Nine years ago today, my dad went to be with Jesus. His sudden passing was an absolute shock; a stunning blow to the soul. And as I reflect back on all the events of the few days between his death and burial, one common theme rises from the ashes of tremendous loss and grief: Community.
I remember, of course, getting the call. Dad had suffered a major stroke in, of all places, Cape Cod. He and mom were vacationing. What I remember next is a colleague, Margaret, who put her own work aside to find flight options for me. When she quietly presented me a list of options almost an hour later as I was racing off to home, I was overwhelmed with gratitude that the details which are so difficult for me had already been sorted through. The hard work of flight planning was done. On to the next challenge.
So much of the travel is a total blur. I remember arriving at the hospital, though, to find nurses who had decided there were two patients behind a small curtain in intensive care: my dad, who was dying, and my mom, who was hanging on by a thread. I quickly saw that both of my parents were receiving the highest level of care as a nurse wrapped my mom’s shoulders in a warm blanket.
I also remember a pastor, whose name I cannot tell you anymore, who picked up from his regular flock when he heard of our crisis and made the trip to Cape Cod hospital to sit with my mom. She should not be alone in these hours. And thanks to this kind and gentle spirit, she wasn’t.
I remember saying goodbye to dad.
I remember the longest trip of my life, the car ride and flight home. I’ve traveled to Hawaii and California before, but the miles home from Cape Cod seemed to take days. When we arrived home, we were exhausted. We’d been ministered to for several days by total strangers, and now we would be ministered to by the best of friends. Here is a sampling of what I remember in the foggy days that followed:
I can vividly see my mother-in-law clinging to the cabinets in the kitchen, perched on a counter top of my childhood home. She had descended shortly after our return with two good friends, Lynne Alexander and Nancy Janosik, to clean every nook and cranny of the home. These women worked quietly and diligently. They left the rooms sparkling.
My father-in-law showed up to cut the grass and manicure the lawn.
I remember shopping at Regency Square with my mom to try to find a fitting garment for mom to wear to my dad’s funeral service. All of this was so unplanned, and the right attire just wasn’t in her current wardrobe. I remember Regency so well because my friend Melinda Priest met us there. I remember that she shouldered the load of it all with me for a few hours, and I could breathe again.
I remember planning the funeral, picking the flowers, naming the pall bearers and putting together the program. People came out of the woodwork to help us.
I remember greeting what seemed like a million people at the funeral home. I also remember Melinda coming to pull me and my family, one by one, from the line, to make sure we had a break, something to drink, and enough food. Two good friends brought us Applebee’s takeout. I remember it.
I remember that my husband was an absolute rock.
The funeral is a real blur to me, but what I remember next is the graveside service. I sat in those funny little chairs under the shade of the tent on a day that must’ve been 100 degrees, seriously. I sweated it out while my dear father was lowered into a grave. And then I stood and turned to see my most favorite memory of the whole grueling week: standing behind me with their hands on the chairs were some of my dearest friends. The sun was shining so brightly behind them. When I close my eyes, I still see these friends: Jason and Melinda, Jay and Nicole, Wendy and Ben…
I remember a delicious meal at the church, prepared by a family friend. (Joyce, I’ll be you didn’t know you’d have to feed hundreds of people when you signed up for the task. I am overwhelmed with gratitude that mom and I didn’t have to put together a meal in our home for all of the well-wishers. You served us mightily that day.)
I am winding down now. But the last thing I think about is a cooler on my porch. I know it seems strange. My wonderful community of sisters didn’t let a day pass for over a month that the cooler wasn’t filled with something for me to eat. Cheryl Ingram, I remember your pot-pie with the cross delicately cut out of the top. Stacy, your spaghetti. Catherine, you organized it all so well. I never knew what was coming next; I only knew I didn’t have to think about it. This was an amazing gift of love and service.
This past week, I was looking again at Ecclesiastes 3. You know the passage I am talking about. It begins, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven,” and it goes on to list them. Life, death. Tearing down, building up. Mourning, dancing. Searching, giving up. And the list goes on.
After a lengthy sampling of life’s ups and downs, the writer simply states “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” (Ecc. 3:11)
For a long time, those words were difficult for me.
How is death beautiful? How can we celebrate concepts like mourning? Tearing down? Giving up?
In my own loss, time has brought perspective. Perhaps, through a community of both strangers and friends, God has woven beauty through the cords of loss and grief. Perhaps He showed His hand of mercy through the many who helped to carry this load.
Yes, for me, God has truly brought beauty from ashes. For each of you who played a part in this transformation by a generous word or deed, thank you.
I will always miss my father. Each of you has helped, though, to remove the sting of death. Because in each of you, I see the hope of Christ.
And I am reminded that I will be with my dad again. Because hope does not disappoint.
