#65: When I die…
When my body is being carried out, sing, “True Colors” by Anna Kendrick and Justin Timberlake. I know that sounds unusual but physical death has never frightened me nearly as much as spiritual death.
How strange that the same mouth that says, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away” can tremble at the sight of a coffin. It is so easy to say those words when it is not your hands arranging the funeral or your eyes searching for someone who is no longer there. It is easy to talk about Job when it is not your family name printed on the obituary. It is easy to talk about heaven when it is not your mother, your father, your friend, your child, your person being lowered into the ground.
I think about the people gathered around Lazarus before Jesus arrived and I wonder what their conversations sounded like. I wonder how many times they repeated familiar truths to one another while secretly wishing those truths would become tangible enough to touch. I wonder how many times they said, “God is faithful,” while staring at a tomb that appeared to contradict everything they believed about Him.
It feels like holding two realities in your hands and discovering that neither one cancels the other — I know God is good. I also know this hurts. I know death has lost its sting. I also know I am bleeding. I know heaven is real. I also know I wish you were still here. Perhaps faith is not choosing one reality over the other but having the courage to hold both until God teaches your heart how to carry them.
We say, “It is well,” because we know it should be. Yet grief has a way of settling into the body like wet sand. It weighs down every movement. It sits in your chest and makes breathing feel like work. In simpler words… my soul is heavy. I suppose some truths are easier to proclaim than they are to survive. My soul is heavy and I feel if someone hugged me a little too long, I would completely unravel. The tears would come like a dam breaking after years of holding.
People gather. They sit beside the bereaved. They speak kindly. They bring food and stories. Their presence matters more than they know but there are places in grief where no human being can follow. There are wounds so deep that words arrive at the surface and stop there. So people can sit with the bereaved, but they cannot carry them. They can attempt to comfort them, but they cannot do the work of the Comforter. So the bereaved nods and say ‘thank you’. I go home and feel the weight of sorrow in my bones. Not my heart. My bones.
Perhaps that is why grief has become one of the places where I have known God most intimately because when everyone else reaches the edge of what they can do, He keeps going. The disciples knew this feeling. Jesus was leaving and their hearts were breaking so He told them He would send a Comforter; not a lecturer, an explainer. A Comforter. I think there is a reason for that.
Grief is deep, but God is deeper. My sorrow feels endless some days, but His love has no shoreline. I know He will find me here not because I am strong enough to climb my way back to Him, but because He has always entered the places I could not escape on my own. My grief is deep but God has always seemed to enjoy meeting people in deep places. Every story I know about God seems to involve Him entering places that looked impossibly deep. He met Jonah beneath the waves. He met Joseph inside a pit. He met Daniel among lions. He met three Hebrew boys inside a furnace. He met Martha beside a grave. And when humanity found itself trapped beneath the weight of sin and death itself, He stepped into our world and climbed onto a cross. God has always had a habit of entering depths so I trust He will find me here too.
As we gather to say our final goodbyes, I have realized something strange. We plan almost every significant day of our lives — birthdays, graduations, weddings, etc. Some people spend years preparing for a single afternoon. Yet almost no one plans their funeral. Entire Pinterest boards exist for beginnings. Almost nobody prepares for endings. I think that is fascinating. The one event every human being will attend and somehow it remains the least discussed.
So today, I would like to plan mine and before you become concerned, no, this is not a cry for help. This is simply the curiosity of someone who thinks about eternity often. I think funerals often tell stories and if people are going to tell mine, I would like them to tell the right one. My entire life does not appear on a résumé, you cannot quantify my kindness, measure my devotion, place my love inside a spreadsheet, or capture my faithfulness with statistics. Therefore, if I leave before you do, I do not want my funeral to feel like a tragedy trying to disguise itself as a church service. Instead, I want a celebration… a loud one. A ridiculous one. I want my funeral to be a celebration louder than any party my life ever attracted. When you stand to share memories, please do not spend too much time talking about my achievements, do not tell people about the certificates framed on my wall, the skills I acquired, the projects I completed, or the goals I reached.
Those things were things I did, they were never who I was. Instead, tell them about my love for God. Tell them about my reckless devotion and stubborn obedience. The kind that kept saying yes even when fear suggested otherwise. Tell them about the articles where I could not stop talking about Him. Share the stories, the reflections, the prayers, and the endless attempts to describe a God too beautiful for language. I particularly like my series Songs of Praise.
Tell them about the moments I made you feel loved, about my joy, about our laughter, about the conversations that lasted too long and the prayers that felt too short because if you tell those stories, God’s name will be glorified and that would make me happy. My name means, “God is worthy to be praised.” Throughout my life I have tried, however imperfectly, to tell people exactly that so my death should not be the exception. The greatest thing anyone could ever say about me is that I loved Jesus. Deeply. Sincerely. Without reservation.
When my body is being carried out, sing, “True Colors” by Anna Kendrick and Justin Timberlake. I know that sounds unusual but physical death has never frightened me nearly as much as spiritual death. The thought of being separated from the One I love is far more terrifying than the thought of leaving this earth.
Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” As though mourning itself creates room for God. So mourn. Cry until your pillow is soaked through if you must. Scream if your heart needs somewhere to place its pain. Sit in silence if words refuse to come but do not harden your heart against God. He has never mismanaged my life, not once and if He conquered the grave, then even my death must somehow serve His glory. So cry that you may be comforted but do not grieve as though hope itself has been buried.
Aftter a little while—perhaps forty-eight hours—throw a party. A big one. Dance. Laugh. Eat too much food. When people ask why everyone is celebrating at a funeral, tell them it is my first birthday in heaven because if heaven is rejoicing, I would hate for you to miss the invitation.
You see, I have spent most of my life longing for a single sentence, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Just that. So if I have met the One every prayer was addressed to regardless of what dreams you think I never fulfilled or what potential you think I never reached, please understand something, I have met my Maker, what could be more? I am at His feet, what could be higher? I have finally seen the King my soul spent its entire life searching for, what could possibly be greater?
I know grief makes departures feel tragic but perhaps heaven sees them differently. Perhaps heaven sees a child coming home and if that is true, then do not remain in sorrow forever on my behalf. I am exactly where I have always wanted to be. Believe me when I say this: I am in a better place and one day, many years from now, I hope you will join me. Hopefully not soon, though, lol.
Until next Thursday,
Know you are loved.
Pherkeh.