More than two years later I remember getting into my Explorer to drive to class at the university that I was attending. For some reason that day I felt compelled to pray something I hadn’t been ready to say: ‘God, I can finally freely forgive you for taking John.’ At long last I was through with the condition that said my commitment was dependent on whether those I loved lived or died. Not that I was saying I was ready to endure additional loss, but this time I wasn’t putting my love for God up as collateral. Little did I know He was preparing my heart for what was to come.
We stopped to pick up my dad at our house and left immediately for Nana and Papa’s house across town. We would spend that day and several of the next there with family. It was my senior year of college, my cousin’s of high school—major milestones that our Papa wouldn’t be there for. It wasn’t that he would miss my graduation in a few months or my cousin’s wedding the next year. It was that he would miss every one for the rest of our lives.
It would be months, years before I would see God’s plan for me in it all. Why did He take my best friend from me? What I would one day come to understand is that God used John’s death to strengthen me. I needed to stand on my own. If ever there was a new door to be walked through, John would walk through first—every time. Without him, I had to learn to walk through on my own, alone. I had to become bold--or at least bolder than I was before. I know that revelation alone is not why John died; God had a much greater purpose. For me it was comforting to know that God had a plan for me and was using my greatest loss to change me.
My senior year of college came, and I had elective hours to take. I just needed to find something to sit through; it didn’t even have to pertain to my degree. My good friend Jen and I settled on a class we had heard wasn’t all that hard--big surprise, two college kids looking to get off easy. The class was called Psychology of Grief. We had it a couple of evenings a week I think. Basically the entire class was about the mourning process. The teacher lectured, we talked about our own personal experiences, wrote about them, and watched a couple of films. Sometimes it was even morbidly fun, like when we had to write as many terms or phrases for death that we could think of. Hmm, lets see…like ‘pushing up daises’ or ‘bought the farm’ or ‘six feet under’ or ‘kicked the bucket’—all quite tongue-in-cheek.
A weekend came where I had planned to go home, but I thought about not. After all, it was a three-hour drive home, and I would just have to turn around and make the trek back again less than 48 hours later. Still, for whatever reason I conceded. That Sunday we had just arrived at church and were walking into the sanctuary. Our usually wise-cracking, loveable pastor Brother Bob came to meet us with such solemnity. He asked us to follow him outside. It was there, on the sidewalk in front of the church where I grew up that I learned my Papa had died. Brother Bob said he had gone fishing alone and a passerby had found him lying beside his boat on the ramp. A family member had called the church to find mom and asked our pastor to tell us. I remember my mom being in complete disbelief, telling our pastor that he was joking--it wasn’t true. But we all knew it was—there was no way it couldn’t be.
I knew that I would be the one to take the keys for the ten-minute drive home. It was so close and yet seemed like a long journey. My mother and sister were in no shape to sit behind the wheel, and probably neither was I. As we drove, I remember thinking that we needed to pray. I desperately desired to cry out to God for understanding and for peace. So we prayed, asking for His great mercy. At least I think we did, maybe it was just me. All I remember is hearing God more clearly than at any other time in my life. It was as though he was standing in front me. I heard Him say, ‘Everything about this day will change who you are, but nothing about this day will change who I Am’; words of truth I will carry with me to eternity.
We stopped to pick up my dad at our house and left immediately for Nana and Papa’s house across town. We would spend that day and several of the next there with family. It was my senior year of college, my cousin’s of high school—major milestones that our Papa wouldn’t be there for. It wasn’t that he would miss my graduation in a few months or my cousin’s wedding the next year. It was that he would miss every one for the rest of our lives.
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