Observing Grief

He is not here. I cannot pick up the phone and call. I cannot ask for his advice about anything--even if it is big, and I don't want to make the decision without his input. And when I go for a walk, I cannot feel his hand in mind; neither can I feel his quiet presence and gentleness.

These are no longer options. And the harsh reality is that his chair will be empty this Thanksgiving and Christmas, too. He will not show up on my doorstep with his tools, ready to help do something that needed doing. Some of his books are mine now, because although he loves reading, he no longer needs them. He will never need them again.

His clothing has already been given to new owners; his tools distributed; his few mementos, lovingly packed away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Group Grieving

A few weeks ago, mom and I visited a grief group, with 8 or 9 others whose hearts were sore and ginger, whose emotions were just below the surface, waiting to gush out.

And the social worker named Clare kindly and gently explained to us what to expect from this strange process of letting go of a beloved one whom we do not quite know how to live without.

The 26-year-old new mom who lost her daddy to a 10-year fight with cancer acknowledged her pain--wishing her dad would have lived 18 days longer to meet his first grandbaby. If only. A well-mannered elderly couple lost their vibrant, 50-year-old boy, when they should have gone first; she kept a quiet composure, her husband spoke only with tears welling over.

A mom lost her teenage girl to leukemia, after a brave three-year struggle. Another lost her once strong husband whose personality loomed bigger than life--his vibrancy replaced with silence as she faces an empty house and an equally empty bed.

There is no efficiency to grieving. It upsets your life, leaving a gaping hole where life has been snuffed away, and all you can do is be willing to face it as it comes.

Yes, Clare explains, when your loved one has cancer you do experience anticipatory grief. It is a way of preparing for what's coming. But you don't get extra credit or a "get out of grief" free card. Your journey is not shortened; you must still walk the road of coming to terms with your loss.

And so we are, one day at a time; one memory here, another there; tears that start and stop, healing and grace that comes through a card or a hug. Serenity that comes through drinking in nature's beauty or sitting quietly with a friend or loved one.

Honestly, I think we are coming through the shock of his absence from us. Now we must be willing to face the pain that will surface and to acknowledge "the greater the love, the loss." I would never take back the richness of our relationships with dad or the depth of our love.

A love well-spent, to be remembered and cherished throughout eternity.

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.
Psalm 68:5

quote for a Monday

"Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal."
-Thomas Moore

Remembering you, Dad

Here is the letter/conversation I read at dad's memorial services last week:

Dear dad:

If you were here today, and one of us was to ask how bad things—like cancer—happen to good people—like you, for instance, you would listen sincerely and nod.

You would remind us that long ago the world was broken, and that God never intended things to be broken like this. That it was people—just like us—who made it this way. So death isn’t what we’re made for. And that’s why it hurts like crazy. “That’s why it doesn’t seem right,” you would say. “Because it isn’t right.”

And then you would tell us this story of how all of us will face death—some earlier, some later, but because of one amazing rescue on our behalf, we don’t have to fear it at all.

You would smile and say the moment we breathe our last breath, like you did last Thursday, is the moment the life God intended for us really begins. This is the story of what one God-man did, sacrificing his life in place of ours, so that we could be forgiven of everything we’ve ever thought, done, or said that was wrong. And I can almost hear you now, because you’ve said it so often before: Jesus loved you, Suzie, so much that he paid with his life so you could have life—life FOREVER. A life filled with joy and free of pain.

You repeated this story hundreds of times—and you shared it in different ways, depending on who you were talking to at the time. But the heart and the truth of the story never changed.

Dad, I’ll admit, this story still sounds bigger than life and grander than our wildest dreams, but you staked your life on the belief that it is absolutely true. Truer than anything else you knew.

This story shaped your heart and informed your service. It altered the way you responded to those who meant you harm, and led to a lifestyle of servanthood. It kept you from caring about this world’s wealth and meant that you received the greatest joy from seeing others changed by the story of God’s love for us.

And if you were here right now, you would speak up to remind us that you also had faults and missteps, errors in judgment and times when you acted selfishly. And that, you would say, is exactly why God’s forgiveness and pursuit of us is so amazing; it’s why it changes everything. Because we are a messed-up lot with burdens that sometime threaten to undo us, but God’s story of rescue can bring hope where there is heartache.

This is the truth, dad: you didn’t want to leave us, not yet. You felt you still had ministry to do and people to love and you wondered why in the world your heavenly Father would send you to heaven now. Honestly, it just didn’t seem right.

But as you grew weaker, and we saw the future more clearly, we began to move toward this Story we have grown to love and believe in more than anything else. Dad, once we knew you were headed home, away from us, we began to talk about the breathtaking beauty and reality of the place where you will spend the rest of your days.

We even got excited with you about your homegoing at times, even though we dreaded the thought of saying goodbye.

Our hope and faith has been centered on something we could not see at all. Actually, the character Puddleglum from CS Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia may describe it best, as he tells the White Witch why he will keep on believing, though he doesn’t see the world of Narnia:

“Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one . . . That’s why I’m going to stand by the play world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia.”

But there IS a Narnia, dad, isn’t there? Death and evil have been defeated, haven’t they? If you were here today, I have this feeling you would tell us its streets are paved with gold, that its filled with people you knew here on this side who are loving on you. And I think you would also tell us that the sights and sounds you have now trump the best moments you ever experienced or dreamed about on this side of eternity.

I smile, dad, as I imagine you wearing a t-shirt that says, “Wish you were here.” How I do wish we were there, dad. And one day we will be—because we choose to trust in what we can’t see—in what God has done on our behalf.

With love and anticipation,

Your daughter, Suzie

Memories of Dad soon to come

Hello all:

I've had the most of annoying of technical problems, which has prevented me from posting the letter to dad I read at his funeral and memorial services. But it is soon to come--I promise.

For now, please read the article below, and grab your kleenex first.

We have made it this last week through the whirlwind of a visitation, a funeral service in one state, a memorial service in another and a graveside service just for family.

Memories include my two-year-old niece declaring that the funeral home was "heaven" and that "him was sweeping there." An attendant at the funeral service (who had never met my father) broke down and went outside to compose himself. Grown men wept at his casket, his services were filled with holy joy, tears mingled with laughter, and a multitude of loved ones, including parishioners from each of his churches, college roommates, pastor and missionary friends, even those who had meant him only once (from charismatic to United Methodists to police officers) and walked away somehow changed.

He is loved, that is for sure. And he is free...

'Til death do us part -- and soulmates forever

(written 2 weeks before dad's homegoing)

Sooner, or sometimes later, in marriage, things get difficult. I know this not from personal experience, of course, but from watching and listening to others.

Friends have let me in to their relationships, and along the way, painted a picture of less-than-nuptial bliss; the two entities of each couple I’ve known each have their own pasts, their own preferences, and their own ideas of what’s “normal.” And so, the friction that initially sparks chemistry can turn into a fire that burns and illuminates selfishness, competing goals, and differing expectations.

If carefully tended, the fire will not char and destroy the union—but it takes a healthy dose of realism and tenacity. And, in my own opinion, supernatural help from God. Fifty percent of marriages in the US will make it. Fifty percent of those who marry, unfortunately, will divorce for a variety of reasons. (The divorce statistic is supposedly 60% for those who attend church, but don’t get me started as to why that might be.)


I was born into a union that God smiled on, was in the middle of, and one in which he still has his hands on today.

But this couple, my dear parents, could not have been more opposite if one had been born in backwoods Arkansas, and one in fast-paced Manhattan. He was studious, well-read, creative, romantic, highly affectionate, a laid-back procrastinator, and from a blended family on the east side of Michigan. She was also accomplished in her studies, but that seems to be where the similarity ends. She abhorred procrastination and tardiness; she often preferred acts of service over “I love yous” or flowers; she shyed away from spontaneity and was accomplished at balancing everything that needed to be done—and then some. And she was from ‘da U.P. of Michigan. And from a strict Baptist upbringing. Enough said.

Yes, life was interesting for these opposites. But 37 years later, although certain irritations and personality clashes still exist, they are deeply, divinely, in love.

And this is how I know. My father speaks of my mother with tenderness and gratitude these days. My mother speaks of dad with commitment and love and affection. I don’t believe that they started out as soulmates; but they are soulmates now. It’s a mystery born amidst the births of three daughters, and one son who was miscarried. They rubbed shoulders as my dad served as a pastor in several churches; my mom faithfully and willingly serving as his “woman behind the curtain.” Children married and established careers, grandchildren arrived. And no one doubted they would be partners for life. Even when they drove each other crazy!

Now that I look back on things, I don’t believe dad would have made it in ministry without her; I don’t believe mom would have wanted to do life without him.


Dad is feeble now. He has cancer everywhere, and to be honest, he may be going to meet Jesus within just a few weeks. So today, on father’s day, we gathered around his hospice bed, and stroked his legs, and kissed his head, and felt the tears gathering at the corners of our eyes.

And this is how I know my parents are soulmates, that they would do anything for each other.

This weekend, dad was lying there, and my mom entered the room after waking up from a nap and crossed over to his bed. And she leaned over him gently. He said, “Hi sweets, how was your nap?” And she “good.” And he said, “What did you dream about?” And she said “You, hubs.” And he said, “What was the dream?” And she smiled and said “That you were all better!” And he said, “That was a good dream.” And she laid her head down next to his.

And this is the truth, as true as I know how to tell it: my parents have had their ups and downs together, their jubilant highs and their very lows, but they have never given up on loving each other or being for each other. They grabbed on to God first, and knew that they would serve him as one. And they had their moments, they certainly still have their “opposites,” but they knew as long as they lived, they would also have each other.


Don’t you wish you could bottle this love, that you could find it everywhere? Oh, but its rarity makes it infinitely more precious.

And this is the kind of love I have waited for. The “I love you” that is less about red-hot chemistry than candid commitment; the heartfelt affection that seeks to give rather than take; the self-sacrificing heart that seeks to show love through the work of becoming one. When two individuals resolve to give and grow together—and to become soulmates at last.

You may have heard rumors of this kind of love before, or perhaps you have witnessed it or even experienced it yourself. But if you have not—if you, like me, are still waiting for your true love—take heart.

I have seen two people we might label a “contradiction,” love each other unselfishly, imperfectly, but faithfully. And their love glows red hot today, as he lies in his hospice bed, squeezing her hand, and she tends to his needs, lovingly, unselfishly, to the very end.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
I Corinthians 13:7-8a