A Loss Felt Before Known
Most of our workplace Bible studies break between Memorial Day and Labor Day. That means the first week following the week of Labor Day is typically my busiest week of the year as our ministry launches a new season of Bible studies. This year, that’s compounded with a Walk to Emmaus and a couple of other teaching/speaking opportunities this week.
It would be fair to assume that my focus would be a mile wide and an inch deep this week. Instead, I’ve found myself navigating a deep channel of thoughts and emotions as I wind through countless calls, texts, emails, and conversations.
I have a dying friend. Yesterday, a physician outlined a timeline. Apart from complications which could speed the process, my friend will leave us between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I just took a break to dry my eyes enough to see my screen.
Why is having a timeline so hard?
Surely, it’s not harder than the shock of an unexpected phone call. Afterall, there is time for goodbyes and recording remembrances.
I don’t know, but it is different. Like wading into a pool vs diving into the same pool. Yet, a pool is such a trite metaphor for grief. It feels disrespectful even as I type.
Then again, so many of my thoughts feel disrespectful.
I mean, is it okay to ask why we are so consistently surprised by death?
Upon conception, death is the most predictable and indeed inevitable event… even more so than birth.
Why is it so easy to accept that one’s birth was part of God’s plan, yet hard to accept that death is as certain a part of God’s plan, especially for believers who know that death is the portal through which we enter the greatest part of life?
God knew the number of our days before we were born:
“Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.”
Psalm 139:16
And we’re told to embrace our own mortality:
“So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
Psalm 90:12
“O Lord, make me know my end
and what is the measure of my days;
let me know how fleeting I am!”
Psalm 39:4
And yet, we’ve each been stunned by the news of death. We’ve grieved sudden death and mourned impending death. Perhaps we’ve struggled with how far we should go to delay death. Perhaps that struggle has put us at odds with loved ones. Perhaps the hole left by a loved one feels like a bottomless pit.
Amid my internal volleying of questions and answers, my heart hurts.
It’s heavy, like a ship’s anchor. I desperately want to give my friend something to make all this better, lighter, more bearable. Yet I have so little to offer him, so little to offer his family.
I don’t know about the rest of the Kingdom, but the church folks down here in Dixie bring enough food to get a family through the Apocalypse. Folks are also serving, caregiving, doing chores, and providing childcare.
My friend and his family know the Lord. They know all about God’s promises of eternal life, the wedding feast, streets of gold, the absence of pain, and the presence of the Lord. They know where to find encouraging Scripture. They know Jesus is with them. Their prayers have that perfect blend of raw authenticity, steadfast faith, and unbound love – nothing for a professional to improve upon.
Then again, they don’t need a professional. They need friends. They need brothers and sisters in Christ. They need love. They need love expressed through listening. They need presence, not answers. They need to be embraced and given space. They need the grace to say the wrong words, feel the wrong ways, and have the wrong wants. They need to know love and be accepted when they misunderstand, misstate, or make mistakes.
Of course, my internal banter suggests that perhaps I do too. The chaos of my week continues. I’ve been interrupted at least seven times while writing. I rise to meet the urgent and demanding, then slump under the weight of a loss felt before known.