the sweetest victory

A few weeks back, the pastor of our congregation preached a sermon that got me to rethinking the whole death thing. You see, both my parents are gone now. Mom passed away two years ago on December 15^th. Dad died eight years ago this coming July. 

My parents died in very different ways. Dad’s was a sudden heart attack—an unexpected-out-of the-blue kind of death. Mom who had been sick virtually her whole life was told that her transplanted kidney was failing, put on hospice and died six months later. 

Neither was easy, as I’m sure you’re all aware of. It doesn’t matter how you lose a loved one, none of it is fun. Absolutely none.

I grieve over the loss of my parents for sure, but the sermon my pastor preached got me to rethinking who really has it the worst, my parents, or myself. As a person of faith, the answer is pretty obvious. I have it the worst. I do. My parents are done, they’ve lived their lives, they‘ve fought the good fight and finished their race. 

I’m not there. So I hurt, and cry and miss them. But in my faith I have to remember something; my parents are on the good side of heaven. You see, when my pastor mentioned that death is a victory for those who die in the faith, my ears and heart perked up a bit. I guess you could call it “a light bulb moment”—oh yea, they’re in a good place now. Somehow, thinking of my parent’s death as a victory lap makes missing them a little less painful.

A long, long time ago (I can say a long, long time ago now that I’m forty) I was a volunteer teacher in a Vacation Bible School class. One day, I was put in charge of teaching the lesson—a story from Acts Chapters 6-8. It’s the story of Stephen—the one who was stoned to death for telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it. 

As I read the story aloud, three very simple words caught my attention; [Stephen] fell asleep. Take a look for yourself:

  ⁵⁹ While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” ⁶⁰ Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he fell asleep.

I think I’ve shared this verse and my thoughts about it before. In fact, I know I have, but luckily for me my failing memory doesn’t recall what I wrote. So if this is a rerun, bear with me.

The story doesn’t say that Stephen died. It says that he fell asleep.  And that’s what I like best about it; Stephen fell asleep. Because, of course, if he’s fallen asleep, he will wake up again.

But I think the story gets even better. Stephen is done. He has fought the good fight. He has finished the race. So too, have my parents. It’s a much lighter burden realizing that my parents are living the good life now, not in Nebraska, but in eternity.

It makes the sorrow a little bit easier to bear and gives me hope for the day I will get to see them again. Sometimes it even brings a smile to my face knowing that my victory lap is drawing nearer, too. 

Coming home to heaven is like crossing the finish line after a long, often painful and grueling run. For those who enter the pearly gates, death is a victory not a defeat. That makes the loss a little bit easier to bear knowing that someday I’ll reach the finish line as well. And I have to tell you—that’s one victory lap I’m really looking forward to taking.

crazy forty

Turning forty in T-minus eight days has me pondering death. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s true. Lately, I just can’t stop thinking about it. 

Someone once told me that turning forty is no biggie, that you’re only as old as you feel. Yea, I’m not buying that. Tell that to my cranky knees and failing eyesight. Tell that to the aches and pains in my joints. 

I hate that my body is changing. I hate that cold temps rock my body with pain I’ve never felt before. I used to love my birthday. Loved it. But that was before now. Forty, yea, I’m not so excited about this one.

Let’s face it, death is a bit scary. The unknown staring us down. Quite honestly, it’s the unfamiliar that makes it hard for me—what kind of mysteries await us? 

As a kid, I worried about dying, mostly because I didn’t want to go to heaven. Yup, you read it correctly; I didn’t want to go to heaven. For some reason, I pictured heaven as a place where we would all spend an eternity painting like Bob Ross. Forever and ever. Yikes! Did I mention that I hate to paint?

In fact, as a youngster I was so scared of dying that some nights I was reluctant to lay my head on my pillow. I would sit up in bed scared to death over, well, death. That’s when I decided it was time to take my worries to the only One who could help me get past these fears—God. 

And He did. 

After my junior year in college, I spent the summer as a counselor at a bible camp called Outlaw Ranch. Every week, a team of us drove to a nearby small town to run a week-long day camp for kids.

After we’d gassed up our seventies van, we headed out to the interstate, little suspecting what was about to take place. A few minutes in to the trip, one of our tires blew. Our van went careening towards the exit. 

In that moment, I knew that I was going to die. The miraculous thing is, I wasn’t afraid, not one bit. I felt satisfied and at peace. If this was my last day on earth, I could handle it. I truly could. An answer to prayer for sure.

Skip ahead, oh, eighteen years or so to the present. Now that I’m an adult, I wonder about death more. Ponder it more. While I know that turning forty doesn’t mean my life is over, there is something sobering about having lived half of it, give or take.

And though I’m no longer afraid of spending an eternity painting, I do have other fears. Mostly, it’s over the unknown. What will heaven be like? Will we see our family, the ones who have gone before us? Will we ever get to sit on God’s lap? Questions like these swirl around inside my brain stirring up new fears—fears over the mystery that awaits us. 

A very wise pastor once told me, “I don’t know what heaven will be like, but I know I won’t be disappointed.” Isn’t that beautiful? His words that day calmed my fears. I figured if God can take a world racked with sin, grief, and pain and still manage to make it beautiful, how much better will it be in heaven where there will be no more pain, grief, sickness or, most importantly, death.

That kind of heaven I can handle. So even if I do have to paint like Bob Ross for an eternity (which I’m pretty sure I won’t) I’m suddenly not so scared. Though I don’t know what awaits me in heaven, I know I won’t be disappointed. And neither will you.

death stares us in the face

I received bad news from my hometown this past week. One of my mom’s former colleagues died tragically while on a canoeing trip. When I read the article concerning the accident, it was hard to believe that he was gone. Just like that. What hit home for me most was that this man, this fifty year old, died so unexpectedly. 

The news brought with it a sense of the finality of death. Life flashes by so quickly. You never know which day will be your last. Accidents happen, cancer happens, diseases happen. And in the midst of the pain and grief it’s easy to wonder if God even cares about our suffering and loss. But when I look at all that Jesus did when he lived on this earth, I have to believe that God cares. 

¹² A funeral procession was coming out as [Jesus] approached the village gate. The young man who had died was a widow’s only son, and a large crowd from the village was with her. ¹³ When the Lord saw her, his heart overflowed with compassion. “Don’t cry!” he said. ¹⁴ Then he walked over to the coffin and touched it, and the bearers stopped. “Young man,” he said, “I tell you, get up.” ¹⁵ Then the dead boy sat up and began to talk! And Jesus gave him back to his mother. Luke 7:11-17 (NLT)

Jesus’s heart overflowed with compassion for this widow, as did his Father’s. Remember that time when Jesus said anyone who has seen him has also seen the Father? Rest assured, Jesus’ love for that widow was a mirror of his Father’s love. 

When bad things happen, it’s easy to rail against God, believing the worst of lies; that He doesn’t care; He’s detached from our lives; He just lets cruel things happen to people to keep us all in line. 

But consider the stories about Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Jesus’ friends, his good friends. One of the last stories we hear of them in the Bible is one of the most extraordinary tales ever told. 

When Jesus is told that Lazarus is sick, he doesn’t run full speed to save his friend. In fact, the story reads that after he received the news, he stayed where he was for two more days. What a way to treat your friends, right? How could Jesus do this to those who were so close to him? 

But you see, God had a bigger plan a better plan--one that involved the death of someone Jesus loved. Out of Lazarus’ death many good things were about to happen--including the fact that many who saw Jesus raise Lazarus would put their faith in him. Not to mention the fact that Jesus revealed his power—his Father’s power over death.

There is one portion of this story that truly intrigues me. If Jesus knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, why did he cry? You remember it, the shortest verse in the Bible; Jesus wept. I’ve always wondered this; why did Jesus cry even though he knew that in a matter of moments, he was going to bring Lazarus back to life. I think it’s this part of the story that gives us a good peek into the love and compassion God truly has for us all.

³³ When Jesus saw [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he ^uwas deeply moved⁵ in his spirit and ^vgreatly troubled. ³⁴ And he said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” ^35 wJesus wept. John 11:33-35 (ESV)

That short but sweet little verse gives a pretty good glimpse into our Father’s heart. You see, I don’t think Jesus was weeping because Lazarus was dead. As I stated, he knew he was going to raise him to life. I think the real reason Jesus cried was because he hurt for his friends. Some translations read that Jesus was indignant. Death was never supposed to happen; it wasn’t part of the Maker’s plan. 

My heart hurts for the families that experience the death of a lost one. I understand the pain that they’re going through. If I can hurt like that, think about how much our Father hurts for His people whose hearts are aching. Though it’s difficult to understand the reasons why, we can trust the One who sent His son to suffer and die so that we wouldn’t face an eternity without Him. That’s the joy of eternal life. That’s the joy of heaven, a place where there will be no more death, or crying, or pain. Even though your heart is breaking, trust in him—the One who will wipe every tear from our eyes. He cares. He really does.

⁴ ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’^[a] or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelation 21:4 (NLT)

He is not here.

Matthew 28:5-7 The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."

He is not here; he has risen.

I traveled up to my hometown this past weekend. It was my niece’s confirmation and I wanted to be there for the important occasion and celebration. On Saturday, in between preparations, I slipped away to take a walk to the cemetery where Mom and Dad are both buried.  As I made my way along the path, a sort of sadness overtook me. And as I stood at their gravesides, I waited for the tears to come. But they didn’t.

He is not here; he has risen.

In the midst of my sadness a jolt of hope entered in. I remembered this well-known verse from the Easter season--a reminder from God and a promise: my parents weren’t there anymore either. Mom wasn’t there in that grave. Not the true part of her. Dad wasn’t either. They were gone to a much better place. Because of their faith in Jesus, my parents are very much alive. In a beautiful and perfect place that I can’t even begin to imagine.

He is not here; he has risen.

Yesterday morning, my little girl asked how old Grandma Toie is. Not how old she was when she died, but how old she is now. It would have been so easy to say, ‘Well, honey when she died she was seventy.’ And I nearly found myself saying those very words to her. But a small smile came to my lips and I realized that the faith of my child was strong and sure. Grandma Toie is very much alive. ‘She’s 71,’ I said. Satisfied with that answer Katie went back to eating her bowl of cereal. Then I asked her a question, ‘Do you suppose they celebrate birthdays in heaven?’ And we all agreed that, yes, they must.

He is not here; he has risen.

The other day, I told a story about when I was a little girl and did a very silly thing. Mom had made mint chocolate brownies, my favorite. One afternoon, while she was visiting with some of her friends, I snuck into the kitchen and found them and proceeded to eat half the pan. Half. When I had finished telling her the story, my daughter got a twinkle in her eye. “Mom, I can’t wait to get to heaven because I’m going to tell on you.”

“Tell on me?” I asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to tell Grandma Toie that you ate all those brownies.” Then she skipped off happy as could be in the knowledge that someday she would get to “tell on me.”

He is not here; he has risen.

Because Jesus lives, we also will live. Death will not have the final say. Someday, it will be swallowed up in victory. During this joyous Easter season may we, with child-like faith, trust and believe this most important message:

He is not here; he has risen.

more than just a crazy dream

I have been thinking about Mom a lot today. We are approaching one year since she passed away. In the blog entry I wrote shortly after she died, I mentioned her words of love to me, “I’ll always love you. Never forget that.” When I want to call her to share something exciting, interesting, or difficult the part of me that so looked forward to those chats hurts. Today, I was running errands and at my daughter’s request popped in a Christmas CD. Listening to it, my mind traveled back to what was happening a year ago at this time when Mom was on hospice. And wham. The waterworks started. Losing Mom in the midst of the Christmas season was hard. No way around that.

And even though it hurts to write this entry, I’d like to share some valuable lessons that I’ve learned over the past year. A few months ago when the grief was still quite fresh, I found myself fixating on all the bad stuff. How much pain Mom had been in. How quickly she went downhill after we discovered her kidney was failing. The sadness I felt over all of her struggles was burdensome. It consumed me. I could, if I had let myself, wallow in the pain and misery that were mine throughout the last several months of Mom’s life.

But two things occurred to me. Number one, my mother would be so mad if she knew that I was dwelling on all the pain she endured. I can hear her tell me, “Now don’t be silly. I’m in heaven now. There’s nothing to cry about.” Mom never did like to draw attention to her pain, and I imagine she’d be less tolerant of it even now.

Number two, Mom’s experiencing the glories of heaven. All the pain she endured all those years is a blip on the radar screen in comparison with eternity. So now, I try to be happy and think about all the good memories we had as a family. I find that the grief that pierces my heart doesn’t cut quite as deeply when I let go of the pain and focus on the joy of life.

Thirdly, I was reminded that God did care about our pain - that his heart grieved for me and my family. Shortly before Mom died, God gave us a gift we could hold close to our hearts. A gift that would help ease our pain in the coming days, weeks, months and years. The gift He gave was a glimpse of the unseen realities happening all around us, the behind-the-scenes action, as He pulled back the curtains of Paradise and let us have a peek inside.

It happened in a dream that my sister-in-law, JoDee, had one night shortly before Mom passed away. Because we no longer left Mom alone at night, JoDee was spending the night in Mom’s apartment. In her dream my sister-in-law vividly remembers having a couple of “visitors”. The first “visitor” walked right through the front door. Being more surprised than alarmed, JoDee noticed that he was replacing a light bulb and asked, “What are you doing?” His response was straight and to the point, “I’m changing the light bulb. I need to light the way.”

A few moments later another “visitor” came in through a corner of the apartment. Again, JoDee was bemused by this visit thinking to herself, ‘I didn’t know there was a door in that corner of the apartment’. This visitor said nothing to JoDee, she simply gave a nod and a smile as she walked past her. Then the visitor walked up to gaze into my mothers’s room. JoDee watched this visitor smile as she looked at Mom, not saying a word. In that moment, JoDee woke up and heard Mom struggle and went quickly to her bedside.

Now, you could chalk this all up to a fluke, a simple dream and nothing more. But I’d like to believe that JoDee wasn’t just experiencing a dream that night but was permitted to see the unseen – what was happening all around her that couldn’t be observed with human eyes.

Several days later when I came into town, JoDee was compelled to share that dream with me. Later on, she shared with me that there are only three dreams she’s ever remembered and the two she had that night were part of those recollections. I think for my whole life I will remember these dreams. I will remember them as vividly as if they were my own. And even now, the recollection of them makes me smile; to know that someone was lighting the way for Mom, that they were preparing to bring her home.

I’ve only shared that dream with a handful of people. But the memory of it gives me such hope that I wanted to share it with all of you. Call it an early Christmas present, a gift or whatever you want. If you’re experiencing heartache like my family and I suffered last Christmas, I hope that in some small way this dream gives you comfort, hope and joy, too.