The death of a loved one presents a practical, emotional, physical and theological crisis of sorts. Jarred from the reality of total separation, the ones who continue to live enter a rather bizarre and unchartered journey. I say “unchartered” because this is how I am feeling at present in the loss of my father. (That's my Dad on Jordan's wedding day in December 2007. He and my mom flew to Grand Rapids to enjoy this big day in our family. It was our last time face to face.)
As a pastor for over 25 years, I always found myself in the role where I would give care to others in the wake of their loss. Now, it’s my turn to find my own way. I’m reflecting more about this because of my friendship with Lazarus, the dearly loved friend of Jesus and brother to the famous sisters, Mary and Martha. Over the past two years, Lazarus has taught me much about spiritual transformation. Now, he is again assuming that place of mentor and friend to open my eyes to understand more about grief and loss.
My father’s funeral seemed normal to me. My dad had written out specific instructions about what we should do and what we should not do following his death. We tried to follow his wishes which meant: bury his body before the memorial service, no open casket—he wanted to be remembered as being alive—not dead; an uplifting service with “no sad songs.” My father was a man who loved life and we sought to celebrate his life even though he was dead. I found myself thinking, “Dad would have liked this service.” Of course, he wasn’t anywhere near that church in Charlotte. He was in a much better place with a much desired group of friends and family.
Lazarus would not have known my father’s funeral customs. The Jewish methods of burial and grief are far, far from American practices. I am wishing now, that we could incorporate some of what the family of Lazarus experienced. I actually think it would have helped me more.
The Jewish custom was a full 7 day period of total mourning that was more private than public. The first seven days were days to be withdrawn, not out in public and not available to the urgent and pressing needs of others. When my dad died, I was immediately confronted with my schedule and calendar. How could we afford the instant purchase of airline tickets? How would we get word to our sons in far off places? What about the wedding I was suppose to perform? What about the two retreats where I had committed to help? For the Jews in Jesus’ day—everything stopped and the surviving family entered a place of solitude and seclusion to absorb what had happened and to work through their feelings. The 7 days of inital mourning were followed by 40 more days of mourning where dress, clothes, food and daily routine all focused around mourning the loss; not going on. To be honest, it's precisely here that I'm struggling a bit. I'v cancelled more than I've held in regard to my calendar. I"ve gotten some emails from people wondering how I could cancel counseling sessions when their marriage needs my help. I have not responded to their emails yet. Still pondering just what to tell them. How can I give, what I do not have? That's the most important question, Gwen is forcing me to face each day of my grief journey at present.
This is precisely what we see in the story of Lazarus’ death. Jesus walked in late and the passive aggressive sisters confronted him, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” Both of them asked this in two different times. This is what we call “bargaining.” I’ve done some of that. I wish I could have talked more with my Dad before he died. I assumed we would have a more in-depth conversation about the book I was writing. Instead, I had to settle—no, I will have to settle for a phone call where we processed the book’s content and my father’s and my relationship throughout the book.
I like the fact in Lazarus’ death; people came and joined in the grief. They were physically present. Present to the tomb—the actual place where his body was placed; present to the grieving sisters and present to Jesus when he finally showed up.
To be honest, I’m really processing this sense of being present with someone in their grieving hours. I received a host of emails, voice mails and text messages filled with condolences and expressions of loss. My pastoral care from my church consisted of a voice mail from my pastor expressing his sympathy. I think I wanted something more. I think I needed something more. For me, there’s nothing that can replace a hug. When some one drops what they are doing; decides that your loss is more important than their gain of errands, work or other priorities; decides that a person who has lost a father, friend, child or spouse needs nothing more than just an act of showing up…that to me seems like the Gospel that Jesus intended and love in Jesus’ name.
At my father’s funeral, I stood beside my sister to give a remembrance of our father. But as I looked out upon the folks who had gathered, my eyes locked on a friend who drove 3 hours to just show up. He had barely met my Dad. But he knew me well. He knew what love would look like and he left his wife and small children and drove that journey to just show up. I will never, ever forget that kind, gracious, lavish act of love. I stood there looking at him, and then searched for words to try to say. I was one of the moments of being sincerely “choked up” and as I reflect back on my Dad’s funeral, about all I see is this friend’s face. This has made me wonder if I showed up for my friends who lost someone important or if I was more caught in my world than theirs. Lord, please forgive me.
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