Tag: grief

Hold Longer

August 17, 2021

Hold Longer

A song came on the radio today. It was the first time I heard it. Casting Crowns’ song called “Scars In Heaven” played while I was on the way to after school pickup.

The first line says “…if I had known it was the last time…”

I almost cried. I prayed, “thank you, Jesus,” because the last time I saw my Daddy on Earth I did “know.” It was a nudge, a distant feeling I almost tried to brush aside in disgust.

Of course this isn’t the last time I’ll talk with Daddy, I told myself.

But I listened to the nudge. I’m forever thankful for that nudge.

I waited until I would be almost late to pick Christina up from the library (it was going to close). I hugged him tighter than normal. I did just what the singer of the song is lamenting he didn’t do. I have always tried to listen to that tiny nudge of a voice that usually is right in the back of my head. My mind usually tries to argue with it. Like then. I tried to brush that feeling away because even though my Daddy’s health wasn’t great, I didn’t want to believe I would ever walk in and not find him sitting there, ready for long talks, vibrant discussions, and heartfelt conversations.

I heard the singer’s heart hurt as he sang of how if he’d known, he would have held on longer, hugged tighter, talked longer… But we never really know.

God tells us no man knows the hour or day of his own passing.

My father and baby sister are in heaven. My baby never met her Boompa. I didn’t really cry or grieve for them. They were both prepared for death. Both loved Jesus and are now in His presence. I can’t logically cry for them. (I’m way too logical over deep things but I find it’s the silly little stuff that makes me cry.) I wasn’t ready for either of them to go. Just like we are often not ready to die, we are also never ready for a loved one to die.

My Daddy gave me a special gift long ago… He had grown up without his mother (she died when he was 12) and when we were living in Sylvania and had a friend with cancer, he once said, “enjoy every day, you never know when Erica will go home.”

So true. I couldn’t even cry for her. She loved Jesus and let everyone know how excited she was about getting to see Him.

That life lesson has stayed with me. I never don’t say bye or I love you. I leave them with a smile. I don’t ever want someone’s last thought of me or my last thought of them to be bitter. I live as if each time I leave someone it may be the last time I see them. Not that I’m reckless or clingy, but I’m open, honest, and speak the truth about my love for them.

I never want someone to regret their last meeting with me.

I always listen to that nudge. I’m so grateful for God’s warning I got that afternoon… For the happy call from Charley in Mom’s kitchen six months later with Mom & Mary when I brought Christina to loan her some deposit money… For the happy memories of talking a bit longer, hugging a bit tighter, saying “I love you” before I left.

Always hold a bit tighter, hug a little stronger, chat a bit longer; always say “I love you.”

I hope you listen to that song. I pray you always remember to love while you have the time.

Type at you later,

~Nancy Tart

Questions:

September 23, 2019

Questions

I love how children ask questions.  Sometimes their questions make you go search something.  Like “what is a rainbow?” or “why are leaves green?”

Sometimes their questions mirror your own; but those you won’t speak.

You know, questions that your doubting mind asks but your thinking heart understands.

“Why are you crying?” I ask.

My little girl is riding with me to go pick up two of her big sisters, “why did Aunt Mary die?  Why is Mandy’s mom gone?  Jay is a baby; he will never remember his mom.”

Her tears fall as she speaks.  I let her finish talking.  My heart aches.  I ask those questions in my head too. 

“I miss my baby sister too.” I start, I want to connect with her heart. “Our world is broken because of sin.”  She nods, she has heard this too. 

“I know,” she is still slowly crying, “but she loved Jesus since she was little like me.”  (Mary had told them once that she was five when she promised Jesus her heart. I was there.  She was telling everyone about Jesus and was just five years old.)  Jaquline didn’t know how complex her aunt’s life had become so fast.  Because of sinful controlling people in her life that kept her bogged down, in fear of her life or her family’s life, and assaulted her mentally as they tried to keep her quiet and separate her from anyone who truly loved her.  As a young teen, some guy misused her, showed her that from a certain spot he could see her father’s bedroom, and told her one shot through the window would kill the man she loved the most.  He was the first to rip her young heart to shreds with his awful controlling self – then he had the gall to continue to threaten her when she moved 300 miles away!  Others treated her like dirt; lying about those she loved and people who cared about her until she actually believed these lies and isolated herself from those who would have helped her.

I could hate these people.  Instead I pray for them. 

But she’s my baby sister.  There was a part of me that wanted to go “Good Citizen” on their carcasses.  But I know Jesus died for them just like He died for me and I am supposed to love my enemies.

Switch back to my car on the interstate with my nine year old sitting shotgun with silent tears crawling down her fair cheeks.  This all flashes really fast so the same song is still playing.

“Do you ever think about where Aunt Mary is now?” Jaquline says. Newsong’s “My Heart is Already There” was playing in the background.

“Yes.” All the time.  That comforts me. “She’s with Jesus.  Can you imagine?  Being in His presence and seeing his face?”

Jaquline giggles. “Maybe all her puppies will be there.”  (Mary loved animals and was always trying to get a dog, but always the guy she lived with didn’t want one.)

“Remember the pictures of her as a baby chasing Boodle?” I ask (cutest little Maltese my family had twenty years ago) Jaquline laughs.  “I bet she’s petting him instead of chasing him now.”

“I ask Jesus why Aunt Mary is gone.” Her voice is distant. “He doesn’t answer.”

I sighed, “do you know why Jesus made us?”

“To be with Him.” Bingo.

“Yes, He wanted a relationship with us.  He loves each of us.  He didn’t want Mary to die, but now she is with Him all the time.  Only God knows when each person’s time comes to die.  We all will die one day.”

“I always hope to die when I’m old like Boompa,” Jaquline said.  “I’m not so sad for Boompa, but I’m so sad for Aunt Mary.  I’m sad for Grandma.” Yes.  Same for me.  I miss my father immensely.  I miss my sister.  I can’t fathom the depth of grief for my mother. 

“Jesus will comfort Grandma.  We have to help love her too.”  I say.

“We can be Jesus’ arms and hug her!” Jaquline’s tears have dried a bit and she’s now thinking about serving others.  She loves helping; it usually brings her happiness.

“Yes.” I smiled at her as we parked.  “And sometimes Jesus uses her arms to hug you, too.”

Big smiles return. 

Yes.  I totally miss my sister.  I grieve for the harshness she ended up living through for the last few years of her life.  23.  Her life’s clock stopped so short, only 23 years.  I always dreamed of her silly dancing at our Christmas parties for ages, smiling her beaming-happy-smile as she watched nieces and her daughter walk shakily down their aisle to their forever-love, dancing with her sons at their weddings, encouraging my teenagers in their Christian walk toward womanhood, and living her new-found free life focused on her three little angels.  Their plans, maybe not together, but at least working together for the best – the children. So, yes, I asked that question.  “Why, God?  Why is my baby sister dead?”  It seemed so surreal for me.  No body.  No last look.  No nothing.  I keep expecting her to drive up, drop the littles off, and enjoy some of whatever food we have just cooked. 

I know this world is broken by sin.  I know it wasn’t ever in God’s plan for us to have death.  I know my grandmothers, father, and baby sister are in heaven in the presence of God.  I have hope I will see them again.  But yes, I did ask those questions.  Yes, my heart aches for my family who must live without her.  I pray for all of us daily.  I find it hardest to pray for those who have hurt her, but that is my challenge.  I must love them as Jesus did.

My mind drifts back:

“…He has called us too! He has called us too! We are all disciples!  Even me and you!” The little voice yells each stanza of the VBS song.  Jumping with excitement, “did I get them all right?” 

I had been singing along and am raking something for a vegetable bed.  “Yes, Mary, don’t bounce on my tilled dirt.” We laugh and she points at her shoeprints.

“Yippeeeeeee!” She hollers and spins.  “Where’s Easter!  I’m gonna sing it to Easter!”  And she runs off in a singing blur, little bright blue eyes sparkling with life, long wispy blonde hair flying about in the Georgia breeze, she’s going to find that silly yellow hen that actually loves to be captured by Mary and sits contentedly tucked in her arms.  I look up to see my vibrant baby sister swinging on the swingset with Easter in her lap, projecting her beautiful voice with some soul-singer power as she practices the song for tomorrow’s VBS service. (You know, where the kids show off to the adults what they’ve learned in the week) Mary would tell the world that she asked Jesus in her heart about two years later.  She had such a love for life and care for others.  No one is perfect.  We aren’t Jesus.  I love her for her heart.  I will always love my baby sister. No, loss never “gets easy” but I do have hope in Jesus that I will see her again.  And that keeps me out of falling into bitterness. I can’t allow my grief to turn into bitterness.  I can’t be Rose from Overcomer; I have to choose joy.

And just like a soundtrack to my life, as I slide back in the car with the two older girls in tow, For King and Country’s “I Choose Joy” is shouting from the speakers.

Thank you, Jesus.  You know my heart.

Type at you next time,

~Nancy Tart

What to Say?

October 20, 2017

What to Say?

It doesn’t matter how you get the message.  A man in uniform, a hospital doctor, a call from their job, a letter from a mission council: it doesn’t matter the messenger, when you hear “we regret to inform you…” with the universal calm sadness people use, you don’t hear anything else.  It doesn’t matter if the name they give is your husband, wife, father, mother, brother, sister, or child.  Your world just imploded.

You are devastated; and that word falls flat when trying to convey the emotion coursing through your veins like blood.   You stare blankly, scream, yell, cry, hit, punch, or politely slam the door in their face and curl up into a tiny ball just behind it to bawl the remainder of your heart out.  Every dream you had with them has just died.  The messenger knows this and stays silent even if you lash out at them.  They usually leave you to your grief.  No more words are needed.

Your heart compresses into a lump of coal; furious at the job, war, accident, drunk driver, sickness, or whatever that stole your loved one from you.  Your heart constricts as your emotion rises into a whirling series of blades and swirls from inside your heart to rip apart everything inside you.  Anger is a part of grief.

This just happened to someone you know.  What to say?

There is nothing you can say.  Not even the most eloquent speech from the best orator on the planet will breathe life back into the lost loved one.  No one can say “I’m so sorry for you” with just the right tone to shoot back time and change the events that have happened.

We’ve all been there (most of us have been in this insane horrid sorrow of loss ourselves).  We’ve also been the friend of someone who is still reeling from the shock of extreme loss – and if we are wise, the best we can do is say nothing.  If our eyes meet the survivor we offer a smile of encouragement, a hug, or simply cry with them; just so they know we are here.

We’ve all heard someone at a funeral say what they intend as an encouragement but it actually stabs the survivor in the lungs, sucking out their air and life, tearing into their mind.  Inwardly, the animal of attack is shredding that person – but the survivor usually realizes they meant well, it just didn’t come out that way.  (“It was just her time,” “you could always have another,” “he lived a full life,” “at least she’s not hurting anymore,” or any other cliché soundbite.)

In our current techno world, grief doesn’t have a chance!  Someone loses a precious loved one and instantly society wants heart-stopping news stories, social media posts with pics and vids on all outlets, and 24/7 access into the private life of the grieving family.  Politicians want to be on stage with them.

NO!  Just let them grieve!

Pray for them if you hear of their loss.

Deliver them a meal, send them a card or flowers, or be there at the funeral to show your support and empathy if you know them.

If you are family – protect them from this ruthless media assault.

Why must society know everything about everyone in such a callous way, so distant, so superficial?  If a person really cared, they’d do something meaningful to help the family – and not go on TV to highlight their perfect generosity, excessive understanding, and absolute empathy.  Their grief shouldn’t be our profit.

Please, let them mourn for the loved one they lost and the dreams, hopes, and life they had – and no, it will never “return to normal” (something will always remind us; a uniform, policecar, firetruck, work truck, cane, wheelchair, the ocean, the hospital, the outfit they last bought us, the ring on our finger, our children, our grandchildren – these will flood us with memories and emotion at times) but yes, life does continue.  Hope allows life to continue and restores happiness, but first they must grieve.

 

In memory of all those we’ve lost…

~Nancy Tart

 

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