To comfort, to remember, and to believe

I texted her a question on Christmas Eve morning, nothing real important, just a question. She answered it with this.

Christmas Eve morning. Just like that. He took him home, her dad, at the age of only 61. And, at that moment, life for her changed.

The last two days held the services that she planned for her dad. I watched as she smiled and greeted people she hadn’t seen for years, hugged many and comforted her own children. As I did, I thought more deeply about what it all meant, what it means to “pay respects” and “honor.”

Hundreds of people gathered over those two days at viewings and a church service and at the cemetery and for a meal. Some drove from across town; others drove across states. And, as different as everyone was, there was a unity between us all.

We gathered to comfort. 

My friend’s tears flowed freely, but she was not alone. Her mother and brothers, her husband and children, all grieving a great loss, none of them stood alone to face it. Friends and family dropped everything, putting life aside for a time, to hold them up. It’s what we do. It’s how we’re made—recognizing the significance of relationship and the pain that comes when a relationship is lost and knowing that in relationship, healing can begin. We need each other. My friend needed all of us beside her, and we needed to be there to say, “we know your heart is broken, and our hearts are aching to see it.” There is great comfort and hope that swells in relationships with people who cry when you cry, especially when there is no other reason for their tears except for your own.

We gathered to remember. 

The photos posted around the room of a father and grandfather throughout the years told stories, ones most of the people there will never hear but gave glimpses into the life of the man. People who hadn’t seen each other for years hugged and smiled and recalled old memories. The dichotomy of the tears and laughter felt somewhat familiar and oddly comfortable. At any given moment, a family member could be crying; the next moment, the same person could be laughing as someone reminder her of that time when…. The Bible uses some form of the word remember 231 times. There is something very significant about intentionally remembering. It helps us see everything more clearly. It helps us understand His hand in our lives and in a bigger story. When we remember those stories and special moments and when we listen as others remember, we better understand how He works and how we are created, how our earthly, horizontal relationships reflect our heavenly, vertical relationship with Him.

We gathered to believe.

I love attending weddings. I enjoy celebrating with a young couple in love, but I admit that I love more being reminded of our own wedding vows and the picture of the gospel that marriage provides. I always cry, and I always go home happy. I don’t love attending funerals. The emotions are high, and it is simply hard in every respect. Yet, there is something spiritually redeeming about funerals. We gather to comfort and remember, but we also gather to believe together. We gather so that we can borrow faith from each other and encourage each other to believe that even when we cannot make any sense of something, we trust the Sensemaker. As I watched my dear friend say goodbye to her dad, my belief grew in the One who made him, who used him for His purposes on this side of eternity, and who is enjoying him now as he also enjoys praising Him for the rest of eternity. In a most beautiful redemptive way, what could be a dreadful and sad event becomes a testimony to Him and an opportunity to say to all of those there who don’t know Him yet, “Hey—don’t miss this—there’s more to life than what’s right in front of you. This isn’t all there is.” The family can proclaim it. Every aspect of the service can proclaim it. And, somehow, that funeral becomes an outreach event allowing yet another opportunity for that person no longer here to do some real evangelism to everyone close.

Life will be different. Things will be hard; the pain will remain. The tears aren’t over.

And yet.

And yet.

There is comfort. There is joy in remembering. And, we believe.

I invite you to go by Nicole’s blog or Facebook page and give her your own words of comfort.