Why?

Reflections on Matthew 5:4

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

There has been a lot of death of late in my circle of friends, family and acquaintances.  Some unexpected, some welcomed, and a few drawn out.  Regardless of the circumstances, the result has been the same … shock, an overwhelming sense of loss, anger and a confrontation with the mystery of life and death.  The grieving process seems a lot like a tornado.  Whether it comes with or without warning, the damage is the same.  It tears things up.  It rearranges things.  It sets things down in new places.  Its effects can be felt for a very long time and as we are engaged in cleaning up the mess, we ask again and again, “Why?” 

“Why?” is an unsatisfying question, because we know, before we even ask that it has no final or complete answer.  It is and will remain, on this side of death anyway, a true mystery.  Not that that stops us from asking.  It is the perpetual frustration of our own human limitations.  We want, we need, things to make sense and so often the circumstances of death just don’t make sense.  Death reminds us that we don’t know all we think we know.  It exposes our plans and our dreams for the future for what they really are … wishful thinking.  Death reminds us that there are some things that we just can’t control or manipulate. What comfort is there in that?

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In my blog entitled Passing Through, I told a story about Lisa, who lost her husband in a kayaking accident.  She was left to wrestle with the whys of that tragic loss while parenting two very young daughters.  When the shock of that loss was still very fresh, Lisa received a letter from Roy, one of the pastors of her church.  He was vacationing when the accident happened, but word reached him quickly and he responded as follows:

Dear Lisa,

It is early in the morning here on the pond, very quiet – save for the loons cooing more than usual.  The fog hasn’t lifted yet, so I can’t see the other shore – even though I know it is there!  It is an old and hackneyed analogy, I know, but this view of nature seems to mirror what’s going on in many of our hearts.

Last night I received an email from Ilse talking of Brian’s death.  In an instant, a fog-like veil closed over the future, and all those future type questions you both partially answered are urgent and alive again:  Why?  What now?  How?  What about the kids?  All of us are asking these questions which are so especially yours to answer.

We know that Brian has the answers, that he rests in the promises of God and no more sees through a mirror darkly.

But for you, and for all of us who love and care about you, there is still the fog – and you know and we all know we just need to stand together and wait – knowing that this grey stuff will clear away (as it has here, now) and we shall see that God, who has been standing and waiting with us, will make of all this heartache a good and new and even joyous thing.

Roy

 

Words of comfort in the wake of loss, not answers, but hope.  A reminder that what we see only in a mirror dimly, God sees clearly.  What we can’t know, God does know.   That there are promises, steeped in the goodness of God, that we can’t control or manipulate or fully understand, but can find comfort in, because the one who promises loves us so very much.  These are promises that are bigger than our losses, that are not limited to our length of days, promises that extend beyond the grave.  

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Roy passed away this summer.   It was unexpected, not his death, but the cancer that claimed him.  Family and friends, those Roy loved and those Roy ministered to, where left shaking their heads and looking for answers in the fog.  When the word of Roy’s death reached Lisa, she found that letter, written almost ten years ago, and delivered it to his wife.  Comforting words from Roy’s own hand, delivered from one widow to another.  She also sent me a copy.  Roy’s words were read at his memorial service … one last sermon of sorts, delivered from the bank of an invisible shore.   

Blessed are those who mourn.  Blessed are those who in the face of loss weather the storm and fear not the fog, for they will find comfort, not in answers, but in promises.  Promises extended from God, through the pages of scripture, interpreted by friends and strangers and even pastors, in moments of compassion and sympathy.  Blessed are those who rest in those promises and trust that God indeed is not absent, but near and “will make of all this heartache a good and new and even joyous thing.”

Dedicated in gratitude for the life and ministry of the Rev. Dr. Emyrus Royden Weeks.