Dying and Living
Chip Vater died ten days ago on the fifteenth and just now have I found the time to write. Ten days ago. That makes today Christmas. There are times in life that feel like that black ice on the highway--you’re going along and you hit it and suddenly nothing is in your control (if it ever was) including when things will slow down. Ten days ago Chip was at work and something heavy fell on him and he died and the next thing I know I’m at a visitation standing in line for hours and then a funeral, crying like a schoolgirl and then a Sunday morning memorial assembly trying to say something honest and helpful without resorting to cliché (all the while thinking Chip is going to come up the back stairs with a cup of coffee and life can go back the way it was) and then it was Christmas Eve, candles and more hugs, and now here it is Christmas and I’m in Findlay, Ohio surrounded by family and wondering how Bethany and her kids are doing today.
He’s not, of course, going to show up anytime soon with or without coffee. His children are forever without their father. Bethany is a widow. Chip didn’t make it out of his thirties. And I’m pretty sure I don’t subscribe to lots of the positive spin that seems to be so helpful to people at times like these. For all of the stated and hinted-at reasons why Chip’s gone, the only one I can live with is that metal is heavy and gravity is real. There it is--come and take a good look. Get it out of the way. (Sorry Tasha.) Not the most comforting thought maybe, but you can wear yourself out trying to resolve Man’s free will and the sovereignty of God. Things here are broken--redeemed, but broken--and expecting it to make sense may be asking too much. That may say something about the quality of my faith; I don’t care anymore.
People here are the same way I think, broken but redeemed. None of our small group of believers will ever be the same. We all have our own grief to explore. (My new friend David says that grief is a real thing that refuses to be ignored.) Bethany and the kids will continue to feel the loss the deepest and be aware of it for the longest, but they’re a part of the rest of us. We really are all of us in this together. You jump, I jump. At some point we’ll probably be stronger for having gone through this together (in fact I’m certain that’s already taking place) but I’d rather have skipped this part.
I guess one of the things about deciding to do life among a small group of friends is that stuff like this hurts. There’s no anonymity to hide in, no ritual to make us feel like everything’s okay. Just a missing father of four, husband to one, and brother to many. That and lots of love. And hope. And maybe sometimes that’s enough.
Merry Christmas. Hug your family.
He’s not, of course, going to show up anytime soon with or without coffee. His children are forever without their father. Bethany is a widow. Chip didn’t make it out of his thirties. And I’m pretty sure I don’t subscribe to lots of the positive spin that seems to be so helpful to people at times like these. For all of the stated and hinted-at reasons why Chip’s gone, the only one I can live with is that metal is heavy and gravity is real. There it is--come and take a good look. Get it out of the way. (Sorry Tasha.) Not the most comforting thought maybe, but you can wear yourself out trying to resolve Man’s free will and the sovereignty of God. Things here are broken--redeemed, but broken--and expecting it to make sense may be asking too much. That may say something about the quality of my faith; I don’t care anymore.
People here are the same way I think, broken but redeemed. None of our small group of believers will ever be the same. We all have our own grief to explore. (My new friend David says that grief is a real thing that refuses to be ignored.) Bethany and the kids will continue to feel the loss the deepest and be aware of it for the longest, but they’re a part of the rest of us. We really are all of us in this together. You jump, I jump. At some point we’ll probably be stronger for having gone through this together (in fact I’m certain that’s already taking place) but I’d rather have skipped this part.
I guess one of the things about deciding to do life among a small group of friends is that stuff like this hurts. There’s no anonymity to hide in, no ritual to make us feel like everything’s okay. Just a missing father of four, husband to one, and brother to many. That and lots of love. And hope. And maybe sometimes that’s enough.
Merry Christmas. Hug your family.
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