It’s very hard to write eloquently about a subject that’s already been written into the ground. A death in the family tears you off of your feet and out of the everyday, unwilling, stunned into silence, glancing over your shoulder at what should have been as you begin walking the rut of the mourner. Gather at Mom’s house, wash dishes, murmur reassurances of eternal life through Jesus that land on unwilling ears. Bake the casserole, wipe off the table, wince as you overhear every unfeeling cliché being directed at the widower. And as you work you pine away for the normal, not just for yourself but for the whole family. You’d rather Sunday never happened. If only we could be grocery shopping, solving math problems at the school table, putting in the next load of laundry. At this time of year we should be at Mom’s house to decorate Christmas cookies. Instead we keep busy with glasses and hot plates and the napkin pile as Mom prepares to bury her youngest child.
And yet there is a gift: we are reminded that we are alive. We have today. We remember that we are here on Earth for a reason. At this moment my reason is to set out bagels for those who mourn, to hold people I love close to me, to put out the butter bells. But the next moment it may be to share the reason for the hope that I have. And in so doing my faith ignites and burns, my love for He who is in me is renewed, and I am once more brought to my knees, so grateful for a God who came to Earth as a baby to deliver us. Through death, we sometimes find life, again.