Beer O'clock

"Is it beer o'clock?!" I exclaimed with some relief one January evening as I saw Kevin and Fruncle (Fr. Frederick, one of Kevin's brothers) each crack one open. Though beer had been around already, it was after Heidi's death but before her funeral, when we were still sheltered as an extended family in the graces of the "Archibald Ark" as Fruncle coined it, that beer o'clock became a recognized institution. 

I hadn't drunk beer in years due to inflammation issues associated with gluten and carbs, but upon arriving home the night of Heidi's passing I sipped my first and realized that the creamy, grainy flavor was exactly right. Grief needed beer. I suppose for the rest of my life beer will taste like grief. 

Interestingly, I suffered no ill effects then nor up to the present, from the occasional beer. Heidi's first miracle? It sounds ridiculous, but feels like a small but appreciated grace given, as graces are, when it was needed. Last night, St. Patrick's Day, I stared blankly into the dutch oven of oil that was doing a poor job of frying potato chips, frustration and exhaustion mingling with grief, and muttered to Lydia, "Can you pray that Dad is inspired to bring me home a beer?" She immediately went to the phone and texted him. He arrived home, beer in hand. 

I have described this season as being "pregnant with grief," a way to remind myself that 2 months on is still early days even though to the rest of the world Heidi was January's news. The fact that my beverage of choice for this "pregnancy" is beer (the less-hoppy amber ale my strong preference) makes me chuckle. I think Heidi would appreciate that, too. Oh Heidi.