A Chapter Ended
"And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died. We tell you this directly from the Lord: We who are still living when the Lord returns will not meet him ahead of those who have died. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet call of God. First the believers who have died will rise from their graves. Then, together with them, we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. Then we will be with the Lord forever. So encourage each other with these words."
- I Thessalonians 4:13-18 (NLT)
June 11, 2020 was a perfect June day in Minnesota; the air was crisp and clear, the sun was shining. As the car turned right onto a narrow path, I wasn't thinking about the beautiful day. I was thinking about the first time I traveled on this narrow, bumpy road. I was 12, and it was winter. We were living in Connecticut at the time, and had flown to Minnesota right around New Year's. My blood and my extremities were not accustomed to the level of cold. Standing in the snow in dress shoes, my feet size 10 blocks of ice, I don't remember much more than that.
My brain then shifted to my most recent visit to this place. I was 38, and it was May. It was a bright, sunny day. I hadn't planned to be at this place that day. My car steered itself in this direction. Upon arrival, I drove up the narrow, bumpy road, stopping at the top of the hill. I had been here numerous times in the intervening 26 years. I knew the way. Once there, I sat down in the green grass, pensively admiring the peaceful calm and the beautiful trees. I could see everything from my spot at the top of the hill, yet I could only focus on the ground just beneath my feet. I cried many tears that day.
Six weeks later, here I am again, traveling up the narrow, bumpy road. This time, at the top of the hill, my family was gathered under a copse of trees, waiting for me. Approximately 30 yards away from their shady spot, the green grass was replaced by two mounds of dirt covered by green cloth. To the left of the mounds, two square-shaped holes, also covered by green cloth. In front of the holes, a long piece of granite. I knew this piece of granite. I designed it. Every letter, date, ribbon, arch, and curve was intentional. Fifteen feet from the grave of my grandparents, the reason for my first visit to this place, sit my grave plots. On this sunny June day, June 11, 2020, at 10 o'clock in the morning, I was here to bury my husband.
As I walked toward the grave site, I considered the weight of the box I was carrying. Physically, it was quite heavy. I honestly had no idea that cremains weighed as much as they do. My dad had picked Andrew's remains up from the funeral home in November, and they had been waiting for this day at my parents' house (for several reasons.) I recall picking the bag up once, and thinking it was heavy. However, the weight I carried in my hands that June day was not simply mass. I was carrying the physical remains of my husband to his final Earthly resting place, along with the emotional and mental weight of the previous 209 days. Two hundred nine days of grief, of sorrow, of learning a new existence. Two hundred nine days of waiting for this final piece in the puzzle of mourning. Two hundred nine days of feeling just as married as I felt on November 14, 2019, yet, without my husband being there with me. Two hundred nine days of tears, frustration, fear, sorrow, grief, joy, and life. At that moment I was very aware of the fact that I was walking toward the end of a chapter of my life I dearly loved. A chapter I wasn't ready to have end when it did.
Standing in front of the grave, my dad read the passage from I Thessalonians 4. (Side note: one of the perks of being a pastor's kid is you have a ready-reverend always on call. In the words of my dad, his role in our family (immediate and extended) is marrying and burying.) "...So you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died." (v. 13-14) According to Webster's Dictionary, hope means "to look forward to with desire and confidence." The hope I have in Jesus Christ is very different than, say, the hope I have in Minnesota weather. How many times have I said, "I hope it doesn't rain today," or "Hopefully they're wrong about this blizzard." I have zero confidence in Minnesota weather, save for the confidence that Mother Nature is an unpredictable menopausal woman, further confirmed by the (many) days where there has been sun, hail, snow, 30 mph winds, and a possible tornado all before lunch.
My hope in Jesus Christ is a confident hope. I believe that the Bible is the inerrant Word of God. In reading and studying the Bible, I learn about God's redemptive plan for creation. The climax of God's plan of redemption for his creation was the life, death and resurrection of his son, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ says, himself, that he is coming back. He will return to this Earth, and when he does, he will gather those who believe in Him, and they will dwell with him in Heaven for eternity. Personally, I trust the promises of a man who lived a perfect life, was crucified as a criminal (even though he had literally never done anything wrong), died, was buried, and then came back to life three days later. He's proven to me that he might know a thing or two that I don't. If he says he's coming back, he's coming back. If Jesus promises that he will welcome those who believe in him and put their trust in Him into his family as sons and daughters, then that's what he will do. Period.
I grieve. I grieve deeply. The days of uncontrollable tears and wracking sobs have passed, mostly. Yet, daily I grieve. I grieve the loss of a man I loved unconditionally, totally, and deeply. I grieve the upheaval of my family. I grieve for my children who no longer have a father. I grieve for my father-in-law who no longer has a son. I grieve for the days when I have no patience for my children, and for the days when we have so much fun. I grieve for how difficult my life is now, juggling home, work, children, finances, yard work, and church. I grieve for the life I thought I would have, and for the moments I wish I had done things differently. Beyond my personal sphere, I grieve for those who are living a reality like mine. I grieve for the children without a parent, for the families without a loved one. I grieve for the injustice played out daily in plain and subtle ways, and I grieve my own part in that. Grief is real, it is complex, and it is life-altering. In the midst of what can feel like crippling grief at times, there is one thing that keeps me from throwing up my hands and curling up in a ball in the corner. No, it isn't my family. It isn't my children. In fact, if you want to complicate grief, add in small children. They have this incredible ability to be their most charmingly frustrating selves on the exact days I can barely get myself out of bed. It isn't the memories, or even the knowledge that Andrew is free from all the struggles he endured throughout his life. No, the one thing that keeps me going, and has kept me going is hope. I have hope. I have hope that Andrew is sitting at the feet of Jesus, singing and dancing to that Heavenly rock concert. He is happy, he is whole, and he is free. I have hope that, just as every day of my life was written in the Book of Life before they came to be (Psalm 136), and, as such, God knew that I would be a 38-year-old widow with two young children, he also knows where he will lead me next. I have hope in the knowledge that nothing is surprise to God, and time and time again over the last seven months he has shown me in real and tangible ways that he is taking care of us. I have hope that Heaven is real, the promise of the resurrection is real, and death does not have the final word for those who trust in Christ. I grieve with holy hope and confidence, because God has yet to show me that he isn't trustworthy, loving, and good. I believe and have hope in the promise that, when I die, or Jesus returns (whichever comes first), I will be face-to-face with my Savior, worshiping alongside my husband, and all the others who have gone before me.
June 11, 2020 was a hard day. We shared memories, laughed, and joked at Andrew's expense. He will forever be remembered for his hugs, his compassion, his kindness, his gift-giving, his obnoxious sense of humor, his love of golf, his love of his family, and his appetite. Standing there, watching the remains of Andrew's earthsuit being lowered into the ground, that moment was excruciating. The finality of the moment slapped me across the face. The realness of it all was palatable. And yet, as I looked at the grave where I myself will one day rest next to Andrew, there was a lightness of spirit. Andrew isn't there. His earthsuit may be, but Andrew isn't. He's home with Jesus. His story has ended, and mine has gained an extra, unexpected chapter. And I can walk boldly into this extra, unexpected chapter with hope, because none of this is, has been, or was unexpected to God. He's had the whole thing written for a few millennium. I'm the one who is just now catching up to the story.
- I Thessalonians 4:13-18 (NLT)
June 11, 2020 was a perfect June day in Minnesota; the air was crisp and clear, the sun was shining. As the car turned right onto a narrow path, I wasn't thinking about the beautiful day. I was thinking about the first time I traveled on this narrow, bumpy road. I was 12, and it was winter. We were living in Connecticut at the time, and had flown to Minnesota right around New Year's. My blood and my extremities were not accustomed to the level of cold. Standing in the snow in dress shoes, my feet size 10 blocks of ice, I don't remember much more than that.
My brain then shifted to my most recent visit to this place. I was 38, and it was May. It was a bright, sunny day. I hadn't planned to be at this place that day. My car steered itself in this direction. Upon arrival, I drove up the narrow, bumpy road, stopping at the top of the hill. I had been here numerous times in the intervening 26 years. I knew the way. Once there, I sat down in the green grass, pensively admiring the peaceful calm and the beautiful trees. I could see everything from my spot at the top of the hill, yet I could only focus on the ground just beneath my feet. I cried many tears that day.
Six weeks later, here I am again, traveling up the narrow, bumpy road. This time, at the top of the hill, my family was gathered under a copse of trees, waiting for me. Approximately 30 yards away from their shady spot, the green grass was replaced by two mounds of dirt covered by green cloth. To the left of the mounds, two square-shaped holes, also covered by green cloth. In front of the holes, a long piece of granite. I knew this piece of granite. I designed it. Every letter, date, ribbon, arch, and curve was intentional. Fifteen feet from the grave of my grandparents, the reason for my first visit to this place, sit my grave plots. On this sunny June day, June 11, 2020, at 10 o'clock in the morning, I was here to bury my husband.
As I walked toward the grave site, I considered the weight of the box I was carrying. Physically, it was quite heavy. I honestly had no idea that cremains weighed as much as they do. My dad had picked Andrew's remains up from the funeral home in November, and they had been waiting for this day at my parents' house (for several reasons.) I recall picking the bag up once, and thinking it was heavy. However, the weight I carried in my hands that June day was not simply mass. I was carrying the physical remains of my husband to his final Earthly resting place, along with the emotional and mental weight of the previous 209 days. Two hundred nine days of grief, of sorrow, of learning a new existence. Two hundred nine days of waiting for this final piece in the puzzle of mourning. Two hundred nine days of feeling just as married as I felt on November 14, 2019, yet, without my husband being there with me. Two hundred nine days of tears, frustration, fear, sorrow, grief, joy, and life. At that moment I was very aware of the fact that I was walking toward the end of a chapter of my life I dearly loved. A chapter I wasn't ready to have end when it did.
Standing in front of the grave, my dad read the passage from I Thessalonians 4. (Side note: one of the perks of being a pastor's kid is you have a ready-reverend always on call. In the words of my dad, his role in our family (immediate and extended) is marrying and burying.) "...So you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died." (v. 13-14) According to Webster's Dictionary, hope means "to look forward to with desire and confidence." The hope I have in Jesus Christ is very different than, say, the hope I have in Minnesota weather. How many times have I said, "I hope it doesn't rain today," or "Hopefully they're wrong about this blizzard." I have zero confidence in Minnesota weather, save for the confidence that Mother Nature is an unpredictable menopausal woman, further confirmed by the (many) days where there has been sun, hail, snow, 30 mph winds, and a possible tornado all before lunch.
My hope in Jesus Christ is a confident hope. I believe that the Bible is the inerrant Word of God. In reading and studying the Bible, I learn about God's redemptive plan for creation. The climax of God's plan of redemption for his creation was the life, death and resurrection of his son, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ says, himself, that he is coming back. He will return to this Earth, and when he does, he will gather those who believe in Him, and they will dwell with him in Heaven for eternity. Personally, I trust the promises of a man who lived a perfect life, was crucified as a criminal (even though he had literally never done anything wrong), died, was buried, and then came back to life three days later. He's proven to me that he might know a thing or two that I don't. If he says he's coming back, he's coming back. If Jesus promises that he will welcome those who believe in him and put their trust in Him into his family as sons and daughters, then that's what he will do. Period.
I grieve. I grieve deeply. The days of uncontrollable tears and wracking sobs have passed, mostly. Yet, daily I grieve. I grieve the loss of a man I loved unconditionally, totally, and deeply. I grieve the upheaval of my family. I grieve for my children who no longer have a father. I grieve for my father-in-law who no longer has a son. I grieve for the days when I have no patience for my children, and for the days when we have so much fun. I grieve for how difficult my life is now, juggling home, work, children, finances, yard work, and church. I grieve for the life I thought I would have, and for the moments I wish I had done things differently. Beyond my personal sphere, I grieve for those who are living a reality like mine. I grieve for the children without a parent, for the families without a loved one. I grieve for the injustice played out daily in plain and subtle ways, and I grieve my own part in that. Grief is real, it is complex, and it is life-altering. In the midst of what can feel like crippling grief at times, there is one thing that keeps me from throwing up my hands and curling up in a ball in the corner. No, it isn't my family. It isn't my children. In fact, if you want to complicate grief, add in small children. They have this incredible ability to be their most charmingly frustrating selves on the exact days I can barely get myself out of bed. It isn't the memories, or even the knowledge that Andrew is free from all the struggles he endured throughout his life. No, the one thing that keeps me going, and has kept me going is hope. I have hope. I have hope that Andrew is sitting at the feet of Jesus, singing and dancing to that Heavenly rock concert. He is happy, he is whole, and he is free. I have hope that, just as every day of my life was written in the Book of Life before they came to be (Psalm 136), and, as such, God knew that I would be a 38-year-old widow with two young children, he also knows where he will lead me next. I have hope in the knowledge that nothing is surprise to God, and time and time again over the last seven months he has shown me in real and tangible ways that he is taking care of us. I have hope that Heaven is real, the promise of the resurrection is real, and death does not have the final word for those who trust in Christ. I grieve with holy hope and confidence, because God has yet to show me that he isn't trustworthy, loving, and good. I believe and have hope in the promise that, when I die, or Jesus returns (whichever comes first), I will be face-to-face with my Savior, worshiping alongside my husband, and all the others who have gone before me.
June 11, 2020 was a hard day. We shared memories, laughed, and joked at Andrew's expense. He will forever be remembered for his hugs, his compassion, his kindness, his gift-giving, his obnoxious sense of humor, his love of golf, his love of his family, and his appetite. Standing there, watching the remains of Andrew's earthsuit being lowered into the ground, that moment was excruciating. The finality of the moment slapped me across the face. The realness of it all was palatable. And yet, as I looked at the grave where I myself will one day rest next to Andrew, there was a lightness of spirit. Andrew isn't there. His earthsuit may be, but Andrew isn't. He's home with Jesus. His story has ended, and mine has gained an extra, unexpected chapter. And I can walk boldly into this extra, unexpected chapter with hope, because none of this is, has been, or was unexpected to God. He's had the whole thing written for a few millennium. I'm the one who is just now catching up to the story.
Thank you for sharing this with me. I'm very sorry I couldn't be there. Please know I have prayed for you and the children today, Father's Day, and have asked for peace in your heart. Godspeed my friend. Think good thoughts. Phil 4:8
ReplyDeleteLove you Katy. Miss him so much.
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