Old Made New

March 23 (my sister-in-law, Kathy's birthday) is always followed by March 24 (the day my dad died). Every time this has happened over the last 30 years, the recurring and anticipated grief is mercifully offset with celebration.

This evening I find that my thoughts are filled with the customary balancing act of grief and gladness. Kathy and Dad are celebrating together this year … like the first March that we knew her. But the rest of us are here juggling loss, gratitude, sadness and hope which feels like a massive case of cosmic FOMO.

I don't want to miss out. I don't want to be left and alone. And the truth is: I am not. How merciful that this dragged-out life is but a mist. Reality is yet to come. God has made it possible to enjoy real togetherness forever. It is coming soon.

I have found God to be particularly kind in times of deep grief. With tender attentiveness to how He wired me, He paves a path for me to walk and then gently lines out the steps that we then take together.

Six months before my dad passed away, Philip and I were visiting my great aunt and uncle's farm as a fun and affordable get-away. We hiked and paddled canoes by day and chatted with relatives around a fire pit in the evenings. We heard stories and looked through photo albums. It was perfect. Until I suddenly felt a heaviness come over me … weeping … barely able to put words to the pounce of my sorrow. I remember telling Philip, “I guess I never really thought about living without my parents … statistically, they will die before me, and I just hadn't thought about how terrible that would be.” My husband of less than a year tenderly gave me space to sit in the sadness. It lasted almost three days.

The morning my dad died, I was driving across town to my parents’ house. My mind was a whirlwind of sinking thoughts and escalating to-do lists. Gripping the steering wheel, wondering if I was about to lose my actual grip, I heard the Lord whisper, “You are good for three days.” And by His mercies, I was.

I fielded phone calls all day Friday. I listened patiently as grown men, trained as ministers cried in disbelief into the telephone. I calmly shared the facts over and over, coming closer to the terms with each repetition. I employed sherriff departments and the red cross to get my husband and brothers notified and headed home. I planned the memorial service, I took a suit and bowtie to the funeral home, found my aunt a ride from the airport, and made arrangements for our whole family to travel to Arkansas for the burial.

My mom was silenced in her shock, my seven-year-old brother was quietly and politely shuffled from one person and distraction to another while my husband and two older brothers were broken … audibly, miserably broken.

And I was good. Sincerely, miraculously coherent, decisive, and good for all of three days. Then Sunday night, as if the sun was setting on my headstart, I lay on my parents’ sofa, staring at the ruffled glass shades of the ceiling fan lights and the sparkly shadows of popcorn plaster. I breathed a sigh of exhaustion and as I closed my eyes, warm tears escaped down my temples past my ears and onto the couch cushion. And I was free to resume my grief in real time.

On the night before dad died, we had a family celebration for Kathy's 19th birthday. This was way before my brother, Josh, had the good sense to marry her and make her officially part of our family. I loved Kathy like a sister and, in Josh's absence, I convinced her to drive with me out to our parents’ house to eat cake with my mom and dad and 2nd grade brother for her birthday.

I was twenty-three that year when Kathy and I began traveling in a vocal ensemble. We often found ourselves sharing a full-size bed in host homes. I loved to follow her lead as we would meet new friends throughout the weekend. She had a way of setting things at ease with her kindness, laughter and humility. Her big brown eyes and resting smile invited people to vulnerability and connection. What a fantastic listener she was!

She was brave and could be bluntly honest. Never mean, but rarely fake. She was not afraid of an unpopular opinion. She admitted when she didn't like something. We liked to banter about which vocalist in TRUTH had the better voice. She was the first to point out unpleasant attitudes or odors. When group teasing took a twist, she would gently rebuke, “That's not sweet. Quit it.”

And she was never afraid to ask for affection. Pulling up her sleeve, she would turn her palm up and request, “Scratch my arm real lightly, would ya?” In the middle of a conversation she might turn her back slightly and declare, “I wouldn't be mad at all if you wanted to scratch my back.” She was literally the cutest thing.

Last spring, the week before Kathy passed away, I was headed south for a work trip, grateful for the chance to extend my travels and spend time at my brother's house. After seven years of battling cancer, Kathy was on hospice at home.

With lots on my mind and several miles to go, I wanted to refresh my playlist. My thoughts and emotions were all over the place and I couldn't land in a genre. I searched “Dolly Parton duets” and discovered a vast and varied collection of harmonious tunes. First track: You Can't Make Old Friends.

“How will I sing when you're gone… Who'll join in on those harmonies when I call your name?”

I started crying and I couldn't stop.

In the confines of the cruise-controlled car, I felt the privacy and permission, if not a divine invitation, to do some ugly-cry hard grieving.

State Highway 79 South became Memory Lane and I felt the Lord so near as I thanked Him over and over for the countless good times Kathy and I had shared. For how He had made her, for how she measured her life according to His goodness, and for what a treasure her friendship and faithfulness was to me.

Though Kathy always made me feel special, I knew the truth. It wasn't just me. She had a supernatural ability to befriend and love people in ways that made each person feel valuable and enjoyed. So I thanked Him for that too … the idea that thousands of people were sad about her impending death meant that thousands of people had been prioritized by her as she pointed them to her priority, her good friend, Jesus.

By the time I arrived and walked upstairs, my sadness had stablized and my heart was filled with grateful hope. And by some miraculous tailor-made gift, while their home had been literally filled with friends and family for weeks on end, the seventy-two hours I was there, no one came. We sat in the cool quiet, her bedside fan oscillating to flutter the colorful wings of a paper butterfly someone had drawn for her. We talked. We rested. We laughed. We whispered our shared concern for my brother. We prayed.

The morning I left to travel home, I squeezed her hand and with purposeful dismissal of what seemed inevitable, I smiled and said, “I'll see you again really soon!” Her face lit up with pure peace and hope-based joy. “Yes! Yes! I believe it! I love you so much!”

So tonight, I think of March 23, 1995, when we ate burgers and toasted sparkling cider in Kathy's honor.

I'm remembering how close I felt to her in our first months of friendship and I wonder if Kenny and Dolly may have gotten it wrong … maybe you can make old friends.

I'm re-collecting the gift that my final interaction with my dad was a celebration and I'm living in expectation that we'll resume the celebration in real time very soon.

I believe it.