In the Weight of Death is Love

I haven't taken many silent drives in my life, in fact I can probably count them on one hand. This was one.

Even when you know where you're going, mortality is a hard thing to understand. To really sit with the thought that this is goodbye; it's it. A concept you don't expect to be able to comprehend, but in that moment; pondering the finality of that goodbye, it hits. Hard. Confusion that you are even feeling the weight of that moment hits. The impact is accompanied by uncontrollable tears and sobs from the pit of your stomach, not unlike retching. I wasn't ready.

More than anything, I was scared of what I would feel. I was scared of the inevitable pain. I hadn't done this yet, this close. I have experienced a death before and it was a moment that, while it sounds strange to say, I cherish. Being present to that moment was life-changing. When you witness death, you grow up so much in only an instant. And I don't know how anyone could witness such a thing and question the separation of body and being. That's where it hits again: this is real. This is my reality, right now. 

I let myself feel it the whole long drive to the hospital with the words ringing in my mind, the doctors said it's time to come and say our goodbyes. My first reaction was No! not unlike a stubborn child does not want to do what they're told because in their eyes it's unfair. Exactly that, in my eyes this was unfair. The thought slipped through my mind that this was probably a terrible time to be driving: rush hour traffic, hyperventilating slightly, hot as hell, and the waves of reality washing themselves cruelly over me. 

It wasn't until I was about ten minutes from the hospital that I said, "Okay God, I'm ready to talk to you about this; I need to talk to you about this, because I can't go in there without that." Not knowing what I was headed into, knowing these things can sometimes turn around, I asked for the wisdom to know if we were to pray for healing. Healing prayer might be totally off the radar for some, but it's something I believe in, while knowing there are times when it's not going to happen. God told me, no, this is it. The realization sunk deeper in. I asked for wisdom, and was blunt, "I hate this, it's so unfair! I'm not ready." Then without a doubt in my mind, I heard Jesus say, I'm ready, I've been waiting. He's coming to be with me; that's not unfair. As quickly as the reality of the goodbye had come, peace set in and the tears ceased. I could breathe.

The evening that followed in the hospital was beautiful and difficult. Nearly the entire family was there, -- someone said nearly 30 people. We sang hymns together, and I spent much of the night at his bedside, holding his hand and thinking, they just don't make 'em like this anymore. 

For a little over a year now, God had been doing this thing where He rests what I now think is [only] a portion of the weight of His love for another on me. It's overwhelming and heavy, and beautiful, and it takes my breath away. God did that. He continued -- and has continued -- to give me reminders of how overjoyed He was to get to take him home; that it was a celebration of my grandfather going to be with Jesus. That He was jealous for my grandpa.

After he passed, we all stood in the room as again the reality washed over us. Bursts of sorrow came and went, as embraces flowed throughout the room. In the silent lull of tears, we began to sing a few short choruses by memory. Before, I had never really bought into the idea that our loved ones looked down and watched us, but while we were singing one of those short hymns, God comforted me with a small insight. He showed me that He was standing with my grandpa -- in rejuvenated form -- who leaned over quietly, as he would, and said to God so simply and emphatically, "Oh! I like this one; this is a good one." 

I already feel like I have spent the last five days explaining this phenomenon to others. Sunday, I discovered what it is: the peace that passes all understanding.

"When this perishable will have put on the imperishable, and this mortal will have put on immortality, then will come about the saying that is written, “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law; but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your toil is not in vain in the Lord." 

The night of my grandpa's passing, there was a woman in the hospital who stopped my mom and I. She was also losing someone; her mother. She said, "I first experienced death when I was young, and I don't know if you have a faith, but if you do, this will make it real." While I agreed, I also sort of shrugged it off, because I had experienced death before and my faith  already was real to me...but she was right. Heart-wrenching, confusing, and unthinkable as it is, in this experience I've become more and more in awe of Jesus and heartbroken for anyone that doesn't have the freedom, peace, and love that relationship with Him brings.

In these last five days, my heart has learned new pain, but the roots of my faith have grown down deeper.

In Loving Memory: Without Apology, With Humility

When in an instant you think of a person dear to you, it's like understanding the meaning of a word without simultaneously rattling off its definition. It's just knowing.

When I think of my grandpa, -- when I really stop to pull apart what comes together to make up who I knew him to be; who he was to me, many things come to mind...

He had a quiet way that was so endearing and comforting; it never seemed as though he was uncomfortable, but merely thinking. You could always trust that he was musing on something, and he was ready to share if you were smart enough to ask. He wasn't eager to stand in the limelight, but carried a waiting wisdom. There was always a calm about him, yet an authority that if he did quietly speak, it demanded attention. I think of his soft chuckle, and then of his hearty laugh. He had a playful spirit, he loved to tease, and had a great wit about him. I have yet, in my life, to meet anyone who more willingly served others. I've certainly never seen a man treat a woman so well as he treated my grandmother. He loved stories, -- told great ones. He was charming, but not in an insincere way. He lived out giving everyone the chance you know that he sincerely believed was after God's own mercy.

The morning after his passing, at breakfast I was even reminded of the way he would pour the cheap little creamers into his bad diner coffee, and stir just so. Everything he did, was just who he was, without apology; with humility.

There are many more pieces that make up who I knew John Dale Baxter to be, and my memories of him will live on in impromptu trips to Dairy Queen, stirring the necessary cream into bad diner coffee, and the quiet strength that drives the wisdom to speak. I was honored to know and love such a man.

In Loving Memory