Searching for words to put to the emotions that accompany death is never easy, but it is especially difficult when it’s the death of a parent you had a complicated relationship with, if one at all.
The only memories I have of my father are filled with broken promises followed by inevitable periods of prolonged silence. A silence that was only interrupted by the desperation of his loneliness. Call it naivety or innocence, but as a child, I never lost hope in my father. The scars I have to show for it. As I grew, my development of self-protection grew with me, building walls where there was once an open door. Henceforth, his words would fall on the deaf ears of a distant soul. Whether they remained empty, I did not know, for finding out was a risk I was not yet willing to take. Following me wherever I went was an unspoken hope of reconciliation, one that death closed the door on for me. The last time I heard from my father, I was doing mission work in the Dominican Republic, work which I refused to be distracted from. Unbeknownst to me, I’d never get the opportunity to reply, thus leading to the first of many emotions I’d experience from his passing.
Guilt. Death has a way of sending you into a whirlpool of hypotheticals, none of which lead to life. Each time the enemy attempts to drag me into self-pity, God reminds me that He is not surprised by this circumstance. What was sudden to me, God foresaw prior to forming the world. No words or actions of mine could have altered God’s plan. I am not that powerful.
No, God did not create us just so we could die, but He knew death would come into play. Death is a result of the fall (the first instance of humans abusing the freedom God gave us—see Genesis 3). However, God has the ability to use satan’s tactics and our rebellion to ultimately bring about His holy plan (i.e. salvation through Jesus’ death on the cross). With regard to our fallen state, death is actually a means of grace for the believer. I view my father’s passing as God’s way of rescuing him from torment. Redemption. Whether my father had a faith or not remains unknown to me—I wrestled my way to this conclusion by clinging to what I do know—God wishes to see none perish (2 Peter 3:9). Whether someone comes to salvation at age 5, 15, 50, or 5 seconds prior to their passing, a spot in Heaven is secured for them. We simply strip ourselves of the fullness of life by choosing not to live for Christ today.
Anger is another emotion that plagues me. I get angry at my father. I get angry that I was left to clean up the mess he made. I get angry at myself for being angry. But in His kindness, God reminds me that this is an opportunity rather than a burden. An opportunity to honor my father whilst simultaneously gaining the privilege of getting to know him through his loved ones. He was a huge foodie, a tenacious organizer, and a lover of soul music—I am certainly his daughter. He was the life of the party yet easy-going, not to be messed with yet extremely tender-hearted, and he loved me immensely more than I ever knew. He simply never learned how to properly express it. Not only do I get to honor my father, but I can delight in doing so knowing:
1) He was made in the image of God. Every hurt he inflicted on me was merely a response to the hurt inflicted on him. His sin no greater nor less forgivable than my own.
2) God intentionally purposed him to be my father and brought forth my life through him. Our God does not make mistakes.
3) How I view my earthly father directly affects my relationship with God as a Father. Any residual bitterness in my heart only restricts me from receiving and giving the unconditional love God has to offer.
4) Honoring my father is pleasing in God’s sight and brings glory to His name.
Death seemingly guarantees a rollercoaster of emotions. There are highs and there are lows. You’re good until you’re not. One minute, you’re blasting Frank Sinatra, smiling cheek to cheek. You sing and dance joyously, knowing your loved one is singing and dancing with you. The next minute, unwarranted and uncontrollable tears begin to flood in the midst of enjoying a matcha latte or reading your favorite book. You run to the car so you can weep without ruining the ambiance of the coffee shop and/or gaining the reputation of a maniac. You learn to welcome the voice inside of you screaming for a release—your response determining whether or not the voice is calmed. You are inclined to invalidate your own emotions, nonetheless, there is in fact a piece of you now missing. The good news is we don’t have to rely on our own strength; we have an unending source of it found in the name of Jesus. For we do not have a God who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses (Heb. 4:15). Jesus also wept over death, for it was not a part of God’s good design. When Jesus sees His children brokenhearted and crushed in spirit, He draws near and wraps us up in His arms. Yes, even in the midst of our screaming at Him. Especially then. You don’t have to hide—He knows. You don’t have to pretend—He cares. He revives the soul and provides a comfort that surpasses understanding (Psalm 34:18). Turn to Him.
There is a unique finality that follows the death of an estranged parent. The dissolvement of fear, resentment, and unforgiveness that once bound you in separation. A unique sense of freedom; a unification of sorts. It doesn’t always feel this way, but I must boast in the Lord for the moments that it does. He always brings me back here—this place of peace. He uses undesirable circumstances to transform the hearts of His children, drawing us closer to Him. We can rejoice in our sufferings knowing it produces perseverance, character, and hope (Rom. 5:3-5).
As A.W. Tozer so beautifully articulates “Before God can use a man greatly, He must first wound Him deeply.” One of my constant prayers is for the Lord to further deepen the effectiveness of my ministry—a prayer He rejoices in answering. By virtue of my suffering, I am continuously strengthened in compassion and humility, enabling me to comfort others with the comfort that I myself receive from God (2 Corin. 1:3-5). An overflow of His love! Our calling is going to crush us and I praise God that it does for I desire to pursue missions whole-heartedly. What an honor it is to serve the One True God, who knows the desires of our hearts and delights in meeting those desires exceedingly (Psalm 37:4).
Although I may not have experienced a relationship with my father on earth, I now have a relationship with him that is not corrupted by the brokenness of this world. Rather than losing my father, I was actually restored to him, allowing me to be further restored to my Heavenly Father. Give yourself the space to grieve, allow yourself the time to mourn, ride the rollercoaster of emotions—it is all necessary (Ecc. 3). Just don’t stay there. I am not writing this as someone who has mastered grief; I am writing this as someone who needs to be reminded of these things myself. With loss, there is always opportunity for gain. Sometimes we just need to fix our eyes on Jesus.
