Grief.
On Sunday June 8, 2018 at 11:45 I got a phone call. I was standing in line at Subway with Tyson. We had just left church and had plans to drop Winnie of at my in-laws and spend the afternoon at the beach. I saw that the person calling was my sister, Carley. Tyson and I had just got home (three days earlier) from spending the Fourth of July with her and my brother-in-law and sweet nephew. So, immediately I figured that she was calling to check-in on my job search, or speak to me about something we had talked about earlier that week, I didn't realize that what she actually called to tell me would change my life forever.
She was yelling something, something not good. All I could hear was screaming and words like "HE...HOSPITAL....GONE...." With my heart beginning to beat a bit faster, I ran outside so that I could hear her better. After asking her to repeat what she said and who it was about (which I am so sorry I made her do) and many more failed attempts to get the message across all that I remember her saying was, "It's dad. He didn't make it. Haley, Dad is dead."
My world is forever changed because of that phone call.
You never believe it's going to be you. Two weeks later I still cannot believe that instead of distance or being a few states apart, forever is separating me from seeing my dad again. I still cannot believe that my mom has to live the rest of her life without the love of her life, me and my sisters have to live our lives without our dad, and Oakley and (if we are lucky) Tyson and my children someday will never get to be held by their grandpa.
You never believe you will have to be on the receiving end of condolences, or sympathy cards, or be the one who has to decide what type of flowers to put on top of your loved one's casket. Nevertheless, tragedy strikes and there you are.
I could go on and on about my disbelief in my dad's sudden death. I could continue to live in the reality that this isn't real life, and I am going to wake up soon. In fact, I have found myself praying the prayer I believe all those who mourn pray, that this is just a sad and twisted nightmare and that I would wake up again soon. But it's not a dream. And this is real life.
The thing about grief though, is that it gets you amidst the life you return to when the funeral is over, the casseroles have stopped being delivered, and you have to have small talk with the people who don't know your dad just died. Grief strikes you as you think about upcoming family celebrations, and as you talk to a kid on the sidewalk whose dad is on vacation and she misses him, and as you try to get your mouth to sing the words on the screen in worship which praise a God who is compassionate, merciful and whose love never fails.
That's where grief found me today. Amidst all of this I've been struggling to understand the scope of God's mercy and compassion and how allowing my dad to die falls within those categories of God's unchanging character. (Ironically, being a fresh graduate from seminary with theological training and education doesn't quite fully prepare you to deal with these questions firsthand.) With all that I know to be true about theology, how evil works, and even God's sovereignty, I can't help but wonder "What the heck are you doing God?!" I can't help but raise my fist in anger at something that just doesn't make any sense. This tragedy didn't feel merciful, and it sure doesn't feel like an act of compassion.
Grief often makes you lose all sense of truth, all sense of the promises that God has made to us. I've been wondering how grief is such a common experience among our human reality. I've been wondering how people, much stronger than myself, have had to deal with grief over and over again because of continual tragedy or loss. How do they manage to remember God's goodness, mercy, and love amidst all that grief?
I can't answer that for them. But I can answer what I think gives me some semblance of comfort even when I still feel so much pain.
For my dad's funeral, my mom asked me to read Lamentations 3:22-23 aloud. It feels almost too true that a book created for laments might actually provide a lens through which to process our grief. The passage says,
I've read this passage what feels like a million times in my life, times when I only now realize the pain I was feeling was maybe a mere 5 or 6 out of 10. While that pain was real, it feels like nothing compared to the gaping hole in my heart left by my dads death. Yet, I read this passage and I am struck anew by the living words spoken to me out of this book that we call sacred.
Its a simple thing really-- the language used by the author that allows me to hold a piece of hope.
We are not consumed.
Maybe this struck me with greater clarity because I am now aware of the power grief holds over a heart that feels broken. Grief feels all-consuming. When I heard the news about my dad, immediately I began to wonder how the week in Sioux Falls would be. I began to wonder how life would ever feel normal. I wondered if I would spend every hour of every day in sadness. The road trip to Sioux Falls was filled with periods of crying, and then silence, and then I would remember again and grief would consume me for a time.
Grief feels all-consuming.
You might be catching on to why this lament is speaking volumes to me as I continue to grieve but also find spurts of healing. God promises that we will not be consumed by the afflictions, the wanderings, the bitterness that leaves our souls downcast (see vv. 19-20). We will not be swallowed up by the grief that any of us carry. Grief will not be the last and the only emotion I feel for the rest of my life.
As I write, there is a part of me that holds this truth as a promise from God but also a petition. I pray that I may not be consumed. I pray that the grief would lessen and the burden of mourning might be lifted because I hope, and I think that Jesus mourns with us too.
She was yelling something, something not good. All I could hear was screaming and words like "HE...HOSPITAL....GONE...." With my heart beginning to beat a bit faster, I ran outside so that I could hear her better. After asking her to repeat what she said and who it was about (which I am so sorry I made her do) and many more failed attempts to get the message across all that I remember her saying was, "It's dad. He didn't make it. Haley, Dad is dead."
My world is forever changed because of that phone call.
You never believe it's going to be you. Two weeks later I still cannot believe that instead of distance or being a few states apart, forever is separating me from seeing my dad again. I still cannot believe that my mom has to live the rest of her life without the love of her life, me and my sisters have to live our lives without our dad, and Oakley and (if we are lucky) Tyson and my children someday will never get to be held by their grandpa.
You never believe you will have to be on the receiving end of condolences, or sympathy cards, or be the one who has to decide what type of flowers to put on top of your loved one's casket. Nevertheless, tragedy strikes and there you are.
I could go on and on about my disbelief in my dad's sudden death. I could continue to live in the reality that this isn't real life, and I am going to wake up soon. In fact, I have found myself praying the prayer I believe all those who mourn pray, that this is just a sad and twisted nightmare and that I would wake up again soon. But it's not a dream. And this is real life.
The thing about grief though, is that it gets you amidst the life you return to when the funeral is over, the casseroles have stopped being delivered, and you have to have small talk with the people who don't know your dad just died. Grief strikes you as you think about upcoming family celebrations, and as you talk to a kid on the sidewalk whose dad is on vacation and she misses him, and as you try to get your mouth to sing the words on the screen in worship which praise a God who is compassionate, merciful and whose love never fails.
That's where grief found me today. Amidst all of this I've been struggling to understand the scope of God's mercy and compassion and how allowing my dad to die falls within those categories of God's unchanging character. (Ironically, being a fresh graduate from seminary with theological training and education doesn't quite fully prepare you to deal with these questions firsthand.) With all that I know to be true about theology, how evil works, and even God's sovereignty, I can't help but wonder "What the heck are you doing God?!" I can't help but raise my fist in anger at something that just doesn't make any sense. This tragedy didn't feel merciful, and it sure doesn't feel like an act of compassion.
Grief often makes you lose all sense of truth, all sense of the promises that God has made to us. I've been wondering how grief is such a common experience among our human reality. I've been wondering how people, much stronger than myself, have had to deal with grief over and over again because of continual tragedy or loss. How do they manage to remember God's goodness, mercy, and love amidst all that grief?
I can't answer that for them. But I can answer what I think gives me some semblance of comfort even when I still feel so much pain.
For my dad's funeral, my mom asked me to read Lamentations 3:22-23 aloud. It feels almost too true that a book created for laments might actually provide a lens through which to process our grief. The passage says,
"Because of the Lord's great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness."
I've read this passage what feels like a million times in my life, times when I only now realize the pain I was feeling was maybe a mere 5 or 6 out of 10. While that pain was real, it feels like nothing compared to the gaping hole in my heart left by my dads death. Yet, I read this passage and I am struck anew by the living words spoken to me out of this book that we call sacred.
Its a simple thing really-- the language used by the author that allows me to hold a piece of hope.
We are not consumed.
Maybe this struck me with greater clarity because I am now aware of the power grief holds over a heart that feels broken. Grief feels all-consuming. When I heard the news about my dad, immediately I began to wonder how the week in Sioux Falls would be. I began to wonder how life would ever feel normal. I wondered if I would spend every hour of every day in sadness. The road trip to Sioux Falls was filled with periods of crying, and then silence, and then I would remember again and grief would consume me for a time.
Grief feels all-consuming.
You might be catching on to why this lament is speaking volumes to me as I continue to grieve but also find spurts of healing. God promises that we will not be consumed by the afflictions, the wanderings, the bitterness that leaves our souls downcast (see vv. 19-20). We will not be swallowed up by the grief that any of us carry. Grief will not be the last and the only emotion I feel for the rest of my life.
As I write, there is a part of me that holds this truth as a promise from God but also a petition. I pray that I may not be consumed. I pray that the grief would lessen and the burden of mourning might be lifted because I hope, and I think that Jesus mourns with us too.
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