“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” (John 14:18 NIV)
This scripture turned up in my regular reading plan this morning. There are no coincidences in the Kingdom. This was my keeping verse in the long night after my father died. And today, it’s a perfectly timed reminder from my Savior – He’s still with me.
Two nights ago, at the end of a very long and very physical day, my dad’s brother called. I was pretty beat before I answered the phone and probably should have let it go to voicemail, but I love my uncle. Of course, I only understand about a third of what he says because he’s brilliant; a civil engineer and a real estate mogul. Even with our gap in intellect, I still appreciate his cumbersome efforts to communicate affection. We were moving toward the close of our call when he said a sentence that nearly swept the remaining strength out from my knees.
“Well, you seem to have successfully cleared a very large hurdle; you’ve survived the death of both of your parents.”
I know he meant well. I know it was my uncle’s way of clapping me on the back for navigating through the myriad of loss and legislation that rushed in like a seawater storm surge on the day my dad went to be with Jesus.
My uncle and I talked another few minutes but all the while, the well-meaning accolade stuck in my throat. I said ‘goodbye’ and swallowed a tylenol pm to soothe my sore muscles and send my mind adrift. But then the next night, a full twenty-four hours after our phone call, I tried to tuck in but my uncle’s comment come back to mind. How have I ‘successfully’ outlived both my parents at forty?
Sometimes it feels terribly unfair. I know sixty year olds who still have not one, but both living parents. I want to warn them, to grab them by the shoulders and she them. “Are you prepared for their departure? Are they? Do you enjoy them? Appreciate them? Understand that they will not be here forever? Do you have any idea of the size the hole that will tear open in your heart when they pass away?”
Even though it’s been almost three full years since my final parent passed, I still can’t hardly put words to the loss that still permeates my being. Where does one without a mom or dad go for advice? For comfort? For Thanksgiving and Christmas? Who do I call on holidays or when I get a raise or when I’ve had a very bad day? How am I supposed to finish raising my children with their input? How do I make career decisions or family recipes, how do I make do of much of anything apart from their counsel?
When you have a parent, you have a tethering, an emotional anchor to a person who feels like home. Even if they are across the country or the world, you know that they are there, rooting for you. There’s a living lineage you are attached to, a family you come from. And when your last parent passes, the tether pulls up and then you blow adrift.
If we’re being honest, I cried myself to sleep last night. Almost three full years after my dad’s passing and sometimes it still hurts that much. I set scriptures playing aloud on my phone to center and soothe my soul and I let the tears flow.
Grief demands to be felt. I read it in a book somewhere but I know it to be true. I’ve tried to turn from sorrow, to run away or bury it beneath distraction and duty. But when the day slows down, the sadness is still there, a petulant child following me around, pouting. She waits patiently at the edges of my day, looking for opportunity to push in again to my private thoughts. Eager to appropriate my attention from cheerier tasks.
Grief must be fully felt. I know it makes others uncomfortable, it makes me uncomfortable. But there’s no way around it. My well-meaning uncle was wrong. Loss is not simply a hurdle to sail over. We can’t tunnel under it. We must simply crawl through it. So that means I keep crying in the creases of my life until one day I’ll have run dry of tears and I’ll finally be adjusted to the way the world turns without my parents as a part of it.
Which brings me back to my keeping verse. Jesus doesn’t leave us as orphans. He promises to come to us. And even last night, as I wept in the dark, I know He was with me. He’s never left my side, I’ve never been alone in this grief for a moment. Even though my story has been rearranged by loss, I still find hope in Christ alone. He is a light that cannot be extinguished. No subtraction can interrupt the belonging I find in Him alone. No disease can interfere or break connection. Injury cannot part me from His promise. Nothing can separate my from His love.
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38 NIV)
Lord, please come close when we are grieving, just as You promised. Be near the brokenhearted. Make us acutely aware of Your presence. Fill our frames with Your Spirit. Tether our souls to Your truths. Turn our downcast faces upward, toward Your lovingkindness.
Be with us forever. Amen.
