Part III: Good Grief
And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose. - Romans 8:28
March 10, 2020
Noooo, God, pleeeease! I’m not ready. I am not ready. I pleaded with the Lord incessantly, whether silently or aloud, I do not remember. What was clear - Dad was gone. His body lying lifeless in bed was a stark contrast to the vibrant, tireless, giant I deemed my hero. The man who was undoubtedly the smartest and wisest person I knew. Our family’s superman. He could do anything, until now.
The following day, the World Health Organization declared the novel coronavirus (COVID-19) a global pandemic. You have got to be kidding me. The world was in a tailspin as the virus was spreading rampantly. It was crippling respiratory systems and killing people at a staggering pace. Schools, businesses, flights, and entertainment events were shutting down across the country. People flooded grocery stores to stockpile water, toilet paper, and other essentials to hunker in place, indefinitely.
People were scared for their lives. Nonetheless, I had more pressing matters: laying my father to rest. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Or could it have? With the country told to isolate and lock down, Dad never would have conceded. There were many ways he’d spent his time, but being sedentary and secluded was not one of them. Death would be the only way Dad would relent to being confined within four walls. And God knew it.
Dad’s funeral was as surreal as the pandemic. A mere ten people were permitted to attend his service. A far cry from the crowds drawn to my gregarious father. This time there were no public officials, no community colleagues, no co-laborers in Christ, no extended family, no friends. No pomp and circumstance. Just Dad, dressed in his favorite charcoal suit, lying prostrate in a sleek black casket, accented tastefully with grey. There was the preacher. One musician. Nine immediate family members, not including Mom and my brother Stan as they died, and me. It was different. And difficult.
Thereafter, the world moved on. But I didn’t, and Kenny couldn’t. Kenny was my older brother by four years with special needs. Despite his mental disability, he was highly independent. Even so, it was understood that my humorous brother who loved sports and had beaten stage 4 cancer years ago would never live apart from our parents. His world was anchored in routine, tethered to security, and in them he had both.
When Dad passed at the cusp of the pandemic just months after we had lost Mom and Stan, Kenny snapped. I saw a side of my brother I had never seen. Uncertainty infiltrated every crevice of his life and stripped him of peace, joy, and freedom. The pandemic made the world into a hostile place for Kenny, and with his severely compromised immune system, it was potentially deadly. Without our family, sporting events, and the friendly banter with neighbors during his daily stroll in the community, he was lost. His world no longer made sense. Profusely frustrated, he retaliated like a maimed wild animal, lashing out erratically at the very hand that offered help.
By default, I bore the brunt of his aggression. I was here. Everyone else was gone. But I, too, needed help. A reprieve to grapple with my grief. Not selfishly, but out of necessity. Mom’s death nearly sucked the life out of me. Weeks after her passing I would lie in bed wishing for eternity to arrive. Now with Dad’s unexpected death, I was drowning, treading in a cesspool of suffering. Like Kenny, I was adrift and required a lifebuoy to be pulled to safety. I signaled to others for aid but it never came. I suppose Kenny and I had traveled too far to be reached. Or perhaps just beyond the capacity of those we sought for assistance.
Nearly everywhere I turned was barren. Long-standing Christians offered nothing tangible, only excuses as to why they were unwilling to help. It was the pandemic, a lack of space in their homes, the distance. But mostly it was a resounding no, followed by the cliche, “The Lord won’t put more on you than you can bear.” Our grief was daunting and messy and burdensome and raw. No one was willing to risk themselves for us. Kenny’s uncharacteristic behavior and my anguish were foreign to them. Fearful, it was safer for them over there, far away from our pain. Whatever Christianity these folks were a part of, it was ill equipped to handle the realness of life. Oh it looked the part, but it was as fruitless as the fig tree Jesus cursed in the Bible.
Just when I thought I had reached my lowest, the bottom fell out from beneath me. On April 24, 2021, God plucked Kenny from my arms. The Lord rescued my brother from his misery when he died from pneumonia, a complication of COVID-19. Frankly, Kenny stopped breathing long before he contracted the deadly virus and drew his last breath that day. Now he was freed and free.
At Kenny’s service, the people did what they customarily do at homegoings. They came. They recited the scripted words vowing to be ‘just a phone call away’. Then they left. Thankfully, the Lord had not.
In the abyss, the Holy Spirit gently and tenderly, did for me what only He could do. In His kindness, He literally loved the hell out of me, changing my life, forever.
Good grief.
Part IV: The God Who Sees, posting soon…
