my life or live it for anyone else’s satisfaction but my own. I remember him coming to visit me in my own apartment, and us spending the day together, exploring different places to eat, his envy at watching all the golf carts in The Villages, going to the movies, buying little gifts and me cooking him food so good that he would brag to my mother about it.

But one more thing that stands out about my father was his role as a PROFESSOR. Not just in the sense that he was a teacher, but how he expressed himself to me. Not too long ago, as I was getting ready for bed, I heard my phone ring. I rushed back to my bedroom to see that my daddy had called me. I called him back and said, “Hey, I just missed your call, what’s up?” And his reply was “Nothing, I just called to say that I loved you.” I cried in my bed all night that night, because my daddy was not one to usually say he loved you, but he knew that I needed to hear that from him, that I desired to hear how much he loved me, and he reached out and called me to say it to me, to remind me that, no matter how old I get, that I was his son and he was proud of me.

What Grief Has Taught Me Thus Far

The grieving process is far from over; in fact, it seems that I’m just getting started. The first week after my father’s death was spent planning the funeral and dealing with so many other things, that I was almost the end of the full week before I even got a chance to process enough information and emotions to finally break down and cry.

Some days, it feels like months and years have already gone by without my father. Some days, the pain hits me just as hard and as fresh as the night I got the news. Sometimes, I can hold conversations over the phone or in person with people. Sometimes, replying to a text message feels like a task. Sometimes, I want to be surrounded by my friends, laughing and joking. Sometimes, I crave silence and to be left alone. Sometimes, I can think about him without getting emotional. Sometimes, a thought crosses my mind and I fight to hold back tears and catch my breath. The other day, I ran into Target to buy something and passed the greeting card section, where they were already displaying Father’s Day cards; I had to run out the store to keep myself from breaking down. I have good days, where I’m able to power through all that I need to handle personally at work, school, church and social life. Then there are days that it’s a struggle to get out of bed and take a shower, because I wanna hide from the world in my covers.

But, through it all, God has used the opportunity to teach me, show me things about myself and grow me in this season. By no means have I fully coped and overcome, but I’m learning how to walk through this valley and these are some of the gems God revealed to me along the journey up to this point:

His Word is an anchor, not a life raft, for my soul. An anchor’s role is to hold an object in one place, so that no matter what comes against it, it will not be moved, be remain firmly rooted in position. A life raft can be guided by the elements or the person in control; it holds a person up, but doesn’t hold them in place. During this time, it could have been easy for my mind to go in every direction and for me to eventually lose it (as i am prone to do). But God’s Word has literally anchored my soul and kept me in place. Certain verses stood out while I was dealing with the pain of losing my father; verses that eventually manifested in my life in ways that gave them new meanings and new life to me:

• “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 4:7
• “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.” – Deuteronomy 31:6
• “For His anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” – Psalm 30:5
• “God sets the lonely in families, He leads out the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land.” – Psalm 68:6.

These verses have been the very words that I’ve used to speak against the enemy and dark thoughts he tried to plant in my mind. Now that your father is gone, you’ve been orphaned and abandoned. Nope; God said the lonely will be set in families and He has placed me in a loving biological family and spiritual family. This dark cloud will remain with you forever; you’ll never heal and get past. Nope; it may be dark as midnight now, but eventually, God will bring me to a new day, a new dawn. Holding on to His Word kept me from flying away.

Grief is real, and it’s okay to process the emotions that come with it. That’s not to say that, because I am a Christian, a strong and firm believer, that I don’t have emotions or moments of weakness. Grief, like any other emotions, is no respect a person. Grief doesn’t care who you are, what you look like, where you come from, how much money or education you have, it will come for you and hit you like a tsunami. But it’s the aftermath that is sometimes worse. If you know anything about earthquakes, there is the initial earthquake, followed by the after-shocks, which sometimes can feel just as strong and powerful as the original earthquake. Grief is the same way. In my case, the initial shock of losing my father so sudden and unexpectedly hit me hard, but as the reality sank it, the following waves of grief hit me harder. And as much as I tried to distract myself, the reality was, I couldn’t help it when the tears begin to fill my eyes. One thing people kept telling me (and are still telling me) is that I need to let myself feel the emotions and process everything. It is so easy, especially as a guy, to try and be strong, bottle my emotions deep inside and keep pushing forward, but that’s not healthy; it is actually dangerous for my body and my mind. Many people think that, as a Christian, I can just pray and everything will be fine again. And believe me, I’ve been praying, but that doesn’t mean God will take away my thoughts, feelings and emotions right away. I still have to deal with them; it’s just a matter of how I deal with them and will I deal with them with God, with others, or alone. I’ll be honest; most times, I do everything I can not to cry and get too emotional, but as the days go by, I let myself feel the emotions and really process what I’m feeling and thinking.

During the darkest seasons, I don’t have to deal with life alone. One thing that was definitely evident to me was how much my family and I were loved. My church family from back home reached out to my mother and prayed, visited, dropped off food (to the point where my mother had no more room in her house to store the food) and supported us however they could. People were willing to rearrange their schedules and do whatever they needed to do in order to be there for my mother. For me, the most surprising part was how my friends and church family in Orlando was there to support me while I supported my mother. As soon as I got the news, I told my friends at the restaurant; two of them covered my meal (I feel like I still need to pay them back, because that’s just who I am, but they said don’t worry about it…), while another drove me to her house to rest for the night. On the way, she helped me call a few people to let them know the news and even spoke up for me during moments when I lost my breath trying to explain it. My roommate dropped off clothes for me to change into for the night and gave me words of encouragement (one thing he told me was to not allow people to tell me that I was taking too long to grieve, and if anyone DID tell me that, to let him know and he’d have a “conversation” with them). That Sunday, I was supposed to serve at church, but I had called my worship leader to tell her I would be gone, and the news began to spread through the church. So many people called me and text me to offer condolences to me and my family, praying over the phone with me for strength, healing and understanding. In the days to come, people offered themselves to me as support and, before long, I had built and developed such a strong support system of people that I knew I could lean on. People who had experienced the loss of their fathers before me, some whom I was actually close with, shared their experiences with me. The Thursday before my dad’s funeral, I returned to Orlando and spent the afternoon at the church office, where most of the staff offered me love, support, laughter and encouragement, helping me process and deal with the pain better than if I had stayed at home that rainy afternoon. But perhaps the most mind-blowing part of the whole experience was the number of people who came to my dad’s funeral to support me. Seeing them in the back corner of the church filled my heart, because now I knew that I wasn’t doing this alone and that I was truly loved by my church family the way they always said they loved me. I have people who will be there to walk with me, for however long this season will last.

If people want to help you, let them, but don’t abuse them. In the aftermath of hearing about my daddy’s death, one of the first things people asked was what could they do for me and my family. That, to me, was such a difficult question to answer because, in all honesty, I didn’t know what I needed in that moment. All I knew was to have people pray. But I knew eventually, I would be in need of some help. And that scared/bothered me, because it meant being weak and vulnerable during a time when I felt like I needed to be the strongest, especially for my family. I STILL struggle with a streak of pride and independence that won’t allow me to ask for or receive help when I need it the most. And this was a time when I would need some help. Because my daddy’s death wasn’t planned, it threw me off mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. Tasks like grocery shop or cleaning the apartment, got pushed back. Some of my bills were pushed back and some expenses I planned to handle suddenly went out the window; resources instead went toward other things. This left me in a position of being in need myself. But here was where I had to swallow my pride and ask for some help. As people continued to ask what they could do, I spoke honestly about now not having food at my house or my mother’s house. People rose up, offering meals and Publix gift cards to help out. But it wasn’t just those practical needs that I had; there were emotional, mental and spiritual needs too. Pastors from my church and my daddy’s church called me, praying over the phone and offering words of encouragement. My friends also opened themselves up as a resource to pour out my heart and emotions to (and I needed it more than I realized). Four of my friends acted as media coordinators, pushing out information to larger groups of people asking me information about flower arrangements and the funeral itself, which made it easier for me to focus on taking care of my family. Even now, I still have people offering to buy me groceries so I can have that taken off my mind. It has been awkward for me to accept help, because I don’t want to feel like a burden or like I’m taking advantage of anybody during this time, because that’s not my heart’s intention at all. Even now, I still feel awkward when people ask if I need anything, and my first instinct is to say “No” even if I DO need something. But as several people told me, in one way or another, all people want to do is give back the love and support that I had poured out to others over the years. So many people have been touched by my heart for them, they simply want to rise to the opportunity to do the same for me during my time of need. And I’m so grateful for all of them.

Worship was, is, and will always be, my weapon of choice. Most people know two things about me, spiritually; that I am a worshiper at heart and a prayer warrior. But now, more in this moment than previously, I discovered how much worship kept me connected to God. In moments, when I felt like I was drowning, random worship songs would come to my mind and I’d find myself singing with more heart and passion than ever before. And I realized that it was simply me crying my heart out to God, expressing the need that I had for Him to come close to me, to keep my mind at peace and my soul anchored and at ease. One of the first songs that I began singing after hearing the news the morning after his death was “Afterwhile” by Deitrick Haddon. But other songs soon came to mind and filled my heart and soul with peace. Songs like “Take Me To The King“, “Way Maker“, “My Life Is In Your Hands“, “Remember to Breathe“, “You Deserve It“, and even songs that Orlando World Outreach Center had written and recently debuted during our Easter program, “Isaiah 54” and “Unbreakable Love” in particular, became lifelines for me during this time. I’d walk around outside my mother’s house at night, singing these songs softly to myself at first, before the Holy Spirit turned up the volume and I found myself pouring out with everything I had (which might explain why my voice is still hoarse and raspy right now). But one song that stood out all week, especially as we approached the funeral date, was Marvin Sapp’s “Never Would Have Made It.” Now, confession time, but I never really liked that song, because EVERYBODY played it so much (I’m a person, if a song is overplayed or overused before it really sinks into my heart, I’m turned off by the song…that’s almost what happened with Take Me To The King), but it’s my daddy’s favorite song (he was a huge fan of Marvin Sapp). In fact, he wanted to sing the song at church, but never got the chance. So it was only right that someone sang it at the funeral. But listening to the words of the song these past few weeks, they resonate even more, because now I connect them with Phil. 4:7 and understanding how God’s peace has kept me through the storm. And because I already know I’m coming out stronger and better, I am almost defiant with the enemy. In my mind, I’m looking at the enemy like “You thought you won? You thought you had my mind? You thought! But I’m going to keep praising and keep worshiping God, despite my pain, despite my hurt, despite my circumstances, because He’s greater than you and He is worthy of it anyway!”

A Letter To My Daddy

On the day of the funeral, my little sister and I each slipped an envelope into the casket before it was closed for the final time. Inside the envelope was a letter from each of us; our sense of closure with his death. The letter was hand written (at least mine was) and was our last chance, our final opportunity to express our hearts to him. And I’ll forever carry this letter with me in my heart:

Dear Daddy,

I don’t know if there are enough words to fully express the love I have in my heart for you. But I’ll do my best right now.

I wish I had one more opportunity to tell you I loved you, one more chance to talk to you – especially about food. God knows we could talk about food forever, and how I always made you hungry when I shared different recipes that I had tried or wanted to try. I hope you enjoyed that cinnamon apple spice cobbler I made on my final visit home. I know you did; I still have the video on my phone.

But beyond talking about food, we had chances to talk about real life. Even though you never went to college, you cared about my education, including me and Keyunna getting our master’s and doctorate degrees, understanding the struggles we faced with classes and encouraging us to finish and do well for us, not for others. There were so many phone calls that I made to you that mama never knew about for advice or understanding with my ideas or plans. And I think you would be proud to see some of the lessons you were instilling in me coming to fruition (which means I did listen to your long, extended sermons).

I always knew you to be the ultimate provider. Even when I felt bad asking for money to help with my bills or other expenses, or accepting gifts or gestures from you, you never made me think we were poor. You always found a way to make it happen. And that workaholic spirit lives in me; I just wished I had also learned to rest my body the way you did. But I know you knew I worked hard to provide the way you did for my family.

And your faith. Daddy, you ALWAYS reminded me to hold on to my faith. When I began to worry, become scared, uncertain or insecure, you always told me to pray and not worry. More than tell me, you demonstrated a “let go and let God” life that I am just now beginning to live myself. I’ve never seen you worry, stress or cry about the little things and I always admired that about you. It encouraged me more than you probably know. Thank you, because your faith grew my faith.

Even though you are gone, the memories are not. From attending field trips in elementary and middle school, threatening bullies when you became my bus driver in 8th grade, driving me to school everyday when I was in middle school and buying a Chick-Fil-A biscuit every Friday, random trip to Turner’s donut shop, riding my bike through the mud in the park and laughing when I fell into the mud and I was scared that mama would kill me and so many other memories.

Two memories stand out in particular right now. One is when I had my apartment in The Villages. You spent a full week relaxing in my apartment before I moved back to Orlando, just loving my voice control cable box, garden tub and tasting all the food I was cooking. You bragged so much about how you enjoyed your time and my cooking, mama called me jealous. But I loved that time as well, sitting up and talking late into the night. The other memory I remember was not too long ago; you called my phone late one night before bedtime, just to say you loved me. And you didn’t say ‘I love you’ too often, so I cried in my sleep that night because I felt so loved and special that night.

It’s tough to believe that you are really gone. I’ve spent all week sitting on the living room couch, waiting for you to walk through the front door, just like I did when I was 7 years old. But you won’t. The jokes have stopped, we won’t guess the survey questions on Family Feud together anymore, and I will never expose you to all the food spots in Central Florida. You won’t physically be here to see me graduate college again, but I’ll see your smile in my mind. You won’t meet my wife and see me get married, but I know the lessons you taught me about loving a woman and treating her right will make her smile and feel as loved and protected as you made my mother. You’ll never be a grandfather to my five children, but I pray I can be half the father you were to me and my sister to my own kids; Denzel, my twins Faith and Hope, my baby girl Dawn and Paul-Drexler. You won’t be at my house-warming, but I will always make room for you to visit.

Thank you daddy for 27 years of love, laughter and lessons. The adventures we had and the tough times you saw grow me into the man I was designed to be and not the man others wanted me to be. And I’ll never, ever, ever forget the flying lesson you gave me in 9th grade. Thank you daddy for everything. You are home now and one day, we’ll meet again and you can show me all the good food stops in Heaven. In the meanwhile, I’ll do all that I can to make you proud here on Earth.

Goodbye daddy. I love you so very, very much. I will miss you.

Until we meet again, with lots of love from your only son,

Drexler B. James