A few years ago, I visited Nan; she was a friend and parishioner who was in hospice care. We all knew that her time was short, so each moment was precious.
About a week before her passing, I sat next to her bedside. She could still communicate, but her speech was measured and deliberate. Toward the end of our visit, she turned to me and asked, "Do you want me to tell your dad or brother anything when I get there?"
I was caught off guard by the simplicity and profundity of her question. Sometimes we know things, but our knowledge is incomplete. That moment added to my knowledge. I knew that one day I’d see my dad and brother again, but I hadn’t conceived the thought that she would be going to where they were. She would be able to speak with them and deliver a message on my behalf. The gravity of it all overwhelmed me.
Although I knew that I would see them again, her question forced me to realize the fact that right now they exist, and they exist in a place she was going – a place where, by the mercy of God, I’ll one day go (God-willing, not anytime soon).
On August 11th, Nan’s question resurfaced after my phone began buzzing with the sorrowful news of a sudden passing. A cherished parishioner from my former church, Jim Lippert, had left us.
When I think of the Lippert’s I think of practical jokes, family dinners, dogs, stories, and fun, usually the mischievous sort. They are a family, not merely in the descriptive and legal sense, but in the ancient sense of the word. They practice being familial. One dinner at their house is enough to wonder if you’ve been adopted. Even amongst the in-laws there is nothing but love! In short, they know how to live well. That’s why the news of Jim’s death seemed impossibly confusing to me.
How could death disrupt that kind of liveliness? It couldn't happen, I thought; even if it could, it wouldn't!
But it did, and it does.
When vivacious individuals like Jim depart, they leave a void that resembles a hazardous pothole in the road. Negotiating around it requires added effort, this is made even more difficult because it’s a void that will never be filled on this side. Indeed, in some ways it’s good that it won't. Because what that person meant cannot be replaced. Their life and contribution were so valuable that to replace it would dishonor their memory. So, instead of trying to fill the void, the appropriate response is grief and lament.
No doubt, dear reader, you have experienced this void. You know its pain. The Lippert family, along with all who knew and cherished Jim, are now grappling with it. My prayer for all who grieve is that they would embrace grief fully, and receive all that it offers.
Nan's question to me has added a new dimension to the grieving process. In addition to denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, I now scribble in hope and anticipation.
King David expressed this hopeful anticipation after his newborn son died. He had been fasting and praying all night, refusing food or comfort from his servants. But as soon as his son died, he shocked his servants by asking for food. When his servants asked why he now wanted food, when previously he had refused it, David said:
“While the baby was still alive, I fasted, and I cried. I thought, ‘Who knows? Maybe the Lord will feel sorry for me and let the baby live.’ But now that the baby is dead, why should I fast? I can’t bring him back to life. Someday I will go to him, but he cannot come back to me” (2 Samuel 12:22-23, emphasis added).
“Someday I will go to him.” Those six words paint a picture of all that grief does for us. There is the loss, the mourning, the void, the “life goes on,” and finally, the reunion.
Nan’s question helped me, after three years of my own grief, fully realize that one day I would indeed be reunited with my dad and brother. One day we will all be reunited with our loved ones in Christ. Because he conquered death, the only thing death can do is create a brief void. A void that, through Jesus Christ, will be filled to overflowing in his eternal kingdom.
Now when thoughts of my loved ones come to mind, I imagine what that filling, that reunion will be like. Some people talk about St. Peter standing at the gate of Heaven with a tablet, checking off names for entry. Those people have never been to a family reunion before. At family reunions, no lists are needed; there is only recognition from afar, à la the father of the Prodigal. There is only joy – the unspeakable and indescribable sort.
One theologian, and a devoted Cubs fan, likened entry into Jesus' eternal kingdom to this:
This shouldn’t alleviate the ache felt by those left behind. It's simply an invitation to discover that in Christ the end of grief is joy. Unspeakable joy.
Please pray for the Lippert family as they are now experiencing the painful part.
“But we do not want you to be uninformed, sisters and brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep.”
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”
“Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!”
Come, Lord Jesus.
Our departed loved ones are closer and more real than we know.
This is inspiring and a reminder that joy can coincide with grief and loss. It does not diminish the pain and when the pain is in it’s early rawness, it can blind us until we can breathe again. “Be still and know...” the amazing grace of God holds us in it’s arms and carries us while we cry and then continues to carry us as we find joy and learn to live without. “Be still and know...” this is my truth. It is always there... And this post gives us another layer of hope and comfort that our loved ones are waiting and the grief that forever becomes a part of who we are in this life, will one day be wiped away as we are United. What a wonderful image...being together again.