The God of All Comfort

She started out as our neighbor; the woman with the big blonde hair and bright blue eye shadow dwelling across the street. It wasn't long before my sister made herself known and developed a new best friend. The woman with all that hair, living across the street, was no longer just a neighbor. She was my sister's best friend's mom. As typically happens, the years flew by and my sister was married. She became one with an annoying neighborhood kid. Not just any neighborhood kid, the brother to her very best friend; son to the woman with the big blonde hair. And this woman morphed into someone so much more; more than just a neighbor or a good friend's mom, she was now my sister's mother-in-law. She was now Nana to my niece and nephew. Our families were bound to be connected, we were destined to share lives.

And yesterday I had the opportunity to glimpse a little more into the life of this woman. She lived a bountiful one with three kids and four grandkids. And then she passed away. A few shared their stories of her. Some laughed, some cried, some simply sat, listening. It was her own sister, and then her preciously aged mother that broke my heart. It's the thing siblings and parents never anticipate- attending the funeral of a sister. A daughter. Everyone who ever lived has or will die. But we never expect it to happen to the ones we love so dearly.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.

And then that pastor shared from the Word. His crazy passion for Jesus and zeal for the scriptures saturated that room and filled every heart. He exhorted us with God's comfort, and compelled us to live for Jesus, "the only One worth living for."

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God."

"You know, this word comfort…" He began to proclaim. "It's not just any comfort. This is an uninterrupted kind of comfort."

And he shared with this family. He spoke directly to my sister, to my brother-in-law, to my niece and nephew, and then to everyone in that church. He exhorted us, and he reminded us. Isn't that what funerals often do? Don't they frequently turn back the clock? Reminding us of times back when, and of lives we've left behind? We are forced to take a few steps back and evaluate this world. Our world. What am I doing with myself? And where is Jesus in all of it?

"You remember your baptism?" He was all wound up over this long ago memory. "Remember how badly your back hurt? Remember the pain? Oh yeah, I remember. And I remember you saying this 'There's nothing that will keep me from getting baptized.'"

We all left that place feeling like there was hope. And I think Nancy, the one I remember from the age of seven, the one with the fancy blue eye shadow and memorable blonde curls, would have wanted it that way.

"Because Nancy loved Jesus!" He reminded anyone who dare forget. "And we WILL see her again!"

Do you love Jesus? Are you comforted by Him with an uninterrupted kind of comfort? When you leave this life, as we all must, will you wake to find yourself in His presence? Will your loved ones find hope and consolation on that day, knowing you will spend eternity with the Savior? Because "He's the only One worth living for."

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Grieving Grief

Gramma with my family. 2003

It hasn’t even been two years since she passed away. We’ve already celebrated two Thanksgivings, two Christmases without her. We’ve faced birthdays and barbeques that seemed void and empty because she wasn’t there. At first I thought life simply could not go on without her. I felt empty and alone. It seemed there was a vast whole which nothing else could fill. I would cry, I would get mad, I would question God: “I just don’t understand why You had to take her like that! Why didn’t You let us say good-bye or hug her one last time? Why did she have to go alone? Why couldn’t she have been found sooner? Lord, I don’t understand how You expect us to just pick up and go on!” Questions, questions, and more questions. All with a silent response; no answers or profound moments of understanding.

Death is inevitable, isn’t it? Every person alive today will die; there’s just no denying it, no escaping it. So why is it so hard to deal with? These are the things I pondered, yet again, throughout our Saturday. March 3, 2012. She would have turned 81, but she didn’t live past 79. Nobody knew it was coming, Nobody could have guessed she would fall and be found like that. Yes, she was my gramma, but she was more than a gramma to me. I grew up in her home. I ate her meals and vacuumed her carpets. I did her dishes and grew frustrated with her stubborn annotations. I watched her grow old, and she watched me grow up. I knew someday she would leave us, but somehow I thought she would live forever.

And the most difficult thing I now face- forgetting her. I feel so guilty even putting it out there. I stare at these words and am consumed with shame that I could ever cease thinking about her. But the truth is, it’s happening. At first it was too painful and I purposed to set my mind on anything but her. The tears were too many and the ache too deep. After a time, it became easier. I found myself going a whole day without the shedding of tears, and I was grateful. A day turned to days, days to weeks, and weeks to months. How could I go months without aching over the loss?

I’m afraid of forgetting. I’m afraid I won’t be able to close my eyes and see her face. I’m afraid it will become impossible to recall the sound of her voice. I’m afraid of forever losing the sight of those hands; hands that revealed not only decades of demanding labor and unbearable loss, but moments of accomplishment and perseverance. All those memories and years together; could they just disappear?

Saturday, March 3, 2012, I purposed to remember her. I purposed to reflect on the rock of this family and not let the memories fade with her aged body. I purposed to hear her voice and see her rocking in her favorite chair. I purposed to laugh about her coffee; the coffee we referred to as ‘colored water,’ about her Christmas tree buried beneath a blanket of ornaments, and about her endless yogurt containers she refused to dispose of.

I giggled out loud as I recalled that stick she half-hazardly shoved into the ground. The stick that actually grew into a real, living plant; no one else could accomplish this. I purposed to be thankful for turkey gravy only she could make, heaping piles of newspapers stacked beside her chair, and the bountiful flowers she surrounded herself with. I purposed to allow myself to simply feel- to feel frustration at her stubbornness; frustration that she wouldn’t let us take pictures of her and now we’re left with just a few. I purposed to recall everything I could about her. And I purposed to never, ever let myself forget.

Grief is real. Grief is strong. Grief is sometimes unbearable. But grief is also something I find myself clinging to; grasping after; grieving for. May I always grieve her, and may my children be granted permanent memories of her- memories that will last a lifetime.  

How do you keep your lost-loved ones alive? How do you keep the memories real and tangible? How do you go on with life and not let their faces, voices, and unique personalities fade with time? How do you do it?