Waiting for Sunrise

In the face of loss, and the sorrow that goes with it, we really only have two choices. Curse God and die, or thank God and keep living. Mourn like non believers, or mourn like Christians. So today, this week, this season, we mourn for Harry Goode, (whose name i can barely type) but not as those who rage against the fading of the light. We mourn like those who are waiting for sunrise.

This year, both my parents' fathers have died, and i've greeted both of their deaths in the same way. One part sorrow, two parts incomprehension. This is the first week that Dadda has missed since 1921. That's a lot of weeks. And how can he be gone, he's always been there. Reading the paper, sweeping up, baking, and when the baking was less successful, calling his sister-in-law (in Australia) for help. And Grandfather, such a force of life, silenced. And in their place, a heavy man, who won't stop sitting on my chest.

Incomprehension. I wonder if this was the problem in the road to Emmaus. How could Jesus be dead? How could the one who spoke to Moses, to calmed the storm, who made the lame dance, be dead? If you're struggling to believe someone's dead, you'll have an even harder time believing their alive and leading a Bible study.

But He was alive. More than alive, He was life. He had won, He had stepped out of the grave, He had fallen to ground and even now bares much fruit, He lived, he died, and now behold He lives forevermore.

So now, even as we mourn our eyes are peeled for sunrise. We're learning forward in our chairs waiting for the call to come out, which is no longer restricted just to Lazarus. We wait, and we know that dawn is coming. And then incomprehension will turn to understanding, mourning to dancing, aching to singing, defeat to victory.