I have done something I am ashamed of, so I figure the best way to deal with it is to broadcast it to the world. I’m only partially kidding.

There is a family in town that we know through swim team. We met soon after we moved here, which was about six years ago, and we bonded because we both have five kids, and our kids are close in ages and mostly boys. Our family quit swim team a couple of years ago and theirs kept swimming, but recently our paths began to cross again as our little girls, who used to toddle around at practices and meets, joined the team in the beginners group.

Although we were out of touch for several years, I would still run into this family occasionally, and we had enough friends in common that I heard their news last fall. The dad had cancer, and it did not look good. He’d had melanoma several years back, but some time in the fall he began to have some problems, and it was discovered that the cancer had metastasized in his liver and lungs. He went to Anderson in Texas for treatments, and that was about all I knew.

So when we rejoined swim team, I was heart-sick to learn that things were declining for the dad. I joined his Caring Bridges site and kept updated on his prognosis, and read moving posts written from the depths of his wife’s heart. And then last week came the post everyone dreaded. He lost his battle and went to be with the Lord, leaving behind a wife who loved him dearly and five children between the ages of 4-17.

The funeral was yesterday, and I planned to go with a friend of mine. However that morning, she emailed me to let me know that her two kids were sick and she would not be able to attend. I thought that I was still planning to go, and really I was. But somewhere deep in me, I knew I would end up not making it. And I didn’t.

Three people have asked me about the service, knowing that I would surely have gone. In all honesty, I wanted to lie and say I had attended. But I didn’t - I just stated that wasn’t able to make it. And I have done some soul-searching to try to figure out why. And I think I have begun to understand.

Death is too close. It has hit too hard. Having lost both of my parents, one five years ago and the other two years ago, along with a few friends who were not too far apart from me in age, death brings out too many old thoughts and emotions. I know and trust and believe with every ounce of my being that there is a heaven, and that those who have gone before me are joyfully in the presence of Jesus and waiting to embrace me when I join them. I do not fear death for me. But still, it has brought me great loss. Death is unnatural, and my soul knows it from deep within.

Attending a funeral forces me to remember all too vividly the losses that death has brought me. I am now an earthly orphan. This mean that there is nobody to ask about my family history. A link to the past is gone. If I get in trouble and need help, I cannot call on my parents. When I want or need sympathy, I can no longer call my mom and complain to her. These are all things that do not bother me as much as they used to. And yet whenever another living soul moves on to the next life, I am flooded with these thoughts again. I think my heart wants desperately to run away and not have to deal with it all.

And so I stayed home yesterday, knowing that I will send a card, and I will send a donation to their childrens’ education fund. But somehow knowing that even though it has been two years since my mother’s death, and even though I went to the funeral service of a good friend only a year ago, my heart was not ready for yesterday’s service. I don’t know if not going was understandable and acceptable or if it was selfish and shameful. I haven’t sorted that out yet in my mind.

But I’m reminded of a song - one of my favorites, actually - by Fernando Ortega. “Sing to Jesus.” The lyrics say:

Come and see, look on this mystery
The Lord of the Universe, nailed to a tree
Christ our God, spilling His Holy blood
Bowing in anguish, His sacred head
Sing to Jesus, Lord of our shame
Lord of our sinful hearts.
He is our great Redeemer.
Sing to Jesus, Honor His name.
Sing of His faithfulness, pouring His life out unto death
Come you weary and He will give you rest
Come you who mourn, lay on His breast
Christ who died, risen in Paradise
Giver of mercy, Giver of Life
Sing to Jesus His is the throne
Now and forever,
He is the King of Heaven.
Sing to Jesus, we are His own.
Now and forever sing for the love our God has shown.
Sing to Jesus, Lord of our shame
Lord of our sinful hearts.
He is our great Redeemer.
Sing to Jesus, Honor His name.
Sing to Jesus His is the throne
Now and forever,
He is the King of Heaven.
Sing to Jesus, we are His own.
Now and forever sing for the love our God has shown.

I wanted to just focus on a few of the lyrics, but darn it, I just can’t. The whole song just moves me beyond belief. “Sing to Jesus, Lord of our shame.” Even though I feel shame over staying home yesterday, I know that Jesus is bigger than that. If I let him into my failures and my shame, his blood actually becomes the salve on the wound. His love is that big - it covers not just my blatant sin or “the really big things,” but even the sins of my heart that come from the depths of me. Even those things that may not be obvious sin but are weaknesses or failings or frailty - sing to Jesus. “Come you weary and He will give you rest, Come you who mourn, lay on His breast.” What a tender Redeemer we have. In my grief, my weariness, my sorrow, he invites me to lay on his breast. This is not some far-off, uninvolved God we serve. He is a tender Daddy, a healing physician, a great Redeemer.

Sing to Jesus.

Read

Sing To Jesus Lyrics

here.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 7th, 2009 at 5:18 pm and is filed under This and That. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.