Goodbye Forever?

Today I'm still a jumble of emotions and tears.

Yesterday, I attended a funeral for the father of one of my dearest friends. I'd only met him twice. Once at the funeral of his sister-in-law, and once at the wedding of his granddaughter. I'm sure he would never have remembered that if we had been introduced a third time.

But that doesn't matter much because I will never forget him.

For years, I prayed for this man. For his health. For his well-being. For his family. His health has been borderline for a long time and each time there was a scare, I would pray anew for healing. But my constant prayer was that my friend would have the assurance of  his father's salvation before God called him home. I knew there was uncertainty, and I knew it weighed heavy on my friend's heart.

The past few months have been a roller coaster ride. Major surgery. A dire prediction for recovery. An all out miracle as the man who wasn't supposed to make it through the next 5 minutes, made it to the next morning, the next day, the next week. After a short time in rehab, he was sent home. We praised God for all He had done.

Then not long ago, a new problem surfaced and the complications began to roll in wave upon wave. I'm sure the questions I asked of God  were being echoed by his loved ones. Why did God perform such a miracle of healing, only to have him back in dire straights?

A week or so ago, my friend sat by his father's bedside. He asked the hard questions. "Dad, do you know Christ as your Savior?" "Will you go to heaven when you die?" My friend opened his Bible and went through the steps to ensure his father understood. His dad responded that yes, he understood and Christ was his Savior. Other family members received similar assurances as they too broached the subject of eternity during those last days.

When I learned of those encounters I wept at the answer to prayer. It had been the desire of my heart for a long time that my friend would know with certainty he would see his father again.

God chose ultimate healing for this man. On August 6th, he was called home. The celebration of his life was filled with stories...some funny, some touching. But the most important stories were the ones where he affirmed his belief in the Savior and his assurance that he would spend eternity with Him.

So why am I still crying?

Not because I knew this man well, I didn't.

In part because I love my friend and when he hurts, my heart hurts for him.

In part because I know and care about many of his family members and I understand the difficulty of losing a loved one - even though we who know Christ don't grieve as the world does because of our assurance of heaven.

But in large part, my tears come because of my own family members and the uncertainty of their eternal future.

Funerals cause reflection. We think of our own mortality. We wonder when we might be in the same position of saying goodbye to a loved one who is older or is in poor health.

But even in that reflection, we don't necessarily consider the fact that this life is but a vapor and we are not given assurance of tomorrow or even the rest of today. Sadly, we can say goodbye to a healthy person or someone in the prime of life just as easily as our elders and the sick.

We may not be given the extra time to sit by a bedside and outline God's gift of salvation as my friend did for his father.Therefore, we need to live each moment to its fullest. We need to take each opportunity we're given to share John 10:10 which states Christ came for that very reason - so we might live life to the full because of John 3:16.

So share Christ when you can, but always pray. For those you love. For your neighbors. For your co-workers. For those who would do you harm. For those you've never met...or maybe, only met twice.

I don't ever want to know the pain of losing someone I cherish without the certainty that I will see them again, but with all the troubles in this life, it's often easy to pray for immediate needs and bypass the eternal one.

If days like yesterday remind me to pray for the salvation of my family and others, then the tears are welcome and not without purpose.

Permission to Grieve

As I stood in the recessed archway of the now empty dining room, the memories came flooding back.

This was the spot that sold me on this house 28 years ago. 

I had been 8 months pregnant with my first child when we first walked through the front door, so I knew time was of the essence in finding a place bigger than our one bedroom apartment.

Still, I really didn't want to buy a semi, or as some call it, a duplex. And I definitely didn't want to buy in the city. But when I saw this perfect little alcove for my piano, it made me change my mind.

The plan was 5 years, then sell the house and move to someplace in Suburbia.

But plans rarely go, well, as planned, do they? 

We had a second child, money got tight, life took over, and time just flew.

So there I was, 28 years later, once again looking at the alcove, thinking about how much everything has changed.

The baby who was born just 2 weeks before we signed the mortgage papers is 28 now. Married last October and considering a family of her own. The second child is almost as old as I was when we bought the house. I'm divorced-almost 4 years. And my piano? Given away to a friend because there was no place for it in my new apartment.

Yes, I've moved. After a year of ups and downs, court papers and prayers, it seemed clear that God's plan was for me to leave this house.

But it's been more than just a move. The past year has been one of loss. 

I hadn't thought of it that way at first. I mostly thought of it as change. 

But the truth is, there have been many losses, large and small. The house, the piano, the many things with sentimental attachment that had to be sold or given away because there's nowhere to store them.  The neighbors who have cared for me cutting my grass, shoveling my walk, keeping a watchful eye on my home. My space and my privacy. It is much harder to be undisturbed in a 4 room apartment than a 7 room, 3 story house. Even the loss of sleep as I try to acclimate to a smaller, less comfortable bed.

I've wrestled with God over a lot of this. Asked Him lots of questions. I'm not angry. Just kind of confused about how and where He's leading in all of this. And kind of sad about all the loss.

I love Ephesians 3:20, but this current circumstance is certainly less than I've asked for or imagined. 

So I have to ask myself, does that make the promise any less true?

No.

God still loves me. He's still in control. Still working things together for my good. Still able to do abundantly more than I can ask or imagine. 

But I can still mourn that which has been removed.

Yesterday's sermon was on renewal. The pastor closed by quoting Ephesians 3:20 and said "The altar is open. If you have a burden, come forward and leave it here." It isn't something we do every week in my church. I didn't know the invitation would be given when I got there.

As I went forward and knelt, I couldn't pray. Tears began to flow and they became unstoppable, silent sobs. I stayed kneeling until the singing began again, then quickly slipped into my seat down in front. I sat in the sanctuary until most were gone, not wanting to-not even sure I could-explain my tear-stained face.

My pastor came over and asked what was wrong. I blurted out a mish mosh of everything, nothing, and I just don't know. That's when he said to me "you've been through a lot lately Toni. It's okay to give yourself permission to grieve."

I can't tell you how freeing that was. 

I'd been looking for the bright side in all of this a long time. And when friends encouraged me with "it's an exciting new chapter" I knew it was true, but couldn't always feel it. 

My pastor's words spoke such comfort to me. We don't have to have it altogether all the time. Life isn't tied up with a bow. Sometimes, we experience loss. And sometimes, we just need permission to grieve before we move on to those new chapters in life. 

And that's okay.