Grief Notes
The Last Enemy
Sat 22 Jan 2011
Most of the time I like getting mail, both e- and the snail variety. I’m not talking about spam and its junk mail predecessor, both of which should be banished to the pit. It’s real mail that I like; it keeps me in touch, even the bills. But in the last couple of days my mail, both e- and snail varieties, have brought painful news.
It began with a simple hand-addressed envelope from the mother of a California acquaintance. The envelope contained the memorial folder from her daughter’s funeral. I found and reread my friend’s Christmas letter (these annual epistles were the extent of our conversation) sent just a few weeks ago; there was no hint that death was around the corner of the new year. Then came the emailed news of a relative of Joan’s who had died after a painful experience of bone cancer. Her death was welcomed release. The same day came news of a former parishioner whose body is slowly giving up and who will likely be in the presence of the Lord within a week or two. Hard on the heels of that news came word of a friend just diagnosed with cancer.
The losses of others scrape against the scars of my own grief. Death, however it comes, is not to be feared, but it is undeniably the enemy. Death and disease leave pain in their wake. It was Paul who described death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26). The good news is that death has been defeated, the victory sealed with Easter’s empty tomb. One day, death will be destroyed as well.
The mail just arrived. I wonder if I should open it.
It began with a simple hand-addressed envelope from the mother of a California acquaintance. The envelope contained the memorial folder from her daughter’s funeral. I found and reread my friend’s Christmas letter (these annual epistles were the extent of our conversation) sent just a few weeks ago; there was no hint that death was around the corner of the new year. Then came the emailed news of a relative of Joan’s who had died after a painful experience of bone cancer. Her death was welcomed release. The same day came news of a former parishioner whose body is slowly giving up and who will likely be in the presence of the Lord within a week or two. Hard on the heels of that news came word of a friend just diagnosed with cancer.
The losses of others scrape against the scars of my own grief. Death, however it comes, is not to be feared, but it is undeniably the enemy. Death and disease leave pain in their wake. It was Paul who described death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26). The good news is that death has been defeated, the victory sealed with Easter’s empty tomb. One day, death will be destroyed as well.
The mail just arrived. I wonder if I should open it.
Comments
We Wish You a Mellow Christmas
Sat 25 Dec 2010
Our big Christmas dinner was aboard a Waterways yacht on Christmas Eve, sailing Lake Union and Lake Washington for almost three hours. It was a delicious meal, elegantly served, that lasted almost as long as the cruise.
Christmas Day was quiet and at home by choice, the wildest moments coming as the cat tried to unwrap the catnip gift that Suzanne had wrapped for her. A Christmas jigsaw is a family tradition, and Suzanne just finished this year’s version, she being much more talented than I at recognizing the relationships between the pieces. It has been an intentionally mellow Christmas, and it has been very good indeed.
Matt and Joan are with the Lord whose name Emanuel means God with us. The God that they are with is the God who is with us. Relaxing in His presence makes for a great Christmas.
Mellow Christmas, everyone!
The Annual Epistle
Wed 08 Dec 2010
The “something” is called grief. I’ve never much liked Christmas letters that recited a list of the year’s tragedies. Christmas, after all, is a good news time. I’ve always tried to be both honest and upbeat in these epistles, but this year I have a problem. The dominant event in the Brewer year was Matt’s unexpected death. Processing loss and being upbeat don’t always fit well together, and the memories seem too precious to reduce to paper.
I considered my alternatives. Perhaps I could simply recycle the 2007 letter, written just a month before Joan passed away. Nope; that wouldn’t work. That letter focused on “the right time,” and I’ve had a few serious discussions with the Almighty this year about timing. Maybe I should follow the example of some of my thriftier friends and simply not send Christmas cards, but then what would I do with this pile of photo cards I’ve already purchased? Besides, the postal service needs all the business they can get. Then again, maybe I should just suck it up and write the dumb letter! (Suck it up? What does that mean, anyway?)
Sometimes grief needs to be embraced, not because I like it, but because it is the only way forward. And so yesterday, I wrote the letter, and it is not dumb. It’s a bit shorter than some, but somehow there seems less to say. It will be in the mail soon. My grief, I suppose, will gently intrude on my family and friends, and I am not sorry. After all, they are my family and friends.
Thanks Giving
Thu 25 Nov 2010
We have so much to be thankful for. I have both heard and used those words countless times, but as I heard them again this morning, they carried a deeper than usual impact. They are, of course, true. The Giver of every good gift has given, and I have received. In abundance. But I was neither the speaker nor the subject of those words this time.
This Thanksgiving Day began with a phone call. I had officiated at her husband’s funeral two decades ago. I had tied the knot when she remarried. I had heard the stories of assorted family tragedies and walked through deep waters with her family whose waters seemed deeper than most. This morning she had called to tell me that her adult daughter had died early this morning. She asked me the obvious gut-wrenching question: Why did God take my daughter? I have asked the same question, but I cannot answer it. The only adequate answer to why is Who.
Her Thanksgiving Day had begun the same way my Fathers Day had ended, with news of the death of a child. How does one give thanks against the backdrop of such a loss? While the loss is raw and the pain is deep and the tears flow, can one give thanks? Sometimes thanks giving is easy, but not for her, not today. And yet the words are hers: We have so much to be thankful for. Such thanks are a costly gift, a gift that gives meaning to the phrase a sacrifice of praise.
I like Thanksgiving, and I like thanks giving. It is a time for counting blessings (as if they could be counted), and it is a time for counting losses. And it is a time to discover afresh the wonder that no matter how deep and painful the losses, they do not eclipse the thanks-prompting grace of God.
This Thanksgiving Day began with a phone call. I had officiated at her husband’s funeral two decades ago. I had tied the knot when she remarried. I had heard the stories of assorted family tragedies and walked through deep waters with her family whose waters seemed deeper than most. This morning she had called to tell me that her adult daughter had died early this morning. She asked me the obvious gut-wrenching question: Why did God take my daughter? I have asked the same question, but I cannot answer it. The only adequate answer to why is Who.
Her Thanksgiving Day had begun the same way my Fathers Day had ended, with news of the death of a child. How does one give thanks against the backdrop of such a loss? While the loss is raw and the pain is deep and the tears flow, can one give thanks? Sometimes thanks giving is easy, but not for her, not today. And yet the words are hers: We have so much to be thankful for. Such thanks are a costly gift, a gift that gives meaning to the phrase a sacrifice of praise.
I like Thanksgiving, and I like thanks giving. It is a time for counting blessings (as if they could be counted), and it is a time for counting losses. And it is a time to discover afresh the wonder that no matter how deep and painful the losses, they do not eclipse the thanks-prompting grace of God.
Journeys Are Good
Sun 10 Oct 2010
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. The journey began yesterday at the rainy Tukwila Amtrak station, which is a nine-year-old temporary creation awaiting the birth of its permanent replacement that has been imagined but not yet built. Temporary is apparently a relative term; in the world of Amtrak stations, change can come slowly.
The journey is good, but getting ready for it is an irritating hassle. I hate packing. Anyone in my family can confirm that truth. Joan did the packing when we traveled, and now every trip is a reason to miss her afresh. I’m pretty sure I have packed too much stuff; I usually do. I’m also pretty sure I have left behind something I should have brought along; I usually do that, too. And before you ask, yes, I have a list, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long. I may have brought the wrong stuff, but fortunately Amtrak doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I like train travel. It avoids the hurry-up-and-wait, TSA-bedeviled atmosphere of today’s air travel and allows one time to reflect on and enjoy the journey. And I intend that this trip include time to reflect on my journey. Grief has a way of occupying the mind and narrowing one’s vision, and I need to be sure that my focus is neither too narrow nor misplaced. So I bring along the pieces of my life to listen to God; I hope I have not packed too much, but He doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. In the world of Malcolm, change can come slowly.
The journey is good, but getting ready for it is an irritating hassle. I hate packing. Anyone in my family can confirm that truth. Joan did the packing when we traveled, and now every trip is a reason to miss her afresh. I’m pretty sure I have packed too much stuff; I usually do. I’m also pretty sure I have left behind something I should have brought along; I usually do that, too. And before you ask, yes, I have a list, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long. I may have brought the wrong stuff, but fortunately Amtrak doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I like train travel. It avoids the hurry-up-and-wait, TSA-bedeviled atmosphere of today’s air travel and allows one time to reflect on and enjoy the journey. And I intend that this trip include time to reflect on my journey. Grief has a way of occupying the mind and narrowing one’s vision, and I need to be sure that my focus is neither too narrow nor misplaced. So I bring along the pieces of my life to listen to God; I hope I have not packed too much, but He doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. In the world of Malcolm, change can come slowly.
Present Tense Living
Sun 03 Oct 2010
There is a fine and sometimes fuzzy line between living in the present and giving proper consideration to what was and what will be without being enslaved by it. That fuzzy line came crashing in on me the other day with one word: Christmas. I don’t mean to start counting the number of shopping days left or to bewail the coexistence of back-to-school and Christmas sales. Those were not the issue. I found myself pondering Christmas with Matt in heaven.
Joan’s first Christmas in heaven was wonderful, not only for her but for Matt, Suzanne, and me as well - different, painful, but still wonderful nevertheless. I suppose I should expect that this Christmas will likewise be different (no problem there) but still wonderful. But my mind, having jumped several weeks ahead, was having trouble wrapping itself around the concept of Christmas being wonderful for Suzanne and me with Joan and Matt both being gone. As I wondered how on earth we would do Christmas this year, my concern for the future began to replace my joy in the present.
I don’t know yet what Christmas will look like this year. In the days between now and then, Suzanne and I will somehow figure that out, so stay tuned. But I do know that the present tense God who is with us now will be with us then. Emanuel - God with us - that’s what Christmas is about. Meanwhile, I’m going to try to live in the present without losing hope for the future or gratitude for the past.
The Chaos of In Between
Tue 14 Sep 2010
It turns out that it is impossible to replace carpeting that has stuff on it. We have much stuff, and since the law of gravity has not been repealed, a lot of the stuff is on the carpet. Or was. And it had to be moved; at least that’s what Rob the carpet-layer said. I take him at his word since he and his son moved most of the heavy stuff. But it’s the little stuff that makes me wonder. What is this? Why did I keep this? Remember when...?
I have a fearsome tendency to packrat-ism, and I am not alone. Getting rid of stuff is time-consuming work, and I have better things to do. Besides the disease has almost no symptoms - until it comes time to replace the carpets. Lumpy rugs are no good; the stuff needs to be moved.
I live in between, and stuff is a link to what was, but it crowds the corners of my life that could be occupied with better things. Stuff is for in between, and in between is not forever. Most stuff eventually becomes burdensome; Thoreau (great writer, lousy theologian) rightly observed that men have become the tools of their tools, an observation that is even more true in the 21st century than it was in the 19th. In between living carries with it the promise of a destination, and I will make it to heaven without my stuff and without missing it. Neither Joan nor Matt miss the stuff I hang on to. But I still live in the midst of this in between stuff, some of which, at least while I’m in between, is good. It takes wisdom to know what to release, and when. For better or worse, when Rob and his son are done later today, most of my stuff will still be here.
I live in the chaos of in between. But only for a while.
Grief vs Grief
Fri 10 Sep 2010
I was asked an interesting question yesterday that continues to tickle my brain. The essence of the question focused on the differences between experiencing a sudden and unexpected loss of a loved one (Matt) as opposed to the loss of a loved one for whom I had cared and for whom there was the opportunity to anticipate the possibility of death (Joan). It is an interesting question, but for me it is a difficult one to answer.
There are, I suppose, some evident generic differences between those two kinds of loss. When one deals with the visible decline in the health of a loved one, grief begins before death because loss begins before death. However, stretching grief beyond the boundaries of death doesn’t necessarily make it shorter or shallower. On the other hand, the added element of shock when the death of a loved one is completely unexpected can be both a blessing of sorts and a curse as it provides both a degree of temporary anesthesia as well as an additional source of pain. But the reality of the loss and the challenge of adjustment remain. And when it is a son or daughter that has died, the loss is particularly painful.
For a couple of reasons I have difficulty answering the question. While generalizations are possible, it seems to me that grief is an intensely individual experience. Because of that, my grief journey and that of someone else who is experiencing almost identical circumstances may be markedly different. And those individual differences can be greater than the generic differences that could be noted between different kinds of loss. Those who do not recognize this truth are prone to place expectations on those who grieve and then wonder why those expectations are not met. (S)he should get over it or (s)he is handling that well can be equally inaccurate assumptions.
Additionally, I recognize that I am in the midst of processing these losses. I cannot be wholly objective in describing the journey; I can only be honest. Were objectivity possible, I’m not sure it would be either interesting or helpful. To describe the journey while one is in the maze of grief may be interesting to those outside the maze, but their own experience may be quite different. And so I am less concerned with telling others exactly where to turn left or right than with suggesting who it is they need to follow. The constant that makes joy possible in either kind of grief is knowing the unchanging, loving God of the maze. I cannot fathom how painful it must be for those who try to navigate grief, whatever kind it is, alone.
There are, I suppose, some evident generic differences between those two kinds of loss. When one deals with the visible decline in the health of a loved one, grief begins before death because loss begins before death. However, stretching grief beyond the boundaries of death doesn’t necessarily make it shorter or shallower. On the other hand, the added element of shock when the death of a loved one is completely unexpected can be both a blessing of sorts and a curse as it provides both a degree of temporary anesthesia as well as an additional source of pain. But the reality of the loss and the challenge of adjustment remain. And when it is a son or daughter that has died, the loss is particularly painful.
For a couple of reasons I have difficulty answering the question. While generalizations are possible, it seems to me that grief is an intensely individual experience. Because of that, my grief journey and that of someone else who is experiencing almost identical circumstances may be markedly different. And those individual differences can be greater than the generic differences that could be noted between different kinds of loss. Those who do not recognize this truth are prone to place expectations on those who grieve and then wonder why those expectations are not met. (S)he should get over it or (s)he is handling that well can be equally inaccurate assumptions.
Additionally, I recognize that I am in the midst of processing these losses. I cannot be wholly objective in describing the journey; I can only be honest. Were objectivity possible, I’m not sure it would be either interesting or helpful. To describe the journey while one is in the maze of grief may be interesting to those outside the maze, but their own experience may be quite different. And so I am less concerned with telling others exactly where to turn left or right than with suggesting who it is they need to follow. The constant that makes joy possible in either kind of grief is knowing the unchanging, loving God of the maze. I cannot fathom how painful it must be for those who try to navigate grief, whatever kind it is, alone.
The Other Johnny
Wed 25 Aug 2010
We were not friends. We traveled in different circles and had different interests. He was a greaser who must have gone through a bottle of hair oil every week. The large economy size. He obviously took issue with Brylcreem’s claim that “a little dab’ll do ya.” The jingle went on to say, “The gals will all pursue ya; they’ll love to run their fingers through your hair.” Johnny obviously figured that a big dab of the stuff would attract even more gals. He was not what I would call an academic success. As I remember, he gained the distinction of being named the student least likely to succeed.
That, of course, is the trouble with drawing conclusions too soon. Making final judgments before things are final is dangerous business. The reason I ran across Johnny’s name the other day is that he has become one of the richest men in America. He ultimately turned what some of us regarded as a hair fetish into a wildly successful business developing and marketing Paul Mitchell hair products. (Would anyone have bought Johnny DeJoria hair products??)
I thought of the other Johnny again this morning as I had breakfast with a friend who reminded me that the fruit of Matt’s ministry would continue to blossom in the years ahead. He is right. I doubt if any of the kids with whom Matt worked will become as financially rich as the other Johnny, but I’m blessed to have seen and heard already the evidence of growing spiritual riches in young lives. And I’m reminded of how foolish it is to hang a loser label on those the Lord loves before He is done.
Foundations
Thu 19 Aug 2010
Bit by bit I’m meandering though Matt’s papers. I sort slowly. I don’t want to miss anything, and so I tend to read almost everything. That tendency, along with my grief-limited tolerance for sorting stuff, slows the process down, but occasionally there are rich rewards along the way. In a notebook that almost got tossed was a Matt-generated list of foundations for his ministry that came out of a day of prayer. (There was also a collection of fascinating TAG quotes that some TAG alumni would just as soon I don’t share, but that’s another topic....)
Whether written or not and whether consciously decided or not, most of us involved in ministry accept the constraints of some set of principles that guide our ministry and by which we evaluate our success. Matt’s seems to be the kind of list that creates a foundation for effective and principled ministry. How do you think he did?
Hmmm, maybe I need to edit and revise my own list . . . .
Whether written or not and whether consciously decided or not, most of us involved in ministry accept the constraints of some set of principles that guide our ministry and by which we evaluate our success. Matt’s seems to be the kind of list that creates a foundation for effective and principled ministry. How do you think he did?
- God will be in absolute control of all ministry decisions.
- I will spend required time before Him to seek His face and will.
- People are more important to me than programs; therefor I gladly alter programs as God works in people.
- I will be a God-pleaser first, man-pleaser second, and pray I do both lots.
- Ministry will never be limited to my strengths or abilities but blessed by His infinite resources.
- People will see Jesus Christ at all events - not optional - not a sermon but His love.
- Advancing the kingdom of God is more important than the numbers of any group or church.
- My spiritual walk will take precedence over ministry stuff because that’s how tone is set.
- I will commit to and pour into the lives of a ministry staff; I can’t do it all by myself.
- My foundations of ministry are non-negotiable with man but open to direction from God.
Hmmm, maybe I need to edit and revise my own list . . . .
Getting There
Sat 14 Aug 2010
There was time in my life when the journey was as good as the destination, particularly if it involved traveling. When I was a kid, I mastered public transportation not so much to go somewhere as for the joy of the journey; where was almost irrelevant. But now four hour drives are less fun than they used to be. The body gets stiff and the bladder gets full. There (wherever there might be) has become more important that getting there.
I’m not sure that that is all good. The destination is important; Paul had something to say about that (I press on toward the goal....) But the journey is also valuable. And this journey had some wonderful moments. Because the Christian life is a relationship with Christ, whatever I experience on the journey I experience with Him. And in the process of the journey, before I arrive, I get to know Him better.
It is a reality that is important as I walk through the adjustments of grief. Matt is there and so is Joan. Suzanne and I are still getting. While it may occasionally be difficult, the journey is marked by joy.
Matt's Testimony
Fri 30 Jul 2010
Cross-cultural mission involvement has impacted every member of our family. For Matt, that involvement included leading two outreach English camp teams to Hong Kong and leading a group of teens on a Youthbuilders adventure in Poland. I was along on the first Hong Kong trip in 1994, a dad privileged to follow the leadership of his son. Each evening of the camp included a fun program into which were woven testimonies of us “foreign tutors.” For some of these, Matt had interviewed the participants; on the final evening he shared his own story. The testimonies needed to be simple, brief, and easily translated; to avoid misunderstanding they were translated.
About a week ago I was surprised and blessed to come across a written version of the testimony Matt shared in Hong Kong. He had kept it along with a longer (and later) outline version of his testimony that focused on God’s grace. Twenty-four Chinese students were present. That night six of them indicated they were making a first-time commitment to Jesus Christ; another twelve indicated some other significant spiritual decision. The simple truth from transparent lives makes a powerful impact. There is for me something wonderful about hearing his testimony again, as it were, from heaven. Here is what Matt shared sixteen years ago with students in Hong Kong, and, by the grace of God, with me again last week:
Tonight you have learned a lot about the foreign tutors. I would also like to talk to you.
In high school and at university, I worked on a school newspaper writing stories about politicians, professional athletes, and university officials. Like last night, I would sit and talk with them to learn more about these important people.
Many years ago before I worked on the newspapers, I met someone who was more important than any other famous person I have talked to. His name is Jesus, and he changed my life. When I was younger, two men came to my church and shared about God. They told me that God loves me, but that I was separated from him by sin - doing things that are not right. There was a gap between God and myself. Jesus is the way to cross that gap. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one can go to the Father except by me.”
That night I invited Jesus into my life, and that changed me forever. Now when someone asks me if I have ever talked to or written about an important person, I say, “Yes – his name is Jesus, and he changed my life.”
About a week ago I was surprised and blessed to come across a written version of the testimony Matt shared in Hong Kong. He had kept it along with a longer (and later) outline version of his testimony that focused on God’s grace. Twenty-four Chinese students were present. That night six of them indicated they were making a first-time commitment to Jesus Christ; another twelve indicated some other significant spiritual decision. The simple truth from transparent lives makes a powerful impact. There is for me something wonderful about hearing his testimony again, as it were, from heaven. Here is what Matt shared sixteen years ago with students in Hong Kong, and, by the grace of God, with me again last week:
Tonight you have learned a lot about the foreign tutors. I would also like to talk to you.
In high school and at university, I worked on a school newspaper writing stories about politicians, professional athletes, and university officials. Like last night, I would sit and talk with them to learn more about these important people.
Many years ago before I worked on the newspapers, I met someone who was more important than any other famous person I have talked to. His name is Jesus, and he changed my life. When I was younger, two men came to my church and shared about God. They told me that God loves me, but that I was separated from him by sin - doing things that are not right. There was a gap between God and myself. Jesus is the way to cross that gap. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one can go to the Father except by me.”
That night I invited Jesus into my life, and that changed me forever. Now when someone asks me if I have ever talked to or written about an important person, I say, “Yes – his name is Jesus, and he changed my life.”
Hidden Treasures
Tue 20 Jul 2010
As we were walking by, we caught a glimpse of what looked like an old fire engine through the windows in the doors. We peered through the window and discovered it was one of several vintage fire engines inside. We eventually found a door (locked) that identified the Last Resort Fire Department, a Seattle Fire Department museum that opens for a few hours on Wednesdays and Thursdays. It was Monday, and we were out of luck. Or so we thought until a fire department official took pity on us and graciously offered to let us in for a private viewing. It is a fascinating display and an unexpected blessing.
Hidden treasures like the Last Resort Fire Department seem an appropriate metaphor for the last several days as we marked Matt’s passing with a graveside service and a barbecue. I have been blessed to hear wonderful stories of Matt’s impact. Some have brought laughter, some have brought tears; all have brought joy and made me hungry to hear more. Like a gracious fire department official who got out of his vehicle and unlocked a door, friends have opened their memories and let me in to see hidden Matt treasures worth sharing. Thank you!
Mysteries
Sun 11 Jul 2010
For example, I don’t understand how it is that I can miss so deeply and constantly someone whom I only saw for a few weeks each year. Thirty months ago when Joan passed away, I was suddenly separated from someone with whom I had shared everything; the depth of loss was no mystery. But for the last decade, Matt has lived and ministered almost a thousand miles away. We were, at least theoretically, independent. Email and cell phones made communication easy, but days often passed without our talking or needing to. It makes no rational sense that I should miss him constantly. Love, of course, is not moderated by miles or contained by reason; still, it is a mystery that I experience without needing to understand.
The seemingly oxymoronic coexistence of sorrow and joy in our lives these days is another mystery. This one I think I can explain - at least I have tried on other occasions to explain it. But even though I know that both sorrow and joy are appropriate, sorrow because of loss and joy because of my relationship with Christ, their coexistence feels counterintuitive. It is a mystery in which I live.
I am exploring yet another mystery. Paul expresses his desire to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and fellowship of his sufferings. It seems to me that there is a mysterious connection between experiencing loss and knowing God. Perhaps it is simply a reflection of a loving God’s unwillingness to waste anything in my life; however, that grief should become a catalyst for growth is a mystery that I’m not sure I like.
Hands
Sun 04 Jul 2010
It was the right place to be, but I almost didn’t go. Did I want to expose the fresh wounds of grief? (Not particularly.) Could I experience the words and music of worship without creating a puddle of tears? (Probably not. Thank God for Kleenex in every row; I have trouble making it through communion dry-eyed even when life is normal.) Did I want to worship? (More strongly than usual; I wanted to do what Matt was doing.) So I went to church this morning even though I didn’t have to. And I’m glad I did.
God is worthy of whatever worship I can give Him, and my fellow-worshipers help me handle the handicap of grief. It was not just handshakes and hugs before and after the service, it was hands during the service as well. Amazing grace... my heart was too full to sing aloud, and my leaking eyes were closed in prayer when I felt the hands of others on my shoulders. I’ll take your burden, you take My grace... There are times when I need to be alone; this morning was not one of them. Their hands said what my heart needed to hear.
It is of grace that God should delight in what broken worshipers can offer. This morning, this broken worshiper was blessed to be helped by the hands of others.
God is worthy of whatever worship I can give Him, and my fellow-worshipers help me handle the handicap of grief. It was not just handshakes and hugs before and after the service, it was hands during the service as well. Amazing grace... my heart was too full to sing aloud, and my leaking eyes were closed in prayer when I felt the hands of others on my shoulders. I’ll take your burden, you take My grace... There are times when I need to be alone; this morning was not one of them. Their hands said what my heart needed to hear.
It is of grace that God should delight in what broken worshipers can offer. This morning, this broken worshiper was blessed to be helped by the hands of others.
One Week
Mon 28 Jun 2010
There might actually be words to adequately describe this last week, but I don’t know what they are. The words seem too diluted and impotent. Perhaps I am too weary with grief, and one day, the words will do. Or perhaps not.
Has it only been a week since that terrible phone call injected the death of a son into what had been a happy Fathers Day? I have functioned in a frustrating fog, and were it not for the graciousness of a lot of loving people, I might well have not functioned at all, lost in a paralyzing labyrinth of grief. They have cleaned an apartment, distributed furniture, planned a memorial service, dealt with the coroner, packed a car, cared for a cat, invested time that they could ill afford to lose; they have found more ways than I can list to say I love you. How will I ever find enough ways to say thank you?
The Modesto memorial service captured well Matt’s uncompromising commitment to the Lord and the truth of His Word. It was painfully joyful - and joyfully painful. My son enjoyed a deep and intimate relationship with the Lord, and his impact on the lives of others has been profound. Seeing the evidence of that again has been one of the great joys of this week.
How are you doing? People who love me keep asking that question, though I suspect they know the answer better than I. I hurt. I’m home now, and the house is quiet. The joyful reminders that Matt once lived here are also the painful reminders of his absence. Doing is probably the right word; I’m pretty sure I’m not done.
Has it only been a week since that terrible phone call injected the death of a son into what had been a happy Fathers Day? I have functioned in a frustrating fog, and were it not for the graciousness of a lot of loving people, I might well have not functioned at all, lost in a paralyzing labyrinth of grief. They have cleaned an apartment, distributed furniture, planned a memorial service, dealt with the coroner, packed a car, cared for a cat, invested time that they could ill afford to lose; they have found more ways than I can list to say I love you. How will I ever find enough ways to say thank you?
The Modesto memorial service captured well Matt’s uncompromising commitment to the Lord and the truth of His Word. It was painfully joyful - and joyfully painful. My son enjoyed a deep and intimate relationship with the Lord, and his impact on the lives of others has been profound. Seeing the evidence of that again has been one of the great joys of this week.
How are you doing? People who love me keep asking that question, though I suspect they know the answer better than I. I hurt. I’m home now, and the house is quiet. The joyful reminders that Matt once lived here are also the painful reminders of his absence. Doing is probably the right word; I’m pretty sure I’m not done.
I Know...
Mon 21 Jun 2010
I know Matt is now freer than he has ever been. I know his wonder at God’s grace is growing in God’s presence. I know his pastoral heart that wept with those who weep is weeping no more. I know that his outrageous sense of humor has blossomed into unfettered joy. I know that his Redeemer and mine lives. I know that the Lord he loves has welcomed him home.
And I know that what I know, and what I don’t know, doesn’t erase the pain now that will become joy then.