It’s probably realistic and true for me to say that I’ve been thinking about death, fairly consistently, for the last two years. I’m sure if you were one of the people who sees me every day, this would be surprising. I don’t really talk about it. Death is a deep down thing.
But it’s not even what you might first imagine. I don’t live gasping for air in the fear of ‘what if’ in the middle of the night. My faith in Jesus is all wrapped up in this, and also a very logical side of living in the physical present. Which is what people must do. They must, every day, get up and breathe in and out and do the next thing. Even when they wonder. Even when they’re in incredible pain. At least after the initial shock. Life goes, which can be, sometimes simultaneously a great relief and offense to the pain.
I don’t necessarily wonder all of the time how I will die. I think that is so beyond where I am, and that is the sort of thing that can let in some fear and ruin you. And honestly, since I am alive, the process of death, and my own, is so far away it doesn’t feel like my own storyline. That part of my life belongs to God. And what He knows that we don’t.
I think I believe it this way because my friend Kari died when she was 24, and when she was carrying a baby, and when I could still see that God was still good, very good actually, the time became so much more His than mine. And I’ll stop right there, because I actually don’t have any more to say about that thing. Anything more presumes, and the character of God is what comforts and knows what we cannot.
But because Kari died, and we had to go through all of those things, I realized fully and officially that I am invincible. I live throughout my day with people in society who are characterized as NOT feeling invincible. That’s the fear that their parents hold, and what causes them to break bones and have to be rushed to the ER. Because they’ve done really silly things, and didn’t think they’d get hurt. That’s probably most people to some degree though. We are alive. Death seems to be opposite of that. And so maybe I feel so different than other people because I don’t think like that anymore. And we are still young, young, young.
What death at an early age, with someone so unavoidably close to my own heart, has done for me is opened up my mind to what is more. What is beyond. I can’t tell you in words how frustrating and shocking and also comforting it has been for me to wade through this. But mostly, in all honesty, at this young age, so fresh from the day it all happened, it’s been incredibly painful. And confusing.
You can go on and on and on about the stages of grief, and fit yourself into them and take yourself out of them. But in the end it’s not that. It’s you and God and your story. And telling the world about what God has done for you. And something bigger called redemption. Which unhinges my prideful, careworn little heart every time. God is big and good. This is what I know.
So, bring death into the picture, and it makes sense, and then doesn’t. I say that death, no matter how expected it is after a long illness, is very shocking. Every time. Separation from people you love makes you hollow for a while. It shifts the weight of everything. It makes you want to fold up inside. But I think the pain the people are so afraid of, while horrible, is something God will get you through. And that’s all I’ll say about that. Because anything more about ‘what God will do’ sounds offensive and you’re incredulous when you hear it when you’re sad. I experienced that. I wanted everyone to just shut up and be around me, and talk about her life. Not her death.
I think that because of life with Jesus, we are not defined by our deaths. When I think of Kari, when I have to drive by the place on the road where she died, when I wish she were with us, I think of anything BUT her last moments. Naturally. I think that this is telling of the goodness of God. We are meant to be alive, and through Jesus, there is a way for that. And that is what I have always imagined death like you’re walking through a door.
I think the bigger quest for me has been knowing how to sit next to the fact that we are finite in this world. Not the next, but here and now, as I’m drinking the coffee I so love to write about (I see a theme in this blog) and when I am reminiscent about the good things in front of me. It’s physical stuff we see first. But there is much more in this world that tells people about their souls. And the mystery of God. And the sweetness of Jesus. Much more. If they are listening.
So living fully is an art when you know that life can be disastrous, and incredibly disappointing, and sometimes so real it takes a minute to remember to breathe. That’s what I’ve seen in the last few years, with more deaths than just one, and that’s what I didn’t know when I was a kid. I remember distinctly in my life, at a very young age, playing with toys, and then stopping for a minute. And looking around at everything in front of me. And realizing that I was going to die. Just like everyone else. You don’t think that at first when you’re little. But I remember very clearly when I did. And it made sense to me then more than it does now. And that’s what a lot of people say about their childhoods regarding lots of things. I know.
The thing here is that I am not, logically, very fearful of these things. I just want to talk about this with people. And make sense of it, just a little. And know more about God because of these things I wonder about. I believe that Jesus died for me, and that He lives, and that I will be with Him. It’s just hard to know HOW that all works. And saying that, and believing it, I know, causes questions for other people. Skepticism. Maybe a different view of me in light of how hopefully and confidently I can say that. But I believe it. And so this question is less about my own life, and more about everything else in this life I see around me.
I recently read somewhere that Plato believed philosophy was so important because it got to the nature of reality, and spoke inadvertently of death. In the Middle Ages, pastoral care meant helping people know about and thoughtfully prepare for death and the afterlife. (Afterlife is such a historical word, by the way. In light of my faith, it feels strange to talk about in that way.) And in America, people want to avoid the talk of death. And that really hit me, because it feels true.
They want to talk about stages of grief and logical timelines and preparation in a way that keeps things from feeling completely ruined and upside down. But death makes you feel like that in your humanity. And God is so there, but so hard to understand sometimes. That’s the human confession. It makes me look at my hands on the keyboard and picture them someday looking different, expressing my age. Or that my hands can show me how obvious it is that we are all breath and dust. In the end, and at the beginning, it’s really kind of amazing.
I went to Caribou yesterday and read a book called ‘What Women Fear’. Let me tell you, the book is great but I didn’t want to be that woman so confidently holding the book with that cover in my hands. Human confession, there you are. But I got over myself because this helped me land somewhere, and remember and revive and shift the weight a little. Here are the two excerpts that you might like too. From an entire chapter on death. With a very real author. Which is why I bought it.
‘Perhaps you struggle with feeling like your life really matters to God the way you intellectually know it does. Maybe you believe his promises to other people, but when you are being thrown around in the waves maybe you feel like maybe he’s resting up for something more pressing. Me too. Fortunately, we are both wrong.’
On the page it looks so silly, but you deep down sort of wonder about these things when you’re being tossed in the waves yourself. I think we could all say this is true at some point in our lives. She talks about how Jesus calms the storm (which is one of the most real stories to me in the entire Bible), and then she says this….
‘I wonder if the disciples realized in that moment what the Lord wants all of us to know in our fear.
He didn’t just come for the lepers and the blind men.
He came for you.
What Jesus did so many years ago in the Garden of Gethsemane is what I need to do today. I will gather people I trust and I will rely on the God who holds the cup….the One Who stilled the waves; the One Who sent me out into the deep so I could love Him more than I feared the night.’
And this, alongside all of the other little thoughts, in front of the vast glory of God and the comfort of knowing Him personally, is the thing I’m looking at today.
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