The Altar of Bereavement

A thin veil hangs between Earth and Glory, where Everleigh now resides, and we as humans just don't know what to do in that space. The church sanctuary is just that--a solemn, safe place for mourners to gush and share in a way people can only do when heaven is that palpable. So we weep and ask questions, hug one another, beg God for His comfort and promise to hold our babies longer, love them better. It's holy ground, where families long separated sit side by side, forgiveness in their embraces, tear-filled eyes smiling understanding. Somewhere in the deep chasm of loss, love and healing emanate potential light. Eulogies are given and behind words of anguish and anger, is a thread of hope that somehow there's a reason for the seeming insanity of baby death. 

Rick (Grandpa) reads Everleigh's favourite bedtime story, as he would each night, but this time to us, the assembly of fellow grievers. As he turns each page and asks, "Is that my panda?" sobs fill his voice and he gazes at the tiny casket and closes with, "Goodnight, Monkey."  Karen (Grandma) eloquently and honestly lists the ways this small person has transposed her from a private person to one who is open and enraptured with life as she views it through the eyes of a near-toddler. No one doubts the unconditional love for this little being. Heather, her young mother, is calm and lovely and speaks with a desire for all of us to know her daughter more. She holds the hand of Everleigh's daddy, Andrew, as he cries into the microphone how he loved his girl. His mom and sisters encircle each other and express their hearts too in a cascade of sadness and tenderness for their lost baby. So much pain, adoration and hope, all mingling at the altar of bereavement. 

Then, love-brimming, sorrow-filled pallbearers lift the wee box that holds only the pretty shell of little Everleigh, knowing her soul is long gone, healed and free. Still, as they walk, the aching human heart can barely grasp that truth. Jesus Loves Me plays while the procession carries her out of that Holy Place. But the song is really for us, because we're left behind and so very much need to feel that, in the middle of all of this, Jesus loves us, that His plan still proceeds and that this terrible thing isn't unseen by Him. We need to know He hears the cry of His people and rushes to comfort. We need to feel His Spirit after we've left the Holy Place and we're floundering for answers and are tormented by heartache. We need to move on and choose joy when it seems right to remain broken--for her. 

The days will march on and my loved ones who held that giggling bundle with each rising and setting sun will clasp emptiness for awhile. It will take their breath away at times. Grief hurts. But Jesus was not unacquainted with sorrow and He will tangibly offer solace if we enter the Holy Place that becomes portable as we whisper-cry His name. And, one day, just as that precious baby girl sees Him face to face, we will too. Then we will know and understand what we couldn't possibly have comprehended in this earthly life. But for now, when sweeping answers won't suffice, it will only be the experience of real heart-mending Love that will be desperately sought. Love for Everleigh embodied every word and every song in the sanctuary. It was present because of the Love that was given at this very time of year. That Love now holds us close in our deepest mourning and helps us to enfold each other to restore joy once again.

all of us wearing purple clothing or tiny purple bows in honour and memory of Everleigh

balloons and beautiful large photos filled the sanctuary

Remembering Linda

The sky was cerulean and a light breeze blew through our hair as we stood huddled under the towering oak by Linda's grave. The pastor spoke words of hope and encouraged us to lean into God and each other in the coming days. I glanced around at hands held and bodies close and knew that his exhortation would be an easy continuation for us. Pastor Paul held his Bible open, the source of wisdom for each one of us in attendance, including my dear sister-in-law. He breathed Psalm 46 like it was life--and it was. I lifted my eyes to the playground just beyond the fence where we were posed. It was so still and quiet. The only sound was birdsong, the gentle swishing of leaves above and the occasional sniffle of thankful but grieving family members. The playground... how fitting. Linda was such a playful person. I couldn't remember one family gathering where she wasn't laughing or telling a funny story or someone else was telling of some joke she'd played on an unsuspecting soul. I found out later that others were looking to that playground with these same thoughts.

I wondered how anyone could survive the devastation of cancer and all it robs us of without knowing the loving arms of God surrounding them; the Creator whispering hints of home. I wished there was a person in the park to hear these words of comfort, someone who needed it perhaps even more than we did. Within a minute, a mom with her toddler arrived and quietly played while our tiny ceremony carried on. I couldn't help but think that one precious life had just left this world and that little girl was just entering. I lifted her and her momma up in prayer. 

The pastor concluded with verse 10 of that Psalm and I quoted with him in my mind, "Be still and know that I am God." That's exactly what we were all doing, I was sure. We began to sing the Doxology, and as our voices floated through that lovely cemetery overlooking the playground, we laid astilbe stems on Linda's casket, and I was overwhelmed by how much God was sustaining our family. 

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;    

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen. 

We walked back to our vehicles a little sadder, since this part of the day is always the most difficult. Linda knew this and so she made certain in her long notes about her funeral, that we'd end with a celebration, not the burial. Sustaining grace once again.

Not long after, we settled in reserved pews at the front of the church for the service. We took up six rows with the size of our family--blessings in numbers. Several of us from the family sang, "Your Love Never Fails" by Chris Tomlin, on the stage. My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and niece sang, "I Am Not Alone" by Kari Jobe. Linda's siblings shared humorously about growing up with their sister, and her children lovingly related stories of their mother with their dad standing beside them. Those brave, funny and sweet kids drew tears to my eyes. Pastor Paul spoke again and compared our sorrow to that of the storm Jesus' disciples had experienced in their boat. He began to tell of Jesus' power to calm the wind and waves and in that very moment, like a real object lesson straight from heaven, torrential rains pounded the roof of the church. Thunder roared out of nowhere and was suddenly gone as he counseled us to trust the Lord with our lives. Many were moved at the timing of it all. 

Hugs were abundant these past few days. Three well-attended visitations and a funeral later, we'd been squeezed by a lot of caring and prayerful people. More words of wisdom, more faith, more hope, more assurance. As I ravenously gobbled up a sandwich after the service, my eyes feasted on the gift of community lavished on us. I'd married into the Dutch world and it initially took some getting used to. Nearly twenty-one years later, I do nothing but praise God for this hard-working, dependable group who never drop the ball when it comes to love and support. The Lord has rewarded their faithfulness to Him with a strength of spirit and a certainty of His reality. I'm grateful to be one of them, doing my best to dote on my grieving brother-in-law and his children, and my parents-in-law. And more hugs abounding.

I held my girl on my lap and talked about death and hope and the joy of heaven. She understood that the coming days would be the tough ones for Aunt Linda's immediate family... resuming life as usual... kind of. She quite decidedly announced she was going to fast for her cousins so that they would be okay and happy. I told her that was a very loving thing to do for them and that I know God will answer her prayers because that's His desire for them too. And as days turn into years, I will keep the memory of my beautiful sister-in-law alive and remind my children about her hilarious personality and how we loved her. I will tell them how our gracious God granted us four years with her after her initial diagnosis of stage four cancer. And they will remember how God gave them an aunt they'll never forget. 

 Hanging together at the funeral home.

Practicing our song.

Waiting for a cue from Terry, who was playing the piano.

Watching the beautiful video of photos of Linda growing up, getting married, having children and living life.

Linda's two sisters xo

Cousins make everything less difficult.

Linda's two sisters xo

 Saying goodbye.

Rubber chicken on her casket? Yep, her kids knew her well :)

Sibling speech--funny, real, and loving.

 Found a crazy bunch of kids at the funeral :)

Bailey's sweet supporters.

 Post-funeral family time. Always laughing, even through the sadness.

 More amazing family.

 God is sustaining our joy and giving peace. May He be felt among us and through us in the difficult days to come.

(The Scripture that comforted Linda in her last months...)

Jesus said to her, "I am the Resurrection and the Life. The one who believes in Me will live, even though they die, and whoever lives by believing in Me will never die. Do you believe this?"
John 11:25,26

Loss and Hope

The ice storm blew in with a fury the day after a tiny woman lay in a hospital bed curled like a delicate leaf. Branches cracked and broke and we mourned the loss of our ancient, prized trees, stripped of their glory and strength. She, hunched with bony limbs, lost her dignity and vigour as a blizzard of  pneumonia and weakness assaulted her one hundred year-old mind and body. We gazed out the window, powerless to stop the death of our landscape's privacy, pride and beauty. And the lovely, wise and kind woman who had nurtured many, breathed her last and we were powerless to keep her with us.

We had held her hands in that cramped room and wept over her attempt to rise up out of that bed in her discomfort. Our precious Oma faded rapidly and it was so difficult to watch as she had just squeezed us and called us by name with a smile a couple months earlier at her birthday party. I surveyed the fallen trees and couldn't push away the blast of comparison between my missing boughs and her absence.

Our trees remained encased in ice for days, and Oma was encased for burial. My husband dragged away branches and cleared the ground to evaluate the damage. He shook his head as he stood in the doorway in his clompy rubber boots, and pulled off his gloves. It seemed there was irrevocable damage and there'd be a great deficiency after the ice melted. I thought about my mother-in-law and her siblings who'd face the deficit of their mom.

 

A power outage hit far and wide--the shutting down of life in many respects--and a couple of days later (Christmas Eve Day) we stood around Opa's nearly twenty year-old grave. We sang, Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow as we lowered Oma next to her husband. Another branch cracked above me and I heard a crow caw in the distance--lonely, cold, empty sounds that reverberated how we'll feel the loss of her. My little boy looked up at me with brimming eyes and I fought my own in the minus twelve degree temperature.

 

"Now I have officially lost all of my grandparents," my husband sadly whispered.

 

Across the crowd of family, my father-in-law's tears flowed like ice thawing after the proper niceties of the earlier family greeting time. Mom, wiped her own as they lingered a moment by the graves. All at once, I missed my Mama and Grampie and thought that the world really needs them and Oma. I pined to my husband that I needed the sun to see the goodness of all this death. What I really needed was the Son.

 

  

 

 

   

  

But then, the sun did come out and just as cousins, aunts, uncles and caring friends had encouraged, "She's finally home", the weather agreed with this truth and suddenly, the cold, cocooning, life-binding ice morphed into crystals and diamonds strung from the tips of limbs like costly jewelry. Hope was renewed and moods were improved. Although we knew all along that Oma's death was welcomed by her, the previous day's power outage and searching for candles and sadness over her passing was replaced by an awe of the elegance around us. Instead of feeling a lack and dropping our heads at what was lost on the ground (and in the ground), we were forced to lift our eyes upward at the sparkling beauty that comes after the tempestuous tearing away. Our Oma is dazzling in the light of Jesus who has taken her by the hands and lifted her up out of that bed and into His glorious presence. What is left behind is a family that is a little closer to the knowledge of how precious the death of His saint is in His eyes.

 

The twig above me dripped with the thawing. I snapped pictures and smiled as I imagined the warmth of heaven and how Oma will never again experience a cold world. She said she wanted to be home for Christmas and her prayer was answered. As we celebrated Jesus coming as a baby to earth, she celebrated meeting Him face to face. More ice slipped into water droplets and new hope defrosted my heart. 

 

 

Farewell, sweet Oma, until we meet again.

Four Children And A Funeral

To take or not to take children to a funeral... that is the question. Since we have the very real hope in Christ that death is not forever and that souls are present with the Lord, we can explain, with joy, the passing of loved ones. The pain may last awhile but the comfort God offers is a peace that passes all understanding. However, children are in the process of trying to figure this all out.

Meghan immediately burst into tears when I shared with our four children that Great-Papa had died. She wears her emotions on her sleeve and she was close to this old man who had touched her heart. Molly responded by shrugging her shoulders and Emily and Oliver just stared. I knew that their reactions were simply a part of their initial understanding and that they would begin to make connections between the other losses we have experienced in the past year and a half.

The funeral day came and we chatted on the ride to the service all about what we might see. Since it was to be a closed casket, we didn't feel the need to explain what Great-Papa might look like. However, as it turned out, a family member had changed that small detail. Oliver and I went into the crowded viewing room to find my mom and step-dad and when we approached the casket, I realized this was going to bring on new questions. I had a conversation with Oliver while Terry shared with the girls what they were about to see. Emily was apprehensive but after mustering up some courage, she exclaimed to my mom, "He looks better than the last time I saw him!"

Upon exiting the room, Oliver pointed his thumb back over his shoulder and announced, "He's dead in there!"

So far, so good.

Meghan, being eleven and more in touch with her emotions in all of this, clung to her "conjoined twin" cousin, Brooke, and cried some more. She shared with me later that Brooke had explained a little of the embalming process. Alrighty-then.

It was a beautiful celebration service, laced with hymn-singing and a couple of anecdotes about Elwood. He had lived a long and full life, even to the last hours. My husband sang, "I Will Rise" by Chris Tomlin and my sisters and I sang back-up. I had to keep my eyes down as we sang because each time I looked up, I caught my sobbing niece in the corner of my eye and began to feel the tears well up.

Upon the conclusion of the service, my husband and a few other pall bearers slowly carried this dear man's soul-empty body out the side door of the building. Oliver, who was in my arms, had full view and began to cry, "Don't take Great-Papa away! I NEED to see him! Don't take him away!" I tried to calm my flailing boy but he became louder and family and friends gathered around, each becoming emotional over the passion of my son. I assured Oliver that we would go outside and see him again in the "box" at the place where they were taking Great-Papa and that is what calmed him. A granola bar in the van, a change of scenery, and the reminder that we'll be with him forever in heaven, was all he needed to return to a happier mood.

We drove to the cemetery and the dreary, cold weather matched our thoughts. The pastor spoke a few words, sang a hymn and prayed. It was lovely. The funeral director pulled flowers from an arrangement nearby and handed one to each of us to lay upon the casket. Molly must have been bothered that a few of them were falling between the casket and the concrete box that it had been lowered into, because when it was her turn, she leaned way down into that box to retrieve those flowers. Her short little arms didn't quite reach easily and to my dismay, my eight year-old girl, laid sideways over the casket, head between the boxes, one foot in the air. Yes, indeed, she saved those flowers from being lost forever in the crevices and stood with a look of accomplishment on her face. She had done her part.

Later, during refreshment time, my aunt saddled up beside me and shared that she had just finished a very interesting conversation with my two youngest girls all about skeletons. Emily had been explaining to her wide-eyed great-auntie that skeletons don't normally have blood and skin on them, that those parts come off and the bones are left. Molly demonstrated that the face is then left to look like this... and she made a toothy, hollow-faced expression. Well, my aunt was convinced that the girls were describing some creepy Halloween scene they had encountered. But then Molly matter-of-factly stated, "Great-Papa isn't a skeleton yet and it doesn't matter that his body will go down into the ground anyway because his soul is in heaven."

Oh :)

So, taking children to a funeral means responding to something new around each corner but I think it's just what we needed in order to fully grasp death and eternity and all the love in between.

Good-bye, Great-Papa, we'll see you soon!

The Funeral

It was unexpected. We didn't even know he was ill. We watched him throughout the day and oh, the tears... I can't begin to tell you how many tears were shed over him as he slipped away from us. When that moment arrived, when we all knew it was the end, the funeral arrangements began. Because of the obvious sorrow, I stepped back and allowed the children to do their own thing, planning and organizing, carrying furniture out of the house and dressing themselves "appropriately". Terry and I didn't know what to expect as we were asked to attend the memorial.

We were each asked to say a few words about Jack, to share a memory. We obliged. It was easy because we all had experienced some memorable moment with him.

Terry was a little over the top but I think it seemed sincere.

Meghan, being the most heart-broken, shared her feelings about the life that Jack had lived.

We all paid our respect before the burial.

Oliver said, "He was beeeautiful."

We gathered around and said our goodbyes to our beloved fish and Terry lowered him into the ground.

There were even real tears (mostly because of her part of the funeral being overlooked--which was quickly remedied... thankfully).


Molly, the ever-lovin' snacker, passed out treats she had collected from the cupboards as "funeral refreshments".

As we dragged chairs along the grass and tidied up the remains of the ceremony, Terry thought he'd just throw a thought out there into the thick, somber air... "Wanna go pick out some new fish later on?"

Emily jumped up, nearly knocking her brother over and squealed, "Yes! Oh, yes! You're the best Daddy ever! Let's go!" She grabbed onto my husband's leg, giggling. He squeezed her small frame and replied laughing, "Well, you grieve quickly!"

Here is what Meghan posted on her own private blog (just to give you her perspective)...

Yes, the title says it, we had a funeral. Not your typical funeral where you go to a funeral home and then to the grave site and there are dozens of people, but one right in our own backyard. With the tractor running, and the customers walking around at the nursery possibly glancing through the giant windows every now and then into our backyard to see what we're doing. We had set up benches out onto the grass all somewhat circling the place where we will say our speeches, and I had made a {quite lousy} sign that hung on one piece of string tied to the two pillars of the under deck.

Daddy came home for lunch and that was our cue to get into our black dresses and other black clothing for the boys {although most didn't put black on just because}. Daddy fetched the dead smelly body from the garage and put it in a box. We all trotted out side one of us holding the box carefully. We placed the box down on the grass with the benches all around. We sat. It was my turn to say something that we liked about the fish or a memory that we will keep forever. After we all had a turn, we walked under the sign and under the deck. We buried him right where we will bury our other animals when they die. {Of course we already had other deaths of animals, but it wasn't until today that Molly had her great idea of having a funeral}.

We placed the bottom of our old deck table over the spot where we buried him so that wild animals will smell the dead fish but through a fit not being able to get at it. After this we sang "From the Rising Of the Sun". Molly had brought some treats out so we had them.It was a beautiful day with coloured leaves, and pink blossoms scattered where we were having the funeral {not planned at all!} The breeze gently blew our hair and cooled our necks. Perfect weather for a funeral.

Jack, we will all miss you dreadfully. Even though you are a fish, you were like a friend to me. When I sat on the leather couch beside the aquarium read my Bible, you would always watch with curiosity and wonder. Even though we are to get dozens of new colourful fish in our aquarium now to keep Twinkle Twinkle happy, no one could replace you. We will miss you even though we were waiting until we could get more fish because the lady said you would eat them all.

Love, Meghan Grace