Helping Them Say Goodbye

I'll never forget that day or the sound of her voice on the other end of the line. "I just can't do this anymore..." I could see the tears rolling down her face even though I was no where near her. You see, this was the job she went to school for. It was a job that she loved. A job, though she never saw herself as an overly compassionate person, God not only called her to but used her to begin the healing process of wounds which will never go away. 

My cousin was 8 months pregnant that November day. She had just sat with a family, a mother, a father, who were mourning the death of their newborn. She tendered her resignation only a short time later, not because she was overcome with grief that day but because she and her husband had always wanted her to be at home with the kids. 

My cousin is a funeral director by trade. To watch her work and scale the depths of her knowledge and wisdom is nothing short of amazing. She was the first, and still one of the only, of us grandkids who finished their schooling and obtained a degree. But watching God pull out the compassion He's poured into her during times of folks' deepest, darkest needs is a testament to His incomprehensible, intimate knowledge of exactly how he made  her and how He gifted her. 

So this morning, as I sit here in this cold parking lot, watching an overwhelmingly late 20s & early 30s group of *kids* make their way to the front doors to say goodbye to their friend, I wonder again - how did she do it?

How do you walk with people day in and day out "through the valley of the shadow of death"? How do you mourn with and grieve for people whom God places in your life for a moment in time? I quickly recognized the irony of the answer to my questions being contained within my questions. God. 

I found my way into the small chapel where folks had gathered. There was laughter; there were memories being recalled; there were tears which gave way to long, hard embraces. I watched all of these lives that had somehow been touched by the life we gathered to celebrate. 

This would be a first for me, a first for Brian. The funeral of a former student. A student who was the same age last week as so many of the adopted daughters we have gained through years of opportunities in loving youth. Young women who are a part of my everyday life. To imagine them suddenly gone is beyond breath stealing for me - it is what I begin my prayer for them each day to avoid. "God, keep (her) safe today. Be with her and remind her of your love. Give me words to say when my phone rings...." Then my mind shifted to the children God gave me the honor of giving birth to. My life without them would be diminished in purpose, in joy, in fullness. 

His "little" brother began to play his guitar. Worship has always been something our family has intentionally stressed during our Homegoing celebrations. But this time, not being married to the leader, I watched the toll that last gift took. His focus was glorifying God while remembering his brother. I later thanked him for the gift and sacrifice he made in love. 

But in that song sequence, he sang a song new to me, one I quickly texted Brian to remember. "Nothing Else" by Cody Carnes. 

I'm caught up in Your presence
I just want to sit here at Your feet
I'm caught up in this holy moment
I never wanna leave

My cousin. How many times had she found herself in the back of the room, praying for peace and comfort for families? What would she have told them?

Now, today, she would tell them that grief sucks. The hole left by his absence will not ever be filled. One day, one moment you will be fine. Then a smell, a sound, a song will send a cascade of emotions that you are unable to control or reign in. At first. 

She would tell them that it doesn't get easier. It gets different. That seeing him again one day may not be enough for this moment right here. That anger and regret and loneliness have all been a part of her own journey. 

But God. 

That same God who gave her the strength to meet with families day after day, with our mortality ever present and looming, meets her every morning as the sun comes up again. He hears her. He hears the anger in "it's just not fair". He hears the regret in "if we had only". He hears her cry in the lonely moments in a crowded room. And He doesn't shame her. He doesn't tell her she shouldn't feel that way or tell her to be more thankful for what she's had. He comes ever closer to her. He binds up that brokenness in the moment and quiets her fears. He is there with her, in her loneliness, whispering in the quiet, "I Am." 

That's what she would tell them. To cry. To wail. To scream. Then to sing. Even if it's only lips moving, sing. 

He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:3

Oh, I'm not here for blessings
Jesus, You don't owe me anything
And more than anything that You can do
I just want You