"The Passage"

January 22, 2024

Grant County, Kansas

I used to know Death differently. Death was an end; a scary, unknown ending of life.

Helplessly tragic.

It took people. It separated families. It left empty-armed mothers crying for their children.

I shouldn’t use the past tense. Death hasn’t stopped doing those things. 

Death hasn’t stopped being unknown. 

What happens afterward?  

None of us can definitely say. We know what the preacher man says to a solemn group in a gray cemetery— but what truly happens, we can not say. We have never gone. 

Is there light?

Are there angels?

Loved ones?

What will be the first thing we see after our eyes close? 

Neither has Death stopped being tragic.

Our hearts break for a family we’ve never met: the family we hear about-- living in a distant congregation-- who have the unthinkable hardship of burying a child. 

Tears sneak out of our eyes and slide down our cheeks when we see a large family following the wooden casket laden with flowers.

And in the flowers, ribbons:

"Wife. Mother. Grandmother. Great-Grandmother. Aunt. Friend."

The youngest ones didn’t even know her. 

They don’t understand. 

And probably, some of them only knew her as a shell, lying in a hospital bed. 

When I was nine at Great-Grandpa Isaac’s funeral, I was wracked with sobs. I didn’t know why.

In my innocence, I only knew there would be no more tootsie rolls in the blue porcelain dish.

No more wooden trucks painted red and blue to play with.

But that wasn't all.

To my nine-year-old self, something felt unfamiliar and inexplicably melancholy:

He was gone.

It was over.

Even still, 

A knot wells up in my throat when I knock on their doors and see them in their beds, 

Paler than yesterday…

More sunken… 

A look of firm resignation written on their faces. 

It’s time. 

I know Death differently now. It doesn’t seem so rare and scary. I suppose that can happen to anything when you see it enough.

It used to frighten me.

But these days, inside the halls of the care home, I have learned to see Death through new eyes.

I see how the dear ones bravely face the end.

I see how they long for it.

Unafraid.

Unafraid, because they are ready.

Unafraid, because they are safe;

Because, all their lives, they have trusted in the One whom they have yearned for--

The One whom they are soon to see.

When God mercifully takes a tired one to rest, Death is perhaps one of the most beautiful things. 

A beautiful passage;

Perhaps only a boatman to ferry us to the other side of the river, where awaits an incredible reward. 

When one of my favorite aunties was facing her last days in the care home where I work, I was overcome by the beauty of it all, and by the closeness of Heaven. Very, very soon, she would get to see it.

I penned the following words, which has since been turned into a song: 

How far is Heav’n; how far is Home? 

When will it be my time to go?

When I shall rise on golden wings, 

My loving Saviour waits for me–

My loving Saviour waits for me. 

How far is Heav’n; how wonderful?

When will I walk on streets of gold?

And see the face of ones I love, 

Who’ve left this world for one above– 

Who’ve left this world for one above. 

How far is Heav’n? O, Jordan’s shore!

I’ve never been this close before. 

No fear I dread; I’m not alone; 

There, Jesus waits to guide me home–

There, Jesus waits to guide me home. 

I haven’t much experienced young death, and my heart breaks for those who have. I hesitated to write this, for the melancholy of it all, and for fear it would strike a wrong chord with families who are still grieving. 

I wish I had words for you. 

Most of us don’t have words, only open arms and hands that are eager to help. 

But how wonderful it must be to know they are safe.