Dear Steve

Dear Steve,

It’s a little after midnight here in Texas. You have been sitting at the feet of Jesus with your daughter for almost a week now. Thanksgiving has come and gone and I am now taking my first steps into the whirlwind of the holiday season without several people that I love, care for, and admire, and that includes you.

I am weary and worn. I feel pretty ragged around the edges and I feel a little anxiety bubble up in the recesses of my mind. What’s next? What else will God make me contend with this year? I have waded through homicides, suicides, and cancer deaths of people that I know and love. And, now I am wrestling with your sudden death from COVID-19. How can it be that your life was snuffed out by this virus in only two days? How is it that the hospice chaplain that has led so many through the journey of death, not get the opportunity to be with his family or a chaplain on his deathbed?

In mid-summer, after working 16 to 20 hour days for over 72 days straight, cleaning up the homicide and suicide scene of two acquaintances, contending with a pretty devastating work situation, and then planning for hurricane after hurricane (amongst a whole list of other difficult experiences), I jokingly told God, in front of my husband, to bring it! What else could He throw my way? Because I was ready! And, now, Steve, I want to take it back. Why did I say that out loud? I didn’t know He was planning on taking my best friend’s mom the day after my birthday. Remember her, Steve? I had talked with you about her cancer battle several times and wanted your advice on how to care for her when she transitioned to hospice. I thought that would be next year though. When I jokingly ‘teased’ God about bringing me more difficult situations, I didn’t know he would bring you to your heavenly home so suddenly and in such a brutal way. I take it back! I take it all back! I don’t want to know what else God will throw my way before 2020 closes, because it’s not even funny anymore. It’s not funny, even in that twisted, dark humor that we first responders tend to have.

Steve, your death has cut me to the soul. I am wounded by your loss and in the cruel way you were taken. I am angry and frustrated. I am saddened that your family missed those last few moments with you and now they have to face this holiday season without you. How does life go on when we are blinded by our grief, sorrow, and anger? How do I continue to offer care, compassion, and guidance to others, when I continue to wrestle with God so frequently?

When my sister’s first child died eight days after her birth, I struggled with several personal issues within my family and within my own heart and mind. I remember sitting on the tour bus with you during one of the FFC conference outings and I shared those struggles with you. I will never forget your vulnerability with me when you told me your story of wrestling and fighting with God after the death of your daughter. Your story resonated so deeply with my story, and your insights and advice are words that have stayed with me all of these years later. I frequently think about that conversation when I come face to face with a death that seems so unfair.

Steve, we had a long friendship. You were a mentor to me in many different ways, but most specifically in how I care for those who are facing death head-on. I feel deeply blessed and humbled that I got to be your chaplain partner during Hurricane Katrina. I am humbled by all of the life lessons that I have learned from you over the years. Your leadership style, your way of speaking, preaching, and praying have planted seeds that have taken root within my heart and within my own chaplain ministry. What a gift you have been to me and to so many others.

The hours and the days of this past week have weighed heavily on me. I am trying to take a deep breath because I feel as if I am about to go under once again. The weight of grief from so many losses this year, both human losses and other life losses is so heavy that there are moments when I feel as if I am being pulled down under all of the hurt and the sorrow of my own and of so many others. I want to pull away from God in frustration because of all that I have endured but the one thing you taught me with both your words and your actions was to keep meeting God on the mat. Keep wrestling it out with Him. Don’t tap out, just sit on the corner of the mat for a moment to rest but always get back up and meet God in the middle of the mat. Eventually, we will get to the place where we will find that God will not knock us out of the ring but will instead carry us out. We just need to continue to open our hearts, and our hurts, and our fears, and our anger to Him. We need to talk it out, cry it out, scream it out, and sometimes whisper it out. And, then, we need to stop long enough to listen. To sit in the silence and wait for God to sooth our battered souls. It’s through this that we will eventually feel reconciled to God. You taught me this and I am hanging onto every thread of those words you shared to me in our conversations or in your messages to our groups. I am hanging on.

Steve, I will miss you so much. I look forward to the time when I will get to see you again in heaven. Thank you for living your life in such a way that inspired me, and thousands of others. Your legacy will live on through us. Your legacy will continue through your dear family, and through the imprints that have been left on social media accounts and websites. Thank you, Steve, for being my friend, a mentor, and a chaplain partner. And most of all, thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to wrestle with God. ‘Faith is the reason we remember great people who lived in the past.’ Hebrews 11:2

#2020 #God #Grief