I have for years.
Every time I go to a funeral, I take one of the little funeral cards and keep it. Tuck it into my purse, usually, or place it in a stack of papers in my room.
I had my Grandma's card stuck to the wall by my bed. It's on my nightstand now. My neighbor's card is there too; he passed away in March. She passed in 2017.
I don't know where a card from my Grandpa's funeral is.
Somehow - how on earth, I have no idea - my sister and I only had one card between us. Last I knew, it was still in her possession.
He was the most important person I ever lost, maybe that I ever will lose.
And I don't know where his funeral card is.
Par for the course with how I deal with his death. I ignore it, bury it away, cover it up, try to forget.
Losing him felt like - feels like - losing a sizeable portion of myself. 75% maybe. Maybe a little less. Maybe 90% but it made a carbon copy so I just have the carbon copy left. Or maybe I lost the carbon copy and I'm just the faded, worn-out original. Or I kept the original or the carbon copy - not sure which - but whichever one I lost didn't detach well from whichever one I kept, and ended up taking some of whichever one I am with it.
Maybe I am only a carbon copy of a carbon copy.
I don't know.
I almost don't care.
I try not to care, I guess.
Or I just don't try to care.
Caring is exhausting.
It's hard.
And, in a way (a dark, Eeyore-y, cynical way that I try to keep largely at bay), I see little sense in remembering him or truly caring about his death (or life?), because he is gone. All gone! There is no getting him back. I have only the memories, but what good are fond, fuzzy little pictures in my brain when that's all I have?
And yet that's where their worth lies too.
They're all I have of him now.
But I can hardly bear to smile at a memory of him when he is no longer here for me to actually appreciate him for that memory.
I cannot smile at a memory of planting corn for him and then go find him to plant some corn. I cannot smile at a memory of taking a drive together and then go hop in the car and chauffeur him around. I cannot smile at a memory of watching a rodeo on TV together and then wander over to his house, curl up in the recliner, and share his excitement as we root for the cowboy to just hold on for a few more seconds...
Probably this is just what it looks like for me to be working through my grief, grief I've never known before. Well, I've known it now for 9 months, but I'm still getting to know it, and it undulates and changes besides.
I don't like it.
(Grief.)
But in a way I think it's sanctifying.
If I handle it rightly, that is.
Or even if I don't— my poor responses to it can help me see my error, gain new perspectives... And ultimately (and primarily) turn to Christ, look to God, for comfort and hope and endurance and strength and peace and rest.
My God is good and sovereign and faithful. He knit Grandpa together in his mother's womb so many years ago, and brought him into this world, and sustained him during his life, and then sovereignly took him out of this world at the very time He in His good will chose to do so.
He has been exactly as faithful to me in my life. He knit me together too. He knows the number of my days and He will bring me to be with Himself at precisely the time that He intends to.
I find great comfort in that! It certainly doesn't make the grief go away; maybe it lessens it or softens it, to a degree; it sure takes off the bitter edge and neutralizes the sting of death. Ultimately, at least.
So maybe I'll poke around and see if I can dig up Grandpa's funeral card. If I find it, I'll put it with Grandma's, and maybe I'll put them both up on my wall.
Maybe I'll try the long, hard work of calming my fretful, dismal, downcast soul; quieting it in careful, intentional prayer and study of Scripture; yielding it in submission to my perfect Savior and to my good, sovereign God.
~
Grief feels like losing him again every day, every time I think about him, every time I miss him. It doesn't feel like a one-and-done deal—he died and I miss him and that's it—it feels like death upon death upon death, like he's dying again and I'm losing him again, all over again, again and again. And again.
So with the continued grief must be continued spiritual disciplines. A continued looking to God, continued trust in and reliance upon Him.
So be it. 💚
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