Dear Friends, I wrote this a couple of weeks ago, planning to post it today. And then the Connecticut shooting happened. And we’re reeling, wailing, mourning, grasping for answers and comfort. No words are adequate. So I want to be clear that this post is not in response to recent events, but nevertheless, I pray may be some small encouragement.
Here’s the thing. I hate funerals. I avoid them like a cat avoids water. I really don’t like them.
I know they’re important and showing up to grieve with the family is good, but still…I’m just being honest.
Friday I had to go to a funeral. The son of some friends of ours was killed riding his bicycle. We love them and our kids grew up together. It was just a freak accident, as they say.
Corey was a troubled young man who struggled with mental illness all his life, and so, in a sense, his death was a relief from his torment, an escape to peace with Jesus who he had claimed as his Savior.
Still…Both John and I had a hard time getting through the service.
As the words of Mark Shultz’s song “He’s My Son” bounced off the windows of our beautiful sanctuary decorated with greens and twinkle lights for Advent, we thought of our own girls, our own prayers, our attempts to protect them, our parenting mistakes…
I’m down on my knees again, tonight. I’m hoping this prayer will turn out right…
Can you hear me? Can you see him? Please don’t leave him. He’s my son.
How do you make sense of it all? How do you survive the death of one of your babies?
I just don’t know.
But here was the biggest thing about Friday and that funeral... In the midst of that tremendous, palpable pain at church, there was also an overwhelming sense of ….Emmanuel.
