Disorganized Thoughts on My Friend + the Messiness of Grieving

My friend died yesterday.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, without warning. Here one minute, and like a vapor, gone next next.

He meant the world to me. He was my first partner in ministry, nearly 14-ish years ago, and a perfect one at that. I was very green in my faith then, and all my edges were rough. Every single one of them. He loved me right there, in all his grace, dignity, genuineness, and faith. I loved him like a father, and in many ways, I saw him as one. Our Sundays together teaching Kids’ Church was exciting, hilarious, creative, and exhausting, and almost always bookmarked by his gentle challenging and guiding of me. He was a role model, counselor, mentor, and friend.

I woke up yesterday morning late, feeling refreshed and hopeful after sleeping in. It didn’t last long.

“Did you see my email? Gerald died.”

The words hollowed out my heart. My head wasn’t able to understand the pattern of sounds coming out of my husband’s mouth. They almost echoed, like you see in the movies. Deep breath, Jen. Not the same person. Miscommunication. He’s wrong.

“Wait, no. Check the last name. Not my Gerald. No. No, you read that wrong. He’s fine. You should be more careful with how you read things.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“No, wait, what? Different guy. Has to be. It has to be. This…no. No.”

These exchanges continued for several minutes. The room was so quiet. The color drained from everything in it. Deep in the heaviness of my chest, I felt a dull, hard thump, and it was the only sound.

My…
Wait.
No.
This…
Wait. Who?
No.

Sean said a few more things. His words dropped like weights, verifying the news. If I heard them, I don’t remember. My brain put on the brakes and suspended me in a place of confusion, while the conversation and the world continued around me. There was no way for me to keep up, so I sat on the floor and cried.

Grief is a strange thing.

In church, we always hear about the hope we can have when another believer passes away. We use phrases like “graduated to glory” and “passing into the Lord’s presence”. It is, very honestly, the truth of the Christian faith that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. It’s an instantaneous address change.

As my head began to wrap around the news of my friend’s passing, something happened in my head that was disorienting and confusing. You’d think with the palpable reality of Heaven firmly rooted in my heart, somehow this might be the tiniest bit easier. But in the moment, my head became a place where images flipped like rapid fire between the friend I was missing, and the one standing in the Lord’s presence with his new body, maybe in a robe. Wait, what does his new body look like? What’s he wearing? What’s he doing? Is he worshipping, singing, visiting old friends? I began to feel excited for him, and then excited for my own future.

But then.

Then the tears came again. And I was confused and felt guilty and selfish for being sad and missing him, and weird for being excited and hopeful, and thankful for the time I had with him, and the onslaught of conflicting emotions never stopped. There were small chunks of distracted time, and then, like a wave full of debris, it all picked up again. And it was messy and painful and ugly and it sucked.

And yet, there was beauty in it.

I found incredible promise in the fact that my head went immediately, unconsciously, so naturally, toward picturing my friend perfected in his new home. There he is, receiving jewels upon jewels in his crown.

And then I was confused and guilt-ridden by finding beauty in it all.

There is no pill or magic prayer or crazy yoga pose to relieve grief. It just is and has to be. You get to live through it, breathe through it. You get to, you have to.

Grief is a unique process for everyone.

Some withdraw. Some seek out friends. Some grow angry, and others depressed. Still others feel numb, distant, robbed, incomplete, guilty, resentful, confused. It’s an organic, uncontrollable, unique experience, and despite psychology’s efforts to neatly categorize five stages of processing through loss and grief, the reality is much messier and uncontained. It’s much less a predictable five-step procedure, and more like driving through an unfamiliar area, looping endlessly through the same streets, sometimes speeding through, and other times stopping dead in the middle of the road to try to reset your inner calibration.

Grief is disheveled and erratic, but God is in it, and God is good.

Gerald was an incredible man, a faithful friend, a devoted teacher, a trusted mentor, a servant leader, and my brother. My heart. My heart is crushed and so, so broken. I will miss his smile, his friendly teasing, his challenges, his hugs. I will miss my friend, but will carry a million memories with me until I take my last breath.

And in the meantime, I will honor him by keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Heaven, and will continue the legacy we built together of loving kids and teaching them to have the same hope we have in Jesus. Because he taught so many of us so much about faithfulness, a legacy that will be forever attached to his name.

Well done, my friend. You were a good and faithful servant. Well done.