The ache

By all evidences it was a marvelous day.

It started with an early morning oil change – sans children, which meant 30 minutes of silence, steaming cup of coffee in hand.

And then a patio set up for the first time. More coffee with sunshine, a dear neighbor and friend, and the waterfall fountain murmured in the background while a girl in dress, pig tails, and large bows danced and sung in the grass. A baby woke happily from long nap to more time outside. Lunch eaten at the patio table, no cajoling bites, but just a bite here and there in between frolicking and exploring. A baby and toddler napped at the same time, allowing for time to work, both at the job and a design project for a ministry dearly loved. The first dinner of the season enjoyed on the patio, with basil all blended with its exploding aroma, poured over hot off the grill chicken.

And yet, despite all of its Edenic qualities, a heaviness hung about the day like a dark cloak.

The morning began with hard news about a friend’s father. A father, grandfather, mentor, friend, beloved member of the community. Told Tuesday surgery was immediately necessary, Wednesday entered surgery…for twenty-six hours…and exited Thursday morning into the arms of Jesus.

And then the news of a baby boy. Another tiny warrior, who initially given no shot at life, fought to defy expectations and prognoses. Born this week surrounded by a thick cloud of prayers that his little body would be strong enough for the surgery desperately needed. Instead his mommy and daddy had to make the decision no parent should ever have to make…to release him into the arms of Jesus.

For these two, the one with but hours to his life and the other with years, there is no sting in death. There is a veil removed and a rest sweeter than we’ve ever tasted or even thought to crave.

But for those left here? Oh how death stings for those who remain. Relationship cut short. We know down to the depth of our hearts and the depth of our bones that this is not how it’s supposed to be. We crave the unending, the eternal, in our longings we image the One who was and is and always will be in relationship.

And so despite the beauty and grace of the day, I’m left aching and craving for more. Left poignantly aware that this place is not my home. The most frequent prayer on my lips, “Come, Lord Jesus, Come. I long for your kingdom now.” And He gently whispers, I am, I am coming. But there are more to be gathered first.

And so I pray that the grief, and the anger, and the confusion, and the ache be sharpened into a hunger. A hunger for the Kingdom. A hunger that recognizes the brevity of this life, and so presses on and into Kingdom work, leaving behind the lesser loves of this earth. Because this hunger? This hunger that grief awakens? Cannot and will not be satisfied by the things of this world.