02.19.07

Update and Reflections 2.19.07

Posted in From Al & Libbie, Reflections, Updates at 10:32 pm by Libbie

Hello. We had a great time away last week, Tuesday through Thursday, and now we are gearing up for the kids to go back to school tomorrow (Tuesday, Feb 20). Likely enough that will be a bumpy experience, and this whole week may be something to just get through with the Lord’s help. They are not looking forward to it, but we’ve talked about things to anticipate, possible ways to handle certain situations, and that the Lord will be with them. If you think of praying for them tomorrow and the rest of this week, I know they would appreciate it!

I started back to seminary classes today, and it was good to be back on campus and back in the classroom. As recently as yesterday I thought I was nowhere near ready to get my head back into that game again, but today I began to feel differently. It will take some mental and emotional readjustment, and as the weeks unfold I’ll have to assess whether taking classes is a good or bad idea. The kids’ needs, of course, will be the number one determiner, and other factors will come into play, but I think I have to find the best path by “trial and error.” I’ll move ahead as seems wisest, hold plans loosely, and continually readjust as necessary.

Often Al’s absence still seems surreal. We find ourselves thinking that he’s just resting, or just on the computer in the other room, or away on a trip. Other times his absence feels very real. When something happens that Al would be especially interested in—a note someone writes on a card that Al would be touched by, for instance—I instinctively think, “Oh, that’s great, I’ll have to tell Al…” and then I realize that I can’t. Or it hits in the little, insignificant aspects of daily life. I was picking the raw onions off my whopper on our trip last week and realized that Al will no longer be here to eat my onions, or the mushrooms off the kids’ pizza or the other leftovers on our plates. Today I was in Al’s old office at Westminster, looking through the shelves of books that were his love as well as his livelihood, and it made me ache for him to be here still, working with those books, preparing lectures and talking with students.

A year ago, on January 16, 2006, we found out that there was “a spot” that had shown up on Al’s routine chest X-ray. From the moment I heard Al say those chilling words, I had no doubt that the spot would turn out to be melanoma, and I knew what that meant: that it was terminal. Although Al hoped that it would turn out to be something benign, I didn’t share his optimism. The next few days as I drove around town, I found myself crying a lot, imagining what it would be like to drive around in a world that Al was no longer a part of. In some ways, those first few days were among the hardest of this whole year. Now, as I drive around town, I find myself crying a lot, living in a world that Al is no longer a part of. The way I imagined it was pretty accurate.

So, the tears flow freely, and we talk about missing Al, and hug each other, and remember the wonderful life Al is enjoying in heaven, and we ache for his presence and look forward to seeing him again. Knowing that he is in heaven with the Lord whom he loves so dearly makes an enormous difference. It reminds me of when our first child went away to college. I had spent two years bracing myself for how much I was going to miss him and how sad I was going to be. But when we dropped him off at college and saw how happy he was there, and how well he fit, and how it seemed as if he was exactly where he should be and wanted to be, and where he would thrive, I couldn’t really be sad. I missed him, but knowing how happy he was there made my heart glad rather than sad. It’s a bit that way with Al too. I miss him, but knowing the incredible joys he is experiencing (that he’s been looking forward to for years and years), I am really happy for him, and I can’t be just purely sad as I miss him.

The promise of the resurrections and the hope of heaven make all the difference. Some people have commented that our family is strong, or amazing, or inspiring. It may look like that from the outside, but let me assure you that we are not strong in ourselves; we simply have an amazing, strong God who has made amazing promises to us that we know he will keep.

It’s like this: Let me paint you three pictures.

First, picture a bitter cold scene, with wind blowing and snow falling. Picture a guy in shorts and a T-shirt standing in the midst of this scene. Now I’m not talking about the high school kids who walk to the bus stop in the cold without a coat because the dictates of coolness demand it. They are required to try to convince themselves and others that they are really not cold, because that’s manly, or cool, or whatever. Rather, I’m talking about someone like our friend Eric, who wears shorts and a T-shirt all winter because the cold genuinely doesn’t bother him. I have no idea how he does it; I shiver in my long underwear and wool sweaters, but he simply doesn’t feel the cold.

Eric is amazing. We are not like Eric. We are ordinary people who feel the cold of loss and sorrow like anyone else.

Next, picture our frigid cold house that has forced hot air heat that blows out of vents in the floor. Picture someone in shorts and a T-shirt, standing over the vent when the heat is on, feeling warm enough to be comfortable until the blower goes off. Someone looking in the window who couldn’t see the vent might think that since the person was warm even in our cold house it was because they were like Eric. But we know that the only reason they are warm is because of the heater blowing hot air around them. That’s what we’re like. Looking at us from the outside, you may or may not be able to perceive the “heater” of God’s steadfast, unfathomable love sustaining us, but we can assure you that that is the reason we are not undone by the cold of loss. As people have prayed for us, God’s love has surrounded us like the comforting hot air.

But as I thought more about it, I realized something particular about the way God has comforted us, or at least how he has comforted me—I’ll speak for myself at this point. My particular grief and sorrow and the way God is comforting me is part of a much bigger picture of what God has done in human history. In dying and rising again 2000 years ago, Jesus broke the power of death and created a whole new reality for his people to live in. It’s a reality that includes eternity, in which our lives in this world, however long or short, are just a prelude to indescribable Life in heaven with him. Even 100 years of the happiest life here on earth are just the drip of a faucet compared to the ocean of eternal life that we will participate in. The joys of heaven are beyond the most wonderful things we can think or imagine (more on that in a future blog post). When you have that to look forward to, it changes everything. It changes life here. It changes the way you see death. Death becomes just the doorway into that new life—something to be welcomed when the Lord brings it, not something to be feared.

This brought to mind the third picture: Imagine a beach in Hawaii, 75-80 degrees every day with full sunshine. Picture someone in shorts and a T-shirt, relaxed and comfortable in the balmy warmth. Life in Christ, including the time of our life on this earth, the transition of death, and then eternal life in heaven with Christ, is more like the beach in Hawaii. It’s a warm reality to inhabit.

I think that the way God has answered your prayers for me (I’ll speak for myself again) is that he’s given me eyes to see what is already the case. In this present sadness, what I have needed most is simply a reminder and an awareness that that wonderful eternal life that Jesus bought with his own blood is mine, ours, Al’s. When I remember that, my grief relaxes, my soul relaxes, and I find myself in the warmth and comfort of the sure hope of heaven. It’s like stepping out of the bitter cold winter and onto the sunny, Hawaiian beach. This is not to say that I don’t feel grief; I surely do. But when I miss Al and feel the deep ache of loss, what soothes the hurt is the sure knowledge of heaven: that Al is there with Jesus in full health and joy and that we will see him again.

Anyway, we are just ordinary people. In answer to people’s prayers, God has enabled us to be aware of the truth and reality of what Jesus made possible 2000 years ago, and to live in that reality. God’s awesome love has sustained us and continues to. Thank you for praying. And if you would remember to pray for Eowyn and Alden as they go back to school tomorrow (Tuesday) and the rest of this week, I would be very grateful.

Love,
Libbie

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