Psalm 90: A walk with Moses

It all gets swept away. Or perhaps it’s that we are swept away, like pieces of bark on a river, unable to turn back, pressed against snags and stones. The banks slide by; one glimpse, and the things we pass are gone. And finally, the inevitable: worn down by time and decay, we fragment, break apart, particles mixing into the water like dust.

Fragile. Troubled. Uncertain. That is life. A wild flower scorched by the sun, blown by the wind, its blossom fallen and its beauty forgotten (Ps 103:15-16; Job 14:2; Jas 1:10-11). Grass that springs up new in the morning but by evening is dry and withered (Ps 90:5; Isa 40:6-7). A fleeting breath, an evening shadow that fades away (Ps 102:11, 109:23, 144:4; Job 7:7, 8:9, 14:1-2).

It’s not a comfortable thought. But it’s not one that I can avoid. We live with the possibility that my husband’s cancer may return. My son’s chronic ill health continues. There are changes in work and ministry. My mentor, the woman who helps me navigate these things, is moving away.

Have you ever experienced an earthquake? I have. Though perhaps it was a meteorite that shook the ground—I don’t remember now. What I do remember is the nightmarish sensation of the earth moving underfoot, as if it had turned from solid to liquid; the sense that something you took for granted, didn’t even notice, firm under your feet, could no longer be counted on.

I am standing on shifting ground. Loss and grief and change threaten, and there is nothing I can do to control them. I want to cling to the things and people I depend on, hold tight and not let go. But I am helpless to stop the inevitable, protect those I love, prevent them from leaving, keep them whole, preserve their lives, my life, even for a day.

So I open Psalm 90. I walk with Moses, this “man of God” who knew such great salvation and such deep sorrow. If anyone was familiar with the fragility of life, it was Moses, who watched a whole generation die in the desert. His words are bleak: our days, even the best of them, are full of trouble and sorrow; they quickly pass and we fly away, swept up in the sleep of death, turned back to dust; our years, seventy or eighty if we have the strength, finish with a moan.

Yet there is something that will never change, and it is there in the opening verse of the Psalm: God himself. He is “our dwelling place in all generations”. “From everlasting to everlasting” he is Lord. “A thousand years” in his sight “are but as yesterday when it is past”. Like Moses, we cry to him for mercy, help and salvation, for his love does not fail. He alone can establish the work of our hands.

Life is brief, full of loss and change. The people and things we depend on are fragile and fleeting. We can’t hold onto them. We can’t even direct our own path. But there is one thing that never alters, one thing we can count on, and that is God himself. He is from everlasting to everlasting. He is our strong and secure dwelling place. We take refuge in him.

Father, “teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Ps 90:12).

This post first appeared at GoThereFor.com.

what I'm reading: preparing for death

The day of death is the greatest day that a Christian can ever experience in this world because that is the day he goes home, the day he walks across the threshold, the day he enters the Father's house.

You won't find a shelf labelled "death" at your local Christian bookstore. Have a look, and tell me if I'm wrong. My guess is that you'll find shelves marked "marriage" and "prayer", but probably not a section on dying.

Your local Puritan bookstore (if there was such a thing) would have been different. You'd find plenty of books on marriage and prayer - the Puritans were great practical theologians - but there'd also be a shelf labelled "dying well". And that's not because they were gloomy do-gooders, as the stereotype goes, but because they were wise and happy realists.

We could do with more modern Christian books on death. Not just on the practical aspects of dying or the stages of grief, but on how to "do death well", with faith and hope and courage. Death is something we will all come to. It's scary and overwhelming, and it would be good for us to know how to prepare for it.

And so I'd like to recommend RC Sproul's Surprised by suffering: a book about suffering with a particular focus on death. Despite the topic, it's not dreary or depressing, but joyful and uplifting. I suggest you read it now. Don't save it for the time you need it, when you may not be able to read at all.

To encourage you today, and to whet your appetite for more, here's a brief sample:

We have considered suffering as a vocation. Dare we think of death as a vocation, too? ... Every one of us is called to die ... Sometimes the call comes suddenly and without warning. Sometimes it comes with advance notification. But it comes to all of us. And it comes from God. ...

Because of Christ, death is not final. It is a passage from one world to the next. ...

The valley of the shadow of death is a valley where the sun's rays often seem to be blotted out. To approach it is to tremble. We would prefer to walk around it, to seek a sage bypass. But men and women of faith can enter that valley without fear ...

God will not send us where He refused to go Himself ...

The valley of the shadow of death is not a box canyon. It is a passageway to a better country ... The goal of the vocation of death is heaven itself. But there is no route to heaven except through that valley.

Quotes are from RC Sproul Surprised by suffering 39, 49-56.

what I'm reading: in sickness, what should I pray?

Because I believe his plans for me are better than what I could plan for myself, rather than run away from the path he has set before me, I want to run toward it. I don't want to try to change God's mind—his thoughts are perfect. I want to think his thoughts. I don't want to change God's timing—his timing is perfect. I want the grace to accept his timing. I don't want to change God's plan—his plan is perfect. I want to embrace his plan and see how he is glorified through it. I want to submit.

Nancie and David Guthrie lost two babies to Zellweger syndrome, a rare genetic disease. Their second child Hope only lived for six months, and it wasn't an easy life: "These babies are blind, probably deaf, unable to suck, coo, or respond in any intentional way".

Knowing that there was a one in four chance that any other child would have the disease, David underwent a vasectomy; but Nancy became pregnant, and prenatal testing showed that this baby would also die. They lost Gabriel at six months.

You can imagine that they were encouraged to pray for healing. I'm sure they did, and rightly so. But Nancy says - and I think she's right - that there are bigger and better things to pray for.

Often, I see the body of Christ put so much into pursuing God for healing. With great boldness and passion and persistence, we cry out to God, begging for physical healing. And in these prayers, there is often a tiny P.S. added at the end where we say, 'If it be your will.'

But shouldn't we switch that around?

Shouldn't we cry out to God with boldness and passion and persistence in a prayer that says, "God, would you please accomplish your will? Would you give me a willing heart to embrace your plan and your purpose? Would you mold me into a vessel that you can use to accomplish what you have in mind?" And then, perhaps, we could add a tiny P.S. that says, "and if that includes, healing, we will be grateful."

Isn't real faith revealed more through pursuing God and what He wants than by pursuing what I want?

We often hear people talk about the "victorious Christian life." But isn't the life of a Christian really more about bending the knee, humbling ourselves, and taking up a cross?

I don't know what the cross will look like for you. I just know it will require a death to your desires and your dreams to carry it. And it won't be easy.

But I also know that as you die to yourself. God's life will take root and grow within you.

Holding on to Hope 78-81.

what I'm listening to: nothing can harm me

Last night I listened to an encouraging sermon about why we don't need to fear so-called random events.

Our pastor told us this story:

John Chrysostom was a church father in the fourth century known for his preaching.

When he was a young Christian he was brought before the emperor, who told him that if he didn't give up being a Christian he would be exiled from the country.

Chysostom replied, "You cannot banish me because the whole world belongs to my father."

Then the emperor said, "I will take away your property."

"You cannot", replied Chysostom, "because my treasures are in heaven."

So the emperor warned him that he would place him in solitary confinement.

Chrysostom responded, "You cannot, because I have a friend who is closer than a brother, I have Jesus Christ forever."

Finally the emperor threatened him, "We will execute you."

To which Chrysostum said, "You cannot, because my life is hidden with God.

There is nothing you can do to harm me!"

It was a wonderful reminder that nothing can ever really harm us, because nothing - not even death - can separate us from the love of Christ (Romans 8:28-29).


You can find John's ongoing sermon series here.

with the Lord forever on the other side of cancer

My friend Bronwyn Chin died last Sunday. It was Easter Day, the day we celebrate Jesus' resurrection from the dead, which seemed so fitting! For Bronwyn was always full of joy in her Saviour, and this was the day she joined him in life on the other side of death.

I only met Bronwyn last year, when I was blessed to be in a prayer group with her at a weekend conference. She was alarmingly skinny, with what she called "rock chic" hair; but she was still full of enthusiasm and laughter! We prayed for her neighbours, whom she invited over regularly so she could talk with them about Jesus. I was inspired by how she served God with all her small reserves of energy.

The day I heard the news I discovered that jogging when you're crying isn't easy. I couldn't stop thinking about and praying through tears for her husband Richard and their four children. My heart is heavy for them because I know that grief is hard. That aching absence always feels so final, even when you know it's not.

Today I'm re-reading a wonderful article Bronwyn wrote last year. It's called Thank God for the gift of cancer. In it she writes,

So I thank God for this gift of cancer because he is good and he is using it for his purposes. The plans of the Lord are perfect even if I don’t know the reasons for everything. All I know is that soon I will be with the Lord forever because Jesus alone has saved me through his death and resurrection.

I hope to see you all there!

 I'd love to encourage you to read the rest here.

the horror of death, and death's undoing: thoughts for Easter Sunday

Brad Williams Easter is Coming:

As Death haunts us, stalks us, and undoes us and all whom we love, Easter carries us...

If Jesus did not rise from the dead, we should quit Christianity...All the Christian’s hopes centre on whether or not Jesus really did take up His life three days after He laid it down. Easter helps us to remember this thing, this one amazing thing that we believe Jesus did: He beat death...

Death is out there, stalking us like a predator...And if Christ is not risen, then we can never be rid of it...We are all just dust if Jesus is not risen from the dead.

But the resurrection is more than that. It is more than just the assurance of being reunited with our loved ones in Christ. It changes everything. It changes the entire paradigm of life.

If Jesus is risen, then God is real. The universe is not just a massive piece of beautiful but cold space. It is the handiwork of an all-powerful God who happens to be our Father, a Father who sent His Son to save us and make us children. A Father who insured that His children would never die, but would live to see a thousand million sun rises, and maybe a thousand million galaxies. Maybe more.

It means this current life is a blip, a passing shadow, a mist on the grass before noon. Nothing I suffer here is worthy to be compared to the things I will see after the grave has to give me up to life forever...

I hate death...Death is an enemy; a cruel thief that steals the people we love. This isn’t the way that it should be, and the hope of Christ allows me to imagine a world, a reality, where death has been struck a mortal blow itself. 

Death is dying, it is now thrashing like an enraged and weakening beast...But its rage is futile, for if Christ is risen, then death must surrender all its spoils at a single command...Death itself will be judged, as will all the world. All of this is true if Jesus of Nazareth rose from the dead.

Christians have put all their eggs in this one basket, and where else can we go? Jesus has beaten death; He lay in the ground three days, stone cold dead, and then He rose to tell the tale. And now He beckons to the world, “Follow me, and you too will never die.”

Our resurrection day is coming; we will meet the Master of Life and Death.

You can read the rest here.

what I'm reading: Bonhoeffer on the sweetness of death

Bonhoeffer was executed at dawn on 9th April 1945 at Flossenbürg concentration camp, only two weeks before the camp was liberated by US soldiers. He was killed because of his role in the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler.

A few days before he died Bonhoeffer told his friend, "This is the end — for me the beginning of life." The camp doctor who watched the execution said, "I have hardly ever seen a man die so entirely submissive to the will of God."

How was Bonhoeffer able to die with such courage and hope? Here he writes about the sweetness (yes, the sweetness!) of death.

No one has yet believed in God and the kingdom of God, no one has yet heard about the realm of the resurrected and not been homesick from that hour, waiting and looking forward to being released from bodily existence...That life only really begins when it ends here on earth, that all that is here is only the prologue before the curtain goes up — that is for young and old alike to think about.

Why are we so afraid when we think about death? Death is only dreadful for those who live in dread and fear of it. Death is not wild and terrible, if only we can be still and hold fast to God’s Word. Death is not bitter if we have not become bitter ourselves. Death is grace, the greatest gift of grace that God gives to people who believe in him. Death is mild, death is sweet and gentle; it beckons to us with heavenly power if only we realize that it is the gateway to our homeland, the tabernacle of joy, the everlasting kingdom of peace.

How do we know that dying is so dreadful? Who knows whether in our human fear and anguish we are only shivering and shuddering at the most glorious, heavenly, blessed event in the world?

Death is hell and night and cold if it is not transformed by our faith. But that is just what is so marvelous, that we can transform death.

Eric Metaxas Bonhoeffer 531.

online meanderings - friendship, life, socks and other stuff

This week, I was encouraged in my Christian life,

On reading the word of God - Ally gives a wonderful summary of, and link to, a talk on Psalm 119:1-40 about why we should read the Bible. Pure gold!

Putting the "Christian" in Christian friendship - "To make their welfare of higher interest than our own." A description of Christian friendship by Jonathon Parnell from Romans 15:2.

Don't be afraid to pray whatever it takes - Jon Bloom says, "we should plead for the discipline" that helps us to grow.

and helped in my marriage.

Don't take it from me: Reasons you should not marry an unbeliever - Kathy Keller, wife of Tim Keller, gives some helpful suggestions for counselling Christians who are considering marrying unbelievers.

A picture perfect marriage I, II and III - A great mini-series by Challies on marriage. To husbands: "Do you have that picture in your mind, of your bride, your wife, standing there before the Lord, washed clean of every trace of sin? Fix that in your mind because God calls you to help her get there!" (See also Mutual submission, on Ephesians 5:18-21.)

I read some great answers to serious questions about pornography,

Should I marry a man with pornography struggles? - An excellent answer to a difficult question from Russell Moore - and a great description of godly manhood. HT Challies

You just caught your son in [viewing] porn. What do you do? - A very helpful article by Rick Thomas about what to do if you discover, for example, that your teenage son has been sneaking out of bed to view porn. HT Challies.

and was reminded that life is worth fighting for.

Five things we can do for the unborn - John Piper: "If you could see each little handiwork of God and what it looks like when it is being crushed or poisoned or starved, you would say, this can't be happening! Civilized people do not do this! The children will not be saved and God's work will not be reverenced without an act of sustained sympathetic imagination. Otherwise it is out of sight, out of mind — just like Dachau, Buchenwald, Belsen, and Auschwitz. It just couldn't be happening. And so we act as if it isn't."

The child fashion model with down syndrome - Amazing - and wonderful. By Joe Carter.

The authentic feminism of Melinda Tankard Rice, Sisterhood beware - silencing ideas silences protest, Why being Christian gets you crucified - Three articles defending anti-porn, pro-life activist Melinda Tankard Rice against the abuse she has suffered for her views. HT Nicole

I was inspired by a moving story,

Bittersweet - Amy's post about her sister's lost fight with breast cancer and about our very good God, who answers prayer.

intrigued by a helpful new series,

How to stay Christian in seminary - A new series about how not to end up at theology college less Christ-centred than when you started.

and amused and comforted about my "failures" in memory and motherhood.

Wordsmithy (book review) - "The fact that you can’t remember things doesn’t mean that you haven’t been shaped by them." Well, that's a relief! A quote from Douglas Wilson's Wordsmithy, a book on writing reviewed by Challies.

I get a kind of guilty pleasure from reading about the so-called "failures" of other mums. Not sure if I should! But I identified with these: Amy's A thirsty person shouldn't drink salt water (I loved the bits about the sock drawer and sleeping in school uniform!) and Jenny's If I was a proper mother (I, too, feel great pressure to shop at Aldi and markets - and, instead, guiltily do a one-stop-shop at Coles).

Finally, I was reminded why the cross was necessary.

God, man and the atonement - "When...we have glimpsed the blinding glory of the holiness of God, and have been so convicted of our sin by the Holy Spirit that we tremble before God and acknowledge what we are, namely ‘hell–deserving sinners’, then and only then does the necessity of the cross appear so obvious that we are astonished we never saw it before." From John Stott's The Cross of Christ, quoted in Of First Importance

what I'm reading: congee for the grieving from Emily Post and Joan Didion

If you're not sure how to help someone who's grieving, Joan Didion directs you to the practical wisdom of an earlier time: the chapter on funerals in Emily Post's 1922 Book of Etiquette (which you can read for free on line here). She writes,

The tone, one of unfailing specificity, never flags. The emphasis remains on the practical. The bereaved must be urged to "sit in a sunny room", preferably one with an open fire. Food, but "very little food", may be offered on a tray: tea, coffee, bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg. Milk, but only heated milk: "Cold milk is bad for someone who is already overchilled." As for further nourishment, "The cook may suggest something that appeals usually to their taste—but very little should be offered at a time, for although the stomach may be empty, the palate rejects the thought of food, and digestion is never in best order."...

A friend should be left in charge of the house during the funeral. The friend should see that the house is aired and displaced furniture put back where it belongs and a fire lit for the homecoming of the family. "It is also well to prepare a little hot tea or broth," Mrs. Post advised, "and it should be brought them upon their return without their being asked if they would care for it. Those who are in great distress want no food, but if it is handed to them, they will mechanically take it, and something warm to start digestion and stimulate impaired circulation is what they most need."

There is something arresting about the matter-of-fact wisdom here, the instinctive understanding of the physiological disruptions...As I read it, I remember how cold I had been in New York Hospital on the night John died...Mrs. Post would have understood that. She wrote in a world where mourning was still recognized, allowed, not hidden from view...

In the end Emily Post's 1922 etiquette book turned out to be as acute in its apprehension of this other way of death, and as prescriptive in its treatment of grief, as anything else I read. I will not forget the instinctive wisdom of the friend who, every day for those first few weeks, brought me a quart container of scallion-and-ginger congee from Chinatown. Congee I could eat. Congee was all I could eat.

Joan Didion The Year of Magical Thinking 59-60

image is by rickyqi at flickr

what I'm reading: hiding death and grief from Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking

Something that struck me as I read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking was how attitudes to dying and grief have changed. Death once happened at home and touched every household, and every adult was expected to know how to deal with it; now it happens in hospitals, away from public view, and grief is something to be hidden. Joan Didion writes,

Philippe Aries...noted that beginning about 1930 there had been in most Western countries and particularly in the United States a revolution in accepted attitudes towardes death. "Death," he wrote, "so omnipresent in the past that it was familiar, would be effaced, would disappear. It would become shameful and forbidden."

The English social anthropologist Geoffrey Goer, in his 1965 Death, Grief and Mourning, had described this rejection of public mourning as a result of the increasing pressure of a new “ethical duty to enjoy oneself”, a novel “imperative to do nothing which might diminish the enjoyment of others.” In England and the United States, he observed, the contemporary trend was “to treat mourning as a morbid self-indulgence", and to give social admiration to the bereaved who "hide their grief so fully that no one would guess anything had happened.”

One way in which grief gets hidden is that death now occurs largely offstage. In the earlier tradition...the act of dying had not yet been professionalized. It did not typically involve hospitals. Women died in childbirth. Children died of fevers. Cancer was untreatable...The average adult was expected to deal competently, and also sensitively, with its aftermath. When someone dies, I was taught growing up, you bake a ham. You drop it at the house. You go to the funeral.

image is by José Goulão at flickr

what I'm reading: Joan Didion The Year of Magical Thinking

When my friend lost her father, she shared with me some books about grief. One of them was The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion's account of the year after her husband died. It's not a Christian book, but it will help you understand what it's like to grieve and may help you when you grieve.

The Year of Magical Thinking is a stunning book, a picture of grief from the inside. It's written with unflinching, sparse language that won't let you look away. The 'magical thinking' in the title refers to the way grief disorders your thinking: how there's an irrational conviction that if you do this, or don't do that, the person you grieve for will be able to return.

Here is an excerpt - a desciption of grief.

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined event. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In this version of grief we imagine, the model will be 'healing'. A certain forward momentum will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place...We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself. (pages 188-189)

a question for you: a book for someone who's grieving

Penny has written in with a question for you:

I just wondered if you or your readers knew of a good christian book I can give a friend? She is in her late twenties and her husband has died. She is a new christian (has no children) and would love a book addressing her situation from a Christian perspective.

Does anyone know of a book Penny could give her friend?

It is not death to die

Just in time for Easter, a post about death and resurrection, and more encouragement from the CD Come Weary Saints.

I was driving the kids home from school when I saw something you don't expect on an arterial road in a major city. It was a horse-drawn carriage, taking up the left-hand lane, slowing the traffic to a crawl.

As we stopped at the traffic lights, I looked more closely, and realized it was a hearse pulled by two grey horses with black plumes nodding on their heads, incongruous against the bare concrete wall of our local shopping centre. On the seat behind the horses perched two cheerfully chatting black-suited men—one bare-headed and balding, the other in a top hat. The hearse was topped with a plain wooden cross worthy of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and its glass sides displayed a glossy mahogany coffin, boasting a huge floral arrangement and brass fittings.

Behind the hearse drove three cars in tasteful green. The first car was packed with flowers. The second and third cars—stretch limousines with darkened windows—were, no doubt, packed with well-dressed mourners.

It all seemed a little excessive, this ostentatious panoply of death. But perhaps that's what is left when you die without Jesus. Like a glamorous wedding, a funeral becomes an opportunity for extravagant theatre, for it's the closing scene in the all-important story of ‘me’. Such a funeral displays the forlorn hope that death, in all its horror and finality, can be placated with pomp and held off with ceremony.

For Christians, death still brings sorrow. But we don't grieve “as others do who have no hope” (1 Thess 4:13). We weep, but we also rejoice. When Jesus died and rose again, he defeated death and overcame its power (Acts 2:24; 1 Cor 15:54-57; Heb 2:14). In a Christian funeral, instead of despairing ceremony and exaggerated eulogy, there is comforting simplicity and praise for the one who has freed us from the fear of death.

As the lights changed and we drove past the hearse, I flicked over to the song ‘It is not death to die’* on Come Weary Saints, the CD that was playing on my car stereo. It's a song that sums up the Christian attitude to death: there is no despair in leaving this weary life and exchanging it for heaven, for Jesus has conquered the grave.

I've always sworn that I'll never say, “I want such-and-such at my funeral”. But I've broken my promise to myself. When I got home, I told my husband (and now you!) that while I certainly don't want an elaborate funeral cortege, I do want this song sung at my funeral. I want people to remember that it is not death to die.

* From a 1832 hymn written by Henri Malan and translated by George Bethune, adapted and arranged by Bob Kauflin for the Sovereign Grace album Come Weary Saints.

This post first appeared on Sola Panel yesterday.

images are from wolfmanmoike at flickr and stock.xchng

Pilgrim's Progress: the River of Death

Have you ever walked with someone through death? I have, although only a very small part of the way. I will always be grateful for the honesty of this godly man, because he didn't white-wash his experience with platitudes or empty confidence. He spoke openly of his grief at leaving this world, his fear of the unknown, and his loneliness at facing the loneliest journey of all. He also shared his confidence of going to heaven. His grandchildren will never forget the day he told them that only trust in Jesus can comfort us when we're dying. He died well as he had lived well.

That experience did away with two (incompatible!) assumptions about death for me. The first is that death is too terrifying to be spoken of or imagined: it's easy to live in a state of denial when we're so well protected from death in our society. The second is that death is easy for Christians: even when you're confident of going to heaven, death can still be scary, ugly, and lonely. But how much less lonely when we know that the One we have loved and known all our lives is waiting to welcome us!

Death was closer in the 17th century. John Bunyan lost his first wife, his beloved pastor, his unborn baby, and his darling 13 year old daughter Mary, within 4 years. ... As a pastor, he sat by death-beds and walked with many to the brink of death. ... Dying well was part of living well for the Puritans. ...

Read the rest at EQUIP book club today.

a place for you

"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going."

Thomas said to him, "Lord, we don't know where you are going, so how can we know the way?"

Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." John 14:1-6

I went to a very sad, and very beautiful funeral yesterday, for a godly woman who spent her life loving and serving God. She asked to have this Bible passage read out at her funeral.

One blessing of a funeral, especially when it's for someone closer to us in age, is that it makes us reflect on our own mortality.

It was good to be reminded that, although we may grieve for the people and places we will leave behind when it's our turn to face death, if we trust in Jesus, we can be sure that God has prepared a new home for us, where there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.

image is by Segovia Alcazar from flickr.com

losing parents: all grown up, but newly alone

It all came back to me the other day.

We arrived at church to discover our minister wasn't there. His mother had died the night before. Only 3 months ago, almost to the day, we were rung at 9.30 with the news that Steve's father had died. It's impossible to forget the night we went to say goodbye.

It doesn't matter if you're all grown up, losing a parent is a terribly sad experience. It's easy to underestimate the significance of losing parents as an adult.

There's the normal sorrow of loss and grief. The empty chair he always sat in. The renewed pain when you see something she created, or planted, or loved. The mornings you wake up and remember, shockingly, again, what you have lost.

But when a parent dies, you lose more than the person you love.

You're losing your childhood. Someone who can answer the question, "What was I like when I was 5 years old?" Someone who remembers your grandma's house. Someone who loves you in the irrational, doting way of a parent, who embarrasses you by boasting of your accomplishments, and who still thinks you are beautiful, wrinkles and all.

You're losing a generation of memories and insights. What was it like when your parents were young? What did it feel like to live through World War II? The way clothes look after they've been through a mangle. Bottles of milk beside the front door, waiting for the milk van. The horse-drawn dunny cart.

You're losing a wealth of wisdom. How do you make Anzacs the traditional way? Pancakes with soured milk? Lancashire Hotpot? How do you change the washer on a tap? What did your mum do when her babies wouldn't sleep? Did she ever worry you wouldn't turn out ok?

You're losing your children's grandparents. Someone who can tell them stories about what you were like as a child. Someone your children can turn to as teenagers, when you just don't get it. Someone who won't have to pretend to be fascinated when you talk endlessly about your child's first steps.

I'm not sure you really grow up until you lose both your parents.

It's not just parents you're losing, but someone older than you, someone ultimately responsible, someone you can depend on. A father who will be there the day you run out of money. A mother who will come and stay when you've just had a baby, and are trying to juggle 3 older children, a home, and mastitis.

You stand on the precipice of a terrifying independence.

There are all kinds of ways to lose parents. We may move far away, so that phonecalls are rare, and regular visits out of the question. We may lose parents to Alzheimer's or cancer, and have to watch them slowly drift away, body and mind. Our relationship with them may be damaged, seemingly beyond repair. Maybe they're still alive, and we've been living without them for a long time.

When we lose our parents, there is one comfort: God has not left us as orphans. He will always be our Father.

There was a wonderful article about adults losing their parents, and the deep impact it has, in the Good Weekend a couple of months ago. I should have kept a copy. Did anyone cut it out and keep it? And if so, can you send me a copy? I would love to read it again!

Image is from stock.xchg

comfort in the face of death

I'm pinching this quote from Irish Calvinist - I hope they don't mind! - because I found it so encouraging. Charles Spurgeon is supposed to have said it to his friend J.W. Harrald as he faced death.

Ah! the bridge of grace will bear your weight, brother. Thousands of big sinners have gone across that bridge, yea, tens of thousands have gone over it. I can hear their trampings now as they traverse the great arches of the bridge of salvation. They come by their thousands, by their myriads; e’er since the day when Christ first entered into His glory, they come, and yet never a stone has sprung in that mighty bridge. Some have been the chief of sinners, and some have come at the very last of their days, but the arch has never yielded beneath their weight. I will go with them trusting to the same support; it will bear me over as it has borne them.

This quote is from The Forgotten Spurgeon, p.164.

children and death

I've added another point to my post on grieving and helping those who grieve. For those who've already read yesterday's post, here it is:

• Allow children to see the body, if it's appropriate and they're willing. They need to understand that while the body is left behind, the person has gone; to accept the reality of death, and to say goodbye. They may be upset, but it will give you a chance to comfort them, and talk about their fears. Our children have been privileged to see both birth and death: I hope this helps them appreciate the wonder and gravity of life, and to comfort others in the years ahead.

dying, grieving and helping those who grieve

I know that losing a father-in-law, even one as dearly loved as David, is small on the Richter scale of grief compared to losing a spouse or child. I am vastly inexperienced in grief. “I write for the unlearned on things about which I am unlearned myself."*

That being said, I've learnt lots about grief during the last few weeks. I know how inept I've always felt in the face of other people's grief. So I thought I'd share the little I've learned with you.

For the dying or those supporting someone who is dying

• I am incredibly grateful that David, in his wisdom, talked openly and honestly about his coming death, and his hope of heaven, with each member of his family. He encouraged his grandchildren not to be afraid of death, but to put their trust in Christ, who brings hope beyond death. If God grants you the time before you die, follow his example!
• There are some things I wish I'd said the week before David died, but didn't because I assumed I'd see him again, or because I didn't want to presume too much. Don't put off saying what should be said until it's too late.
• Here are some things you might want to talk about: fear of dying, the dying person's state before God, how they are feeling, preferences for the funeral, long-term arrangements, family disharmonies which need to be smoothed over, your love for each other.
• Be ready with the comforting promises of God's Word: some of the encouragement people gave David was so beautiful! One woman compared death to birth, with Jesus as the midwife. We fear the unknown, but death is like coming out from a small world into a larger, brighter one.
• Realise that the dying may say things which come from a place of fear, grief and doubt. Sit with them, value their honesty, and listen. But don't forget afterwards that these may be words for the wind said in a time of darkness. It's still hard for me to grasp, but what David is experiencing now in heaven is far more glorious and joyous than what he left behind.

Dealing with death

• Don't be afraid to see the body if appropriate. I refused this with my grandmothers, but was so glad I saw David's body. (And what a service is given by those who lay someone out peacefully!) It was much less traumatic than I expected. It gave us all closure. It was a wonderful chance to say goodbye, helped me realise David is no longer with us, and brought home the fact that he's now with God in heaven.
• Allow children to see the body, if it's appropriate and they're willing. They need to understand that while the body is left behind, the person has gone; to accept the reality of death, and to say goodbye. They may be upset, but it will give you a chance to comfort them, and talk about their fears. Our children have been privileged to see both birth and death: I hope this will help them to understand the wonder and gravity of life, and to comfort others in the years ahead.

For those who grieve

• Expect complete and utter exhaustion. The week after David died was as draining as the week after a baby has been born, a week with the flu, or a week with morning sickness. No doubt a spouse's or child's death, or an unexpected loss, would be unimaginably more debilitating.
• Accept every offer of help. If no-one offers, ask! Don't be proud, or assume it will be easy. Even if you feel ok one day, you may not the next. You can't do this alone.
• Remember everyone grieves differently. You may want to talk, or sit quietly; to be alone, or with others. You may feel nothing, or intense sorrow, and that's ok.
• Give those close to you time and space to grieve, and allow them to grieve in their own way. I asked my mother to look after our children for a weekend, to give Steve a chance to recover.
• Be wise and take some time off. A very sensible member of our family took a week's break from work to reflect and recover. (Others may cope better if they keep on with normal life.)
• Don't forget the comfort of God's Word. I felt completely numb towards God for a few days, until 1 Peter 1:3-9 popped into my head, and God's truth found its comforting way into my heart again. You might be too discouraged to speak words of encouragement to yourself: allow God's Word to speak them to you.

For those supporting someone who is grieving

• Do you see someone at church or work who's just lost someone? Approach them, don't be a coward! It's important to have the person who died acknowledged. Even if it's hard to talk about, silence is harder to bear. Say something simple, like "I'm sorry to hear of your loss." If you know them better, move on to "How are you?" and let them be the guide to how much they tell you. Don't be embarrassed by tears: chances are they aren't. (And please acknowledge lost babies to grieving parents as the years go on: it must be so hard when the life of a child seems to have been forgotten!)
• Give practical help. Be gently insistent about helping, even if it's not accepted (within reason)! If they're like me, they might not realise how much they will need it. Babysit their kids the first couple of days after someone dies, to give them quiet space to cry and reflect. Take meals around, help with the washing, clean the house: it's incredibly hard to get daily jobs done when you're tired and sad.
• Cards, letters, SMS, message, email - it's beautiful to hear from people after someone has died. It's probably better than a phone call: they're getting far too many difficult phone calls right now. When you write, say you're sorry, tell them you're praying, describe something you appreciated about the person who died, remind them you're there if they need to talk.
• If you know what it's like to grieve, tell them what you found hard. One of the most comforting emails I received was from a friend who told me, "The hardest thing is not being able to continue a human relationship with the person who's died." Yes! She put words to what I was feeling.
• Go to the funeral. It meant an immense amount having people from our church and my own dear friends there!
• Pray and read the Bible with the person who's grieving, or write them a message with a Bible passage, hymn or poem. Give them God's comfort, which they might be struggling to find for themselves.

Please add your own suggestions to the comments!

Other helpful links: What has the loss of your father taught you about ministering to the dying? and How can I magnify God with my death?.

* C.S.Lewis Reflections on the Psalms.

death

"I've been thinking about it a lot lately, more than anything else really. Fiona's mum died, and she and I had been friends for twenty five years, and so I think about it, and her."

Thankyou, Gordo, for expressing my feelings about David exactly.

"Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" (1 Cor. 15:55)

But it hurts all the same.