I had a big sister. I have her still, though she walks on this earth no longer. This is a picture of her and me, when we were very young. I keep it on my fridge, and it makes me smile. I miss her every day. My sister, my friend.
Who Was She?
“Who was this sister?” you may ask. What makes her so special? My big sis was just a woman. And by that I mean that she was all the things so many of us are–beautiful, and gracious, infuriating and stubborn, playful and fun.
If you knew her, you’d know how lovely it was when she’d lend you her ear, listening with genuine curiosity and care. She was at once spontaneous, but also set in her ways. She was adventurous, yet cautious, and careful.
We did life together for most of our years, and it is those years that I miss something awful. We shared the same humor, tastes in fashion and food, love of gardening and art, and the Word.
Endlessly Talking
We could talk and talk—for what felt like days at a time. She was one of those people who felt like she was short-changing you if she didn’t share every single detail. I’m not one of those people. I’m more of a cut-to-the chase kind of gal.
So, interacting with her felt like a vacation of sorts, as I’d relax, and free myself from my hurried pace, from the the urgency inside of me. I’d just settle in, and listen to someone talk who loved all the little details, stuff I’d often miss.
How I miss her. Especially at certain seasons. Fall is the hardest for me, when the air is crisp, and school starts up. We both home-schooled our children, and for a number of years, we’d start the school year out with our very own little tradition. And still today, fall just can’t arrive like it should, without pumpkin bread, sliced thick and served on her blue platter, along with a cup of her exquisite tea.
Loss
I’m know that I’m not alone in my loss. So many of us have lost those precious ones, those dear ones. I write about my loss, because I know that many of us struggle with that “lost-ness” that comes with loss. It can feel like you are losing your way.
If you haven’t lost someone very dear to you, you most likely will. Very few of us make it off the planet without experiencing what at times can feel like overwhelming, crushing, loss.
How do you face each day without your person? Does this loss leave you feeling very alone? Maybe you feel stuck in your aloneness. Don’t you hate being stuck? Stuck in sorrow, loneliness, or grief.
A wise counselor once told me that there are benefits within the process of grieving. He said that one purpose of grief is that, while it is sorrowful to recall former days, that very act of remembering the good times, brings with it a needed jolt of joy, in the here, and now, in the face of loss.
Those Memories
Remember that person, that time when…and there we are. Back with them, in another time, in what feels like another world. By remembering, we get them back–for a time, anyway.
Before long, we are once more experiencing joyful, beautiful moments, the ones that once were.
I’m going to share a favorite memory of my sister. We are in our shared backyard, warming our hands over the dying coals in my little hibachi. It’s late, and in the darkness, we talk about anything at all.
We keep our voices low, feeling the stillness of that summer night. We listen for our children’s voices, should they awaken. By now the husbands have gotten used to our late summer nights, we sisters doing what we do. Talking. Sharing.
Biker Thief
Our voices are just soft enough for the thief next door to remain ignorant of our presence. Unaware of two pairs of eyes watching his every move, the man sneaks into our neighbor’s yard, furtively looking about, while he rolls plunder into the garage.
We sit mutely, watching the man push a beautiful old motorbike, a classic—the kind with the handlebars wide and long—into the darkness of the old garage.
My sister and I exchange knowing glances as we scrunch down lower into the shade of the enormous cherry tree overhead.
“Looks suspicious, doesn’t it?” we mouth silently, nodding.
What a memory; sister-detectives we, hard at work solving a crime, once on a late summer night so long ago.
Imagine our delight the next day when the police department called to thank us for our quick reporting. The stolen motorbike, the inheritance from a recently deceased father, had been recovered even as the son reported the theft.
Memories. We enjoy the beauty of a moment in time, as in our minds we are connected once more. In a flash I travel to that backyard of yesterday, in that seedy part of town. The decades are erased, and that moment is suddenly within my grasp.
Tonight as I write, I’m enjoying “a cuppa” as she used to say, drinking some decaf Earl Grey out of the last gift she gave to me, a lovely old antique English teacup. I use it, complete with saucer, willing myself to celebrate her generosity and the memories we shared.
Alive, Just Not Here
Sometimes a choke still arises in my throat, missing as I do the ability to call her up like so many, many times, once upon a time. Just today I heard my phone blip a text message received.
And for just a moment, I thought it might have been her! Did my mind play a trick on me? She’s been gone for over four years, yet instantly the thought flashed through my mind: “I wonder if it’s her!” Crazy thought! So out of step with the reality of her passing, right?
Well, maybe. Yet, it does make sense, in a way. Does my spirit somehow believe that she is actually not gone for good? The reality of burying her body on that cold winter day tells me that she can’t text me ever again, and that our fellowship on earth is over.
Yet…my spirit knows the truth. One day I will not miss her, anymore. One day I will see her again, hug her again, delight in her smile once again, in the flesh. Our bodies, which God will remake in the twinkling of an eye, will once again hug, and smile, and hold one another’s hands. She had small hands–deft, talented, lovely.
Deciding to Trust
I can’t begin to understand it, this death. But I know that the God who let her die is trustworthy—literally worthy of my trust. I must trust Him for what He decides to do. He didn’t heal her body. He took her home, instead.
And He is perfect. And He is wise. And He is kind. And He is good. And He is just. And he doesn’t owe me an explanation.
He is God. I am not.
Jesus wept at the death of his friend, Lazarus. Even as He knew He would reverse that sentence, that he would bring the man back from the dead, that He would restore this brother to his family. He wept. I think He really, really doesn’t like death. It was never His idea. His idea was life. Life forever, uninterrupted by corruption.
Living in a body, a Man while God, He experienced first-hand this awful thing—death. He knew our sorrows and pain. And it caused Him grief, too.
So, here’s a thought. Have you noticed, in your grief, how much harder it is for we who remain alive yet for a little while on this earth, than for our departed? I mean, they have it pretty sweet.
It’s sometimes easy to feel just a little bit sorry for ourselves, we mortals yet roaming the planet. Our departed really have it so much better. They blissfully arrive into the waiting arms of the Great God, while we are left to bury their cold remains. Cruel. Harsh. Horrible.
Loving Him, in my Suffering
However, inside of this very reality, there is something pretty cool. That very reality–the fact that we suffer still–presents us an opportunity unavailable to the dead.
Consider this: we who remain, alive, still in the flesh on earth, have an opportunity that the dead no longer have. We have a pretty awesome privilege, right here, right now, today.
We can trust Him in the valley.
We can believe Him in the dark.
We can love Him inside the anguish.
We can offer Him our feeble trust; and that, I think, is a most beautiful thing to behold.
How beautiful must be our wavering faith, our tiny trust, our faltering choice, to love Him anyway!
Does he cherish our trust? When we still believe Him, no matter what? No matter this suffering. No matter this death. We still love Him. And then, we tell Him so.
There is no anguish in the presence of the Holy, there in heaven. And there is no longer any darkness, at all. Our loved ones, who have died, now live in light. And they offer Him their worship there, inside that beautiful, perfect, light.
And so what about us? We who live in the valley of the shadow of death?
We offer Him worship, here, in the darkness of our fallen world. And precious is our trust in such a place, beautiful to behold is our faith right here, in this valley of the shadow of death.
A Prayer
Dear Lord, Thank you for the loved ones You gave us. For now, their presence is denied us, and we were not ready to let them go. And so we grieve. We miss that sweet fellowship we once knew.
We thank you for the memories, the ones that bring an unexpected jolt of joy, even as they are accompanied by the stabbing pain of loss. And we give it over. We give it all over to you.
Regard us with Your loving-kindness, in the place we are at right now. We know you see the pain, and you feel it, too. You tell us in Your Word that when the cares of life overwhelm me, Your consolations are my delight.
Blessed be You, O God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies. You are the God of all comfort. Even through this valley, in this shadow of death, You sustain me. You support me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You comfort the lowly in heart, and do not leave us bereft, in our grief. You lean down, to the broken in spirit, and you minister healing, restoration, and peace.
Today, in our loss, we offer you this sacrifice of praise–for Who You are, and for what you have done, and for what You yet will do. We know that we can trust you, in whatever it is that you are doing, though we can’t see any good that could come from this parting.
Yet we love you and trust you, and await the day when we will be reunited, once again with our precious ones, now with You. Lift up our hearts, Lord, and open our mouths, that we may proclaim Your praise, for You are worthy to receive all adoration, and blessing, and honor, and praise. Amen.