Posts
Saturday, December 15
remembering how to grieve
The main reason I'm glad to be blogging is that I'm glad to be writing. For so long it was central to my life (not only was I one of those black-wearing, self-centered, moody teenagers who penned a poem for every so-called tragic event, I actually have two degrees related to the craft). But kid raising, church raising and, early on, some hell raising have often forced my writing impulse to stand in line behind things like sleep, work and the much-easier outlet of whining.
I've missed out on many things by letting writing go, but one of the main things I think I lost was the ability to grieve well. I used to bleed my losses in words, successfully preventing festering bitterness or apathy from settling into life's inevitable wounds.
Recently I've received more than the regular scrape to my soul: my older brother Kevin died in late November after a year's fight with colon cancer. And while that sounds terrible and sad and tragic -- and it is -- there's more to the story than you know.
Kevin was eight years older than I, but at the same time many years younger, because Kevin was mentally handicapped since birth. Millions and millions of people actually know Kevin through a story I wrote about him in grad school that was published by Christianity Today and has been forwarded via email around the globe.
I have been grieving Kevin's death as best I know how, but try as I might, I cannot be sad, and I'll tell you why:
I once read a story about a girl named Ruby who was dying, shrinking from fear at the thought of the splendors of heaven because it wouldn't be what she "was used to." The friend who sat with her at the end could not say comforting words, because what Ruby said was true. She had lived her life for fleeting pleasure and vain pursuit. The friend left Ruby to die that night with the conviction that it would not be the same way with her at the end of life, shrinking from fear of something unknown. She committed to fight for the kingdom of God -- the best and the highest goals -- right then and right there.
She resolved that night to begin the life of heaven on earth.
Kevin did that without even trying. He lived his life as a intimate friend of God. He spoke to Jesus out loud on a daily basis, just as if He were standing in the room. He spontaneously burst into worship, even in those last weak days of his life. Kevin knew God. He lived the life of heaven on earth.
When Kevin closed his eyes for the last time here and they flickered open in heaven, I don't think he felt much differently. I don't think he acted much differently. He simply got up, free from the pain and disease and mental haze that had held him back, and continued his conversation with Jesus.
Who can be sad about that?
I've missed out on many things by letting writing go, but one of the main things I think I lost was the ability to grieve well. I used to bleed my losses in words, successfully preventing festering bitterness or apathy from settling into life's inevitable wounds.
Recently I've received more than the regular scrape to my soul: my older brother Kevin died in late November after a year's fight with colon cancer. And while that sounds terrible and sad and tragic -- and it is -- there's more to the story than you know.
Kevin was eight years older than I, but at the same time many years younger, because Kevin was mentally handicapped since birth. Millions and millions of people actually know Kevin through a story I wrote about him in grad school that was published by Christianity Today and has been forwarded via email around the globe.
I have been grieving Kevin's death as best I know how, but try as I might, I cannot be sad, and I'll tell you why:
I once read a story about a girl named Ruby who was dying, shrinking from fear at the thought of the splendors of heaven because it wouldn't be what she "was used to." The friend who sat with her at the end could not say comforting words, because what Ruby said was true. She had lived her life for fleeting pleasure and vain pursuit. The friend left Ruby to die that night with the conviction that it would not be the same way with her at the end of life, shrinking from fear of something unknown. She committed to fight for the kingdom of God -- the best and the highest goals -- right then and right there.
She resolved that night to begin the life of heaven on earth.
Kevin did that without even trying. He lived his life as a intimate friend of God. He spoke to Jesus out loud on a daily basis, just as if He were standing in the room. He spontaneously burst into worship, even in those last weak days of his life. Kevin knew God. He lived the life of heaven on earth.
When Kevin closed his eyes for the last time here and they flickered open in heaven, I don't think he felt much differently. I don't think he acted much differently. He simply got up, free from the pain and disease and mental haze that had held him back, and continued his conversation with Jesus.
Who can be sad about that?
0 comments:
Post a Comment