John 11:25-26 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?”
▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️🍃▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️ Today our son would turn 30.
We miss him:
His easy manner.
His cocked-and-ready smile.
His crazy, over-the-top humor.
His adventurous spirit.
His companionship.
His quick wit.
The way he so easily befriended the marginalized.
How he was completely cool with his being adopted.
How he hated to see those he loved suffer.
When he played his soothing guitar late at night.
How he always, ALWAYS, said “I love you” at the end of a phone conversation.
How he loved surprises.
His sincere questions about faith and life.
How he despised hypocrisy.
How easily he could forgive.
How hard he hugged.
Whenever he did his Chris Farley impersonations.
Even his tattoos (not all of them, mind you).
How he was his own unique brand.
Today he would turn 30.
Our faith reminds us every day we will see him again; not some idea of him or a mystical hologram version, but him.
In all His glory.
CS Lewis once said regarding those we love who are now in heaven we’d be tempted to fall down and worship them as the version they are now, so great is the glory they are wrapped in.
What a glorious thought.
A blind friend came to the funeral home and handed me a scrap of paper with a message his wife helped him write. It said, “Next time you see Graham he will be running toward you, gleaming.”
That will be then, thank Jesus, but today we grieve that that day is not today.
We miss him something fierce.
Another friend told Sandy and me after the funeral, “I don’t want to ‘be remembering’ Graham, I want to be knowing him.”
We do too.
I’d want to hug him hard and tell my boy so many things so much differently.
But the one thing I’d say exactly the same is “I love you son. I’m glad you’re mine.”
What I want to say to him on his 30th birthday…
What I really, REALLY want to tell him is:
“Graham Scott Mitchell, we’re so happy to see you again. We’ve missed you like you wouldn’t believe.”
Your words leave me grasping for words that don’t smack of buttoned-up pietism or following predictable lines. As I mentioned earlier, I believe the Lord has kept me on an essential fast from offering you words that might lose their impact as soon as they touched your device! It’s now the middle of the night and I feel I’m awakened by God with a direction in response to a repeated cry to him for such.
A couple weeks ago I was in the Poconos of Pennsylvania with Sandy where I served as the guest speaker for an audience of disabled folk at their annual July Camp. I try to only preach what the Father burns into my heart (I wish I always succeeded at this, but it is my fervent intent), and, for reasons known only to him, I was given the task of preaching through the book of Ecclesiastes.
I know.
It could *only* be his prompting.
Long story short, it was a marvelous dive that was wonderfully received (praise God!) and His gospel came through each session through the book and I believe he got what he was after through it. That became clearly evident as I counseled many in between the chapel services.
During one of the sessions I went off script and shared my story (which you’ve heard) and was asked afterward by a woman who was there as a volunteer if I’d ever been bitter about the whole ‘satan-meant-it-for-evil-God-intended-it-for-good’ drama of my life. Never hesitating, I said “never, not even once.”
It’s been asked of me dozens or more times in these 38 years, and my response has never wavered. It’s always, “Never, Ever.” I usually go on to explain (as I did that morning with C____) that I prayed for it to happen; that my heart lifted up the offering of my legs to God in an anguished moment of surrender. He took me at face value and, voilà!, I’m a paraplegic. I am often quick to add the disclaimer: in my fevered, youthful zeal, I only meant I was willing to forfeit the ability to walk….and that only temporarily. I had no idea catheters, and pressure sores, and UTI’s, and atrophy, and bowel programs, and a hundred other debilitating, embarrassing, painful, pitiful things would be added into the deal. And for a lifetime. These, my friend – these – I have been known to rail against God about, often with choice words. And these I repent of, for reasons we’ll come to in a bit.
My son, my only child, departed this hard sod in a mean, cruel way. We (Sandy and I) did not fake a Job reaction, we lived it. “The Lord has given, the Lord has taken, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Both of us were wont to expect this would be how the story played out (because of Graham’s addiction roulette), had been waiting for the ‘phone call’ for years, not to mention prepared for it with grieving grace. The controversy with God came when we asked if he couldn’t have intervened and overwritten the genetic code with which our Graham came pre-packaged. Why, God?We accepted his death as a mercy to pull him from the self-cannibalism of addiction but wondered often why he couldn’t have been fixed.
I’m less argumentative today with the rabbi who lost a child, was eventually brought to the conclusion that God cannot be both all loving and all powerful at the same time, and wrote a bestseller about it. The rabbi waved a white flag as an acceptance mechanism that God didn’t head the tragedy off at the pass because he couldn’t, not wouldn’t. He and I part ways at his dreadful conclusion, but I do understand the pain that brought him to it.
God is all-loving, all-suffering, all-powerful, all-in, all-active, all-supportive. These truths keep me from falling away. Suffering on the scale that I have known has made me a mixture of both Arminian and Calvinist. I hold tightly to the theological rung of God‘s sovereignty; but my other hand is equally holding on to the rung of prevenient grace, that God is trusting me to hold to him for all he’s worth even when reason tells me to flee.
I had the opportunity to preach at a black church a week ago (pastored by a beloved friend I’m mentoring) and shared with the congregants the prosperity gospel of Paul. It is found in 2 Corinthians 12 and summed up in the word “weakness.” In the message I declared that my paralysis and all that comes with it, and my daily grieving for our son, has been used of God to heal the deeper afflictions of my soul: my self-godship.
When I take up a “self-pity cross” and rage against God and question his love, each and every time – whether immediately or after a season of soulish pouting – I am lovingly brought to repentance by the kindness of God. He implores me in these mercies to lay that one down and take up the cross of his design, the one for which he gives me grace to carry. I know full well when I am carrying the wrong cross, for those are the times I strive to expose him for the despot I think him to be, and all is vanity and meaninglessness.
I think I have a better grasp on why the Preacher of Ecclesiastes said going to the house of mourning is better than going to the house of feasting. Death – and mourning – have to do with resurrection (life to come), while feasting, as good and wonderful as these times can be, does not teach us we are created for something more but rather occupies us with this world.
My body would prefer my legs, and my soul would prefer my son and having some grandkids, but these fit into the category of “temporal“ things (2 Cor 4:18). Ah, but let’s not put too exact a period there – perhaps an ellipsis would do better – for an all-loving God has grace for temporal things too. It’s just that he has his eyes set on what’s after the temporary blessings of life. And so my heart prefers his plan, trusts his ways, and leans hard into his love. His love conquers all (Rom 8:31-39).
I believe these are the things the Father has awakened me to share with you, and I will trust that they might be an encouragement. Bless you, my brother. I have grieved with you … and all affected by this suffocating tragedy, and have done so nonstop.
I pray to God that none of these words sound Christian-ese, but because God woke me up, I believe they are what is on his heart for you. I remain, as ever, available to listen, to wait, and to understand throughout this process of venting and grieving. Believe me, Sandy and I know this familiar place.
[this shot is for Sandy on her fifth Mother’s Day without Graham; it symbolizes her world blown apart by grief for a son lost too soon, even as her feathery faith – on precarious strings – holds it together…in hope]
Faith goes up the stairs that love has built and looks out the windows which hope has opened.
– Charles H. Spurgeon
“Hope is the thing with feathers…”
– EmilyDickinson
“Hope is revolutionary patience” says Anne Lamott. What is patience, then? It is the yet-to-be-realized longing of a looking soul. It is a parent’s eyes glued to yonder horizon, knowing that one day there will be a reunion and a feast…while, for now, there’s only the quiet vigil of sighing and dreaming.
The heart knows a secret bravery that is not celebrated with medals and speeches, but with unabated courage to take every day as it comes. It looks like flowers on a grave, instead of beside a child’s Mother’s Day card. Like sending a text or making a call to another mother who has her kids and wishing her a happy day.
Joy, in this world, is not sung, it is whispered; it is pomp and circumstance under the breath, minus the fanfare and marching. But ever so often it hears the instruments tuning and warming and tilts its head, satisfied the prelude is not too long now.
To witness up close such incarnated hope each day – along with every hollow milestone – is a thing of beauty. Sandy’s unpretentious, faithful life is a blog gone viral in the heavenlies, a sermon without pounded pulpit, a book you weep through to get to the next wonderful page.
Her spirit is a feather for she is the embodiment of stained-glass hope.
Proverbs 31:29-31 Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.” Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the gates.
