"Sometimes the
holiest moments are not quiet ones.”
This line I jotted
down in my phone after saying goodbye to my grandfather, the last
time I saw him alive.
The last sixteen
months have served as a wrecking ball to my tender heart.
The year 2016 was
full of bumpy transition, mainly in my husband’s career, as he shifted from serving at a restaurant to serving the church. Moving forward, I
found myself pregnant with our fifth child (surprise!), my
husband sending out resumes each day to locate another place of
employment, with "anywhere but Texas" his general qualification. I
was nervous-excited, ready for stability, but dreading transition.
In the midst of this, I received a call that my grandfather had a limp leg.
Now, as a writer, I
am continuously becoming familiar with various conditions and
lifestyles (it has been said you should never check the internet
history of a writer). That being said, I was aware of brain
conditions causing limbs to go limp, and right away, even as doctors said "mild stroke," I knew there was a brain tumor. Within two weeks, my suspicion was confirmed: stage four
cancer.
Now, grandfathers come in all sorts, but I can say with assurance that
mine was really special. When I was young, my own father took off,
overcome by a lifestyle of addiction. My mom was 19 years old and continued her search for stability, often in unstable
places. Then came a day when life turned
predictable, yet fun. My grandparents took me in, and soon I had my
own bedroom with a basket-full of toys, a grandmother that attended to my
every need (and want), and a grandfather that pulled me onto his lap each
morning, told jokes, and let me curl his hair (what hair he had!). Laid back in his recliner, we watched episodes of Dr. Quinn, Texas Ranger, and America’s Funniest
Home Videos. We took vacations
together, rode hours in his truck, and enjoyed our meals around the table. While all of this intentional time spent contributed to a loving, healthy
foundation in my life, as I grew, the feelings of trust and safety
became confusing. If I was sad, I called my grandparents and they did all in their power to improve my circumstance. In college I came down with food poisoning, and I was scared. I called my grandparents and within the hour,
they were outside my dorm, the backseat fixed up like a bed, a cooler
of coca-colas in the floorboard, right next to a miniature trash can.
From then on, they’d drive to the halfway mark every Friday evening
and call to see if I wanted to come home.
The lines of trust continued to blur when I learned my grandfather had cancer.
Several years prior, I found Jesus. I married a man who gave his life to the
ministry, and while I cared for the church, the idea of being
compulsively poor and moving every two years was uncomfortable. I
felt jipped by God. Abandoned. Again and again I considered that the
only time I had truly felt seen and loved in all of my life was when
I stayed with my grandparents. This obviously caused friction in my
marriage, as pure will and my devotion to religion kept me at his
side. I certainly didn’t trust God.
Fast forward
to stage four cancer. Fast forward to another job change, another
pregnancy, another possible move, and my soul was plain weary. I thought to
myself, and prayed to God, that if He really knew what He was doing,
He’d let me die next. It sounds dramatic, but I really couldn’t
imagine a world without my grandpa in it. Yes, I had a great relationship with my mom, who had earlier in my life married a loving man and surrendered her life to Jesus, and my husband found a full-time job in ministry that fulfilled his desire to serve the church while caring for our family. We chose not to move, and began to enjoy our life in Texas. But I still wondered who would save me if my grandpa died?
“Sometimes the
holiest moments are not quiet ones.
They are tearful,
at times aggressive, as explosive emotion escapes a heart not ready
for goodbye.
Prepared? Yes.
Ready? Never.
But, in the
inevitable moment of reckoning, God’s grace draws near.”
I remember going
into inner-healing (which I highly recommend) and returning to a familiar memory where I hid beneath my bed as my mother was in yet
another physical squabble with her boyfriend. The counselor asked if
I could find Jesus nearby because He never left me. I saw
Jesus, but I stayed far from Him. My counselor asked who I
wanted to come save me. Of course, I immediately ran into my
grandparents arms. I didn’t want Jesus. I wanted them. They
had always been the faithful force of good in my life. I can remember
Jesus coming closer and asking me to accept that my grandfather was not
my savior, but a special grace on my life. A gift. A mere reflection
of the kindness and goodness God had meant to guide me back to Him.
So, I made the transfer in my heart, in that moment: Jesus is my
savior. My grandfather, Poppy, is a gift. Then, Jesus whispered to my heart, “Can
you trust me?” I can’t say I jumped on board immediately, but
moment by moment, I chose to turn my heart to Him in transition. In
fear. As my grandfather grew sicker. Last year I typed up my experience
with inner-healing and sent it to my grandfather because I wanted
him to know I’d be okay without him. I wanted him to know that
Jesus was my kindhearted savior who would never abandon me, who would
never abandon him.
“The Father
whispers into the chaos, “You are going to be okay.”
Then, the heart
leans into the reassurance, reminded that this intangible thing called
faith is holding it all together. The choice to trust opens as a
door, His goodness beckoning. “Can you trust me?”
This is the holy
moment, to step into the unknown by faith, and find He is present on
the other side. The mystery enlarges, but so does the faith it takes
to move forward. Heaven comes closer. Death seems so small. And, it’s no longer impossible to unload the heavy burden of goodbye and set it at the throne
of mercy.”
I had the immense
privilege of sitting alone with my grandfather just before he passed.
I prayed over him, worshiped, and felt the profound nearness of
Jesus. It was indeed a holy moment. I wept as the words continued to
flow, “Thank you for giving me this man...Thank you for showing me
love….Thank you for teaching me to trust…” I sang Great is Thy
Faithfulness from the deepest part of my heart, not by faith, but
with experience. Then, Jesus whispered, “Give him over to me.”
So, I stood over my grandfather and closed my eyes. I saw myself
before the throne of God. I held Poppy’s hand and escorted him
there. I began to cry, telling God, “But I don’t him to die!”
He said, “You’re not giving him to me to die. You’re
relinquishing all control over the situation. Can you trust me?”
With a deep breath, I left Poppy at the throne and stepped away. I
trust you, Jesus. I knew it was
the last time I’d ever see him alive, but such a unique peace
settled on me, I can’t quite explain it.
“Heart-wrenching.
Life-changing.
The
overwhelming power of perfect love pulling down fear of death,
replacing it with a confident assurance He is working all things for
good.
Even
things we don’t understand.
Especially what we don’t understand.”
I
cried until my eyes burned. Then, I stopped and praised God for
His goodness. Then, I cried, again. I laughed at how free I felt even
as I continued to cry. When I trust God, nothing can take that away
from me. Not even death.
Through the
visitation, the funeral, painful moments of necessary closure, I
continued to encounter peace. I worshiped with all of my heart, and
surrendered my life to Jesus, again. Every part of me. I trust
you, Jesus. I felt His love entangle with all the messy humanity
I still possess, and instead of shame, I let Him love me in that
place.
Do you trust Him? I
feel more convinced than ever of His sovereignty in the mystery, His
goodness in the trial, and His ability to work what the enemy meant
for evil into something glorious. Drop yourself at His throne.
“Goodbye becomes
a doorway to eternity, a mere transition into the fullness of His
loving presence. I am sustained by a glimpse, the glory of what is to
come.
To trust is to
possess a key to unlimited power: a faith not top-able, a love
unstoppable, a hope that carries on beyond the mystery, beyond death,
into the heart of a good Father.”
I still have a journey of grief ahead of me, but I don't grieve as someone without hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). I am not alone (John 14:18). And, thankfully, no amount of grief or pain or waffling in temporary uncertainty can separate me from the love of God (Romans 8:35). I was given a precious gift in my grandfather- a gift from Heaven itself.
I am so grateful.
