Death May Have Lost it’s Sting, but #@#*!, it Still Smarts

I haven’t posted much this week after Resurrection Sunday. I lost a pastor friend to cancer. Nearly ten years ago, Chuck was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. For nearly a decade, Chuck was able to live and love with the knowledge that this was a fragile and temporary gift. Even so, it was hard to say good bye. Chuck was a big part of my life out of college. He invited my to sit in on his praise band at the piano, taught me to read charts (I was classically trained and grew up frustrating nuns). I was also in a mentoring group with him years ago. Thursday AM’s at 6:30 AM like clock-work each week diving into scripture, sharing our lives, and praying together. I had not talked to Chuck in years– he became quite private after the diagnosis– and was caught off guard at how deeply I experienced grief, anger, and the whole gamut of emotions.

All this while helping other parents navigate their children through death and weeping with friends over a miscarriage. All the while having to endure well-intentioned believers who treat grief as an illness needing to be cure– the redemy, apparently, being giant theological horse pills to choke down.

This week ended with me subbing in the classroom of a five-year-old boy whose father is just days away from dying from a tumor. I’d be hard pressed to tell you who else was in the classroom this morning. It was me, with my grief-work and this boy who could barely conceptualize what was about to happen. I had to chip through myselfishness and decide that I wanted to deal with death one more time. 

The boy’s favorite superhero is Ghost Rider. For the life of me I can’t fathom why he a five-year-old is allowed to watch a movie about a man whose head turns into a flaming skull. I managed to refocus my gaze on where it belonged– why this boy was drawn to such a frightening character. Ghost Rider confronts enemies associated with death. As the boy drew dozens of picture of Ghost Rider with the speed of a Xerox machine, I realized that on some level the child needed a hero who was able to rescue his dad. 

I gathered myself and reviewed the Easter Story, how Jesus defeated death and allowed us to be friends with God. And then I shared a small piece of my grief over Chuck and explained that someday, perhaps lifetimes from now, Jesus would make this right too, somehow.  

This paragraph should be the place that I’m able to neatly resolve this little essay. I can’t. Things are not how they are supposed to be yet. Someday, Jesus will make this right too.