Our happy little world came crashing to a halt. We prayed, our hearts gripped with anguish and dread. Not only was Mr. H our neighbour, he was also the father of good friends, a man we loved and respected. After the ambulance left, we huddled together in a knot on the yard. Our children played by the pool fence as they always do, not noticing Mr. H's little box of pool chemicals sitting there, or his shoe left floating in the pool. We attempted to find any scrap of hope that he was still alive, refusing to admit that Mr. H had left this world. Hours later, it was confirmed that he was indeed gone.
We cried then and continue to, mourning not only the passing of a good man, but also the hole he will leave in all our lives. I cry for his wife of almost forty years, going to sleep alone. This world seems like a desert, full of grief and sadness. I would that this was a nightmare I could wake from with relief.
But though we walk through the valley of sadness, I cling to truth like a stone in my pocket. The verses, embedded from the many Christian funerals I've attended, are etched in my heart. For I do not mourn like one without hope. I know that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. I hurt for myself, for the family, for all of Mr H's friends, family, coworkers, students, neighbours, congregation, but I do not hurt for him. For he is rejoicing, around the throne, made perfect. These little nuggets of powerful truth are clutched tight as I mourn.
How thankful I am for my faith and the great hope it offers. I look forward to seeing you in glory, Mr. H. I miss you.
Joining with Imperfect Prose;