Too Much Death

The holidays are difficult for many people for hundreds of reasons.  For some, it's the pressure of financial strain on an already tight budget.  For others, it's the great void of loneliness stretching out in the "festive" weeks ahead.  For a lot of people, it's a time of stress and travel anxieties - ferrying kids to one grandparent's house then the other, of trying to evenly divide hours between divorced parents.

For many, I think, the holidays represent the anniversary of a loss.  They are a painful time because celebration is blanketed by a sense of regret, loss, longing, and sometimes shame. 

Lately, I've seen far too much talk of death on facebook.  A friend's mother lost her long, long battle with cancer just a few weeks ago.  A friend posted about a two-week-old baby passing away.  A former co-worker's grandmother just died.  All of this in the past month.  Over the past few weeks, my family has been touched by the cold hand of death, too.  First came the dreaded due date: December 5th.  Our son Bennett was supposed to be in our arms right now - just one week old.  But we lost him.  Then, my sister-in-law, Lindsey, lost her beloved bunny, Erte.  I know that pets and people aren't the same, but like us, Lindsey and her husband Jay have no children.  They adored their pets and, frankly, they were probably more like family than Ross and I were - at least in the sense that we only got to see Jay and Lindsey a few times a year, where their bunny and cat were constant companions.  As I grow more and more attached to Thor and Loki, I can see why people take losing a pet so seriously.  So I grieved with Jay and Lindsey over the loss of their quirky, sweet little 12-year-old bunny.  In fact, for years, the holidays have been difficult for me.  Although God has restored my family in ways I never would have expected, it was around Christmas time over 15 years ago that my Dad left my Mom.  I can wholly understand why people dread the holiday season.

But just a few minutes ago, things got much harder.

I just got word from our church office that Linda Kessler went home to be with Jesus.

Linda had recently been diagnosed with an extremely fast-moving cancer that had spread throughout her body.  In a matter of weeks, she had grown weak and sick.  The doctors had performed test after test for other illnesses before realizing it was cancer.  They gave her one month to live, without chemotherapy.  They guessed she might have up to a year, with it.

Linda had three days of chemotherapy.  She ran into the arms of her Savior last night.

I hate obituaries, because they try to wrap a person's life up into a tiny, four-line black and white package to be printed in an upcoming newspaper that few people will ever see anyway.  Therefore, I will tell what I can of my experience with the amazing, wonderful Linda Kessler - before the cancer attacked her.

Linda was a woman of medium height and build, with long, slightly graying blonde hair.  She always dressed simply and modestly.  She wore Vanilla Fields perfume, the same brand my mother liked to wear.  When I told her that - that she smelled like my mom - she smiled hugely, as though it were the kindest thing in the world I could have said to her.   She worked at Sam's Club.  She had been divorced, but I never knew any details.  She had children - one of whom was a son who died last year, around the time we lost Bennett.  I remember going to her and just hugging her - like she'd hugged me so many times before, both in joy and sorrow.  I said, "I don't know how I know, but I am sure your son is taking care of my babies in Heaven."  She nodded fervently and said, "Michael loved kids.  He adored them.  I know that's exactly what he is doing right now."  And we both found hope.

Linda was a worshiper.  She could be found every Sunday morning, standing off to the side in the front of the sanctuary, so as not to disturb anyone else, waving her banner and holding her hands outstretched to the Lord.  She had a look of peace on her face, with her eyes closed and a little smile on her lips.  Her brows were always drawn together, as if her love for God was so great it might hurt her.  When I began to take pictures during church events, I frequently focused on her.  She was always there, always passionate: the picture of someone madly in love with Jesus, and humbled in turn by His love for her.

Linda was an encourager.  In spite of what she had endured in her life, she was a genuinely loving and happy person.  She liked to make other people feel happy, too.  She loved children and teenagers.  They often ended up sitting near her during special services, or before they left the sanctuary to attend their classes.  Linda liked that.  She wasn't one of those crabby older women who just wanted to be done with kids, or thought they were disturbing the "real people" from paying attention to the pastor's message.  I liked that a lot about Linda. 

Linda was faithful.  She was at almost every meeting I could think of; she served as an usher and greeter every Sunday and served at nearly every special service we held for Pastor Billy Burke, a healing evangelist.  She scheduled her whole life around church, it seemed.  It was where she was happiest.  It was where she could make other people happy.

Last night, she breathed her last and opened her eyes in paradise.

This is hard for me, personally, because I feel like I let Linda down.  I had the chance to visit with her this past Sunday, and bring to her a card the youth group had signed.  I remember being very impressed with what the kids wrote to her.  Not a single one of them simply signed his or her name.  Even those who did not know her well had something cheerful, kind, or encouraging to write.  I was deeply moved.  The kids who I worried about - the ones who sometimes seemed like they cared more for themselves than anything else - wrote loving, sweet, thoughtful things to encourage a sick woman. 

And, because I didn't visit her on Sunday, she never got the chance to read them.

I kept thinking that one day wouldn't make a difference; I had asked Ross to mail the card yesterday morning.  He did so, going so far as to pull a stamp off another letter because we didn't have any more stamps.  And, as I got out of the shower this morning, my phone chirped an e-mail notification.  I read the message from the office and I began to cry.  Thor came into the bathroom immediately.  You know how they say that animals just know things?  He curled up in my arms and licked me and purred in my ear and meowed his sympathies until I stopped crying. 

I had received my healing last week and I believed that Linda would, too.  If God could mend a tiny tear in my fragile retina, what could possibly keep him from plucking cancer out of the cells in Linda's body?  The youth group prayed with us.  Ross and I have prayed the last few days.  Linda received prayer at a healing meeting last month. 

Why did she die?

Christians struggle so much with this question.  I don't have an answer.  I don't know why Linda had to succumb to the cancer, and why some other people are healed through surgery, therapy and radiation, and why others are healed miraculously, never to get another negative diagnosis again.

I don't know.  Because I am not God.

Something that comforted me deeply when I lost my babies is this thought: God didn't make any mistakes and all of us were designed for a specific purpose.  I believe that some of us were designed specifically for Heaven.  Our roles and existence await us there - passing over a life on earth.  I truly believe that my three children had jobs that were so urgent waiting for them in Heaven that they bypassed time here.  I'd like to think that God had a Linda-shaped hole in Heaven and a job that only her compassion, gentleness and faithfulness could possibly complete.  I don't know that such an idea is found anywhere in scripture, but it doesn't conflict with anything there, either, and so I have accepted it to gain a little bit of peace.  If you are a person who is genuinely eternity-minded - like Linda was - the vastness of "forever" isn't scary or daunting, but comforting. 

I wish I could have said good-bye.  I sincerely do.  But it would have been temporary at best.  It won't be long before I get to see Linda again.   And she can introduce me to her son who so lovingly has looked after my children.

That is the hope of Christ is us.