To Whom Shall I Go?

Four weeks. It’s been four weeks since I last saw my Dad and my big brother. Four weeks since an easter egg hunt in the backyard at my parent’s house. Four weeks since my brother held his son’s hands and cheered while he took wobbly steps toward my mom. Four weeks since my dad asked me to make him a cup of tea. Four weeks since we sat down to the last meal my brother would make for us.

Tomorrow it will be four weeks since I got the call from my mom. Four weeks since a man, under the influence of methamphetamine, drove a dump truck through a stop sign at the precise moment my dad and my big brother were driving home from work. Four weeks since that truck flipped onto their car, killing them both.

Four weeks since I prayed for them, for hours, not knowing they were already dead. Four weeks since I shook with rage and grief and tears. Four weeks since time split in half, one track in my mind continuing into the direction of how everything should be and the other track stuck in the nightmare of this reality that doesn’t feel real.

How am I doing? How am I doing? How am I doing?

That’s the question people keep asking, and I keep not knowing how to answer. I finally settled on, “hanging in there!” because it’s just vague enough that the other person doesn’t feel uncomfortable while also carrying the tiny seed of truth that I’m barely hanging on by a thread.

The thread is this one moment in the gospel of John that has been on repeat in my head. Jesus was teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum and had just finished saying “Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.” And it says they talked among themselves about this being a “hard teaching,” and then many of them “turned back and no longer walked with him.”

Then there’s this moment when Jesus looks at the twelve disciples and says, “Do you want to go away as well?” and Peter says, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know that you are the Holy One of God.”

He doesn’t say, “Lord, I totally understand this teaching and I think it’s a really great one and I’m definitely going to keep following you.” He doesn’t pretend to understand or even agree, but he says, “To whom shall we go?”

I rarely read the gospels and see myself in Peter. But this passage - right now - is something I am clinging to and saying to myself over and over and over.

I don’t understand. I am angry. So angry. I want to scream and smash things. I want the comfort of the Lord and yet he feels so absent, like a door slammed in my face the moment I need him the most. I don’t understand that either. I wish it weren’t so. I wish I could feel that peace that passes understanding. I wish I could pray. I wish I could hear the still small voice of God instead of this deafening silence.

But Lord, to whom shall I go? You have the words of eternal life, and I have believed and I have come to know that you are the Holy One of God.

That’s all I have right now. May it be enough.

Today I am Held Up

I can remember March 4, 2018 - the day my Uncle Lee passed away suddenly - with shocking clarity. I can’t remember what I did two days ago but I can remember that day two years ago with such detail it would stun you. I remember the weather: unseasonably warm, bright sunshine, but I still wore a coat because of the wind. I remember spending an hour in prayer that morning and feeling God’s presence in a way I hadn’t in months. I remember walking to the park to play tennis with some borrowed racquets, my phone buzzing in the coat of my pocket, my mom’s voice asking where I was and telling me to come to the hospital. I remember it taking too long to get back to my car. I remember thinking my husband was driving too slow on the interstate. I remember John Mark McMillan was playing so low I couldn’t determine the song but it must be him because his CD was stuck in the player. I remember trying to pray but only managing short words like “please” and “no.” I remember meeting my cousin in the Walmart parking lot and driving her with us to the hospital. I remember the parking spot, the color of the tiles on the floor, the exact words: "massive heart attack," "everything we could," "do you want to see him?" 

Our pastor told us grief never ends, the waves just get smaller and farther apart. Most days I don’t have any idea what will trigger a wave, but today is different. I know March 4 on the calendar, and I know to brace myself, to give myself grace when grief comes out sideways and I’m irritated over nothing, to eat Oreos when I want to eat Oreos, to keep busy.

Last year on March 4 the day felt mysteriously peaceful and I thought it was some fluke. Today feels mysteriously peaceful as well - maybe because I'm bracing myself, maybe because of the Oreos. I think it's more than that though. I feel held up.

My dear friend Maggie has texted me on every "big" day to tell me she's praying for me. I FaceTimed Emily this morning and we talked about doing things that remind us of him: sitting in Starbucks on the internet, checking the internet speed, and eating m&ms. My Mom texted me and we have lunch planned together later. My mother-in-law texted me to say she's praying. There's nothing I could have done to deserve such kindness, but these things are keeping me afloat today. The waves are coming, as I knew they would, but they're smaller and farther apart, and I'm being buoyed above them by the prayers and love of family and friends.

On This Day, Two Years Ago

Today marks two years since my Aunt Shell passed away. Two years since I got a phone call from my dad and knew what he was going to say before the words tumbled out of his mouth. Two years since I wept in a stairwell before driving to their house where I would weep even more. 

After she died, I saw her everywhere - a woman with a similar haircut at church, someone her height in an aisle at Target, someone driving the same car as hers. I dreamed about her, my brain trying to process her loss when I wasn’t even conscious, and woke up in tears wondering if that would be the last time. Eventually - I’m not sure when - I stopped seeing her at every corner and dreaming about her. Honestly there’s some relief in it; it’s been months since I’ve felt that drop in my stomach after glancing at a blond woman across the room and realizing it isn’t her, can’t be her. 

After she died our pastor told us that grief never ends, the waves just get less intense and farther apart. I wonder if this is what he meant.

So much has happened in these two years without her. I was pregnant and gave birth to Abigail, Emily and Aaron graduated high school, Ryan graduated law school and married Kim, there were birthdays and Christmases and Disney vacations. At every missed event her absence was felt, sharply, painfully. The pain of today is different though, almost a dull ache. 

Two years ago, we felt the sting of death. And though we don’t grieve as those who have no hope, we do still grieve. Today is achy - and honestly every day is achy in its own way since losing her - and though I know Jesus has the final say and death will lose, today still hurts. 

We’re a little more than halfway through the Advent season and ‘tis the season for us all to talk a lot about the already, but not yet Kingdom of God. Jesus has already died and rose from the dead defeating sin and death, but we are not yet in the new heaven and new earth where there is no death or sin or tears. The tension between these two truths, which are both truths to be sure, is weighty and awkward and hurts more than I think I can bear some days. That day two years ago felt an awful lot like just a “not yet” day, but the “already” was there too. 

Today I will put on a shirt that used to be hers. I will be led in worship by sweet Emily at our church. And then I will eat way too much pasta at her favorite Italian place because the day would be just too sad without some good old fashioned carbs. This is the already, not yet. It is hard and sad and good and glorious all at the same time. Thanks be to God.