Victory through the Tears

This is about me. It might also be about you, for it is about the way faith helps Christians handle profound loss.

On June 17, H. Edward Reeves, my father, completed his life race on Earth to cross the finish line in Heaven. I know he was awarded a variety of laurels for his life of service to his Savior. I wish I could have heard the Lord say, "Well done, good and faithful servant," with more than my heart. Daddy worried, in his last days about having "stars in his crown". This wasn't a selfish desire for Heavenly bling; his life's purpose was creating a superior gift. Knowing Daddy's heart, he humbly cast his crowns immediately at the feet of his beloved Jesus.

I wouldn't wish for a miracle to bring him back to us, because he is relieved of his painful struggle for life and breath. Everyone remarks that he again has fingers and feet in Heaven, because he was a quadruple amputee. Earthly suffering aside, I can only imagine the wonders he is witnessing in Heaven. He is eternally rejoicing in reunion with my brother, Mike and sister,Debbie, his beloved mother, grandmother Grace, squadrons of soldiers and the myriad of souls that he led to Christ -- the stars in his crown.

Almost all of our family members dressed in Red, White and Blue for Dad's memorial services. We wanted no hint of dirges, sobbing or remorse to tinge the celebration of a life-race run well. While we were returning from the services in Arizona, a church in Parachute, Colorado, asked me to present a testimony about my father's life for Fourth of July services. When I got home, the Scottsbluff Berean Church also requested a testimony. Both talks went very well, for "the joy of the Lord IS my strength." When people tell me they are sorry for our loss, I honestly tell them, "We haven't lost him. We know exactly when he is at; he just moved to another room." Most of the time, I am able to smile.

Yet, the night before last, I awoke from a nightmare when my dream-self cried, "I want my Daddy!" I woke up early this morning with the Carole King song, "I Haven't Got Time for the Pain" running a loop through my brain. I've been away from home. Away from my writing. Away from reality for a little more than three months -- ever since we got the call that Dad was entering hospice care. I have sublimated the grief part of my father's death, because the salvation part is so good.

Grief arrived after my daughter's good-news call to tell me that our family is expanding again. My father loved his children, grandchildren and great-grands passionately. But, the first great-grandchild that will never know my father's love will be born in March, 2011. I'm mourning for my grandchild's loss... and mine.

We Christians are instructed in 1 Thessalonians 4  to not mourn as those who do not have hope. So often we forget that we are not instructed not to mourn. If I were to profess to feel nothing negative about my father's death, it would be a lie. When someone we love dies, we suffer a huge loss here on Earth, even while we celebrate our loved one's gain.

I've personally lost
... the warm voice that answered the phone, "Well, HELLO, daughter," and ended each conversation with, "Your mother and I are praying for you."
....the arms that rocked baby-me through months of endless hours colic.
... the guy who eased our departure to a strange city by planting potato eyes with me to surprise the new owners of the first home I had known. He conspired, "Imagine their surprise, Mickey, when they go into their back yard and find potatoes are growing there! Won't that be funny?"
... the man of integrity who stayed up until 1 or 2 in the morning, with an open Bible in his lap, discussing moral dilemmas facing a growing girl of the 1960's and 70's.
... the man who walked me down the aisle to meet my groom -- once when I was 18, and again at 46.
.. a worthy opponent in card and word games, especially Upwords.
... Daddy's coo of "Weeeellll, Helllllooooo there" when he meets my newest grandchild.

This list could go on and on. Everyone who is missing a beloved has a personal list of their own. I know I am not alone in my grief. But, I hope that those who read this will be encouraged at the thread of hope that wends through this message -- "It's Friday, but Sunday is coming!"