It was a little too dangerous to be out on the roads that had just claimed the life of a young father. Great, treacherous flakes floated down from the clouds that hid the heavens. But that didn’t stop them from coming.
Beautiful saints, every one, they came to give a soft place for the tears to fall, to embrace the broken, and to mourn with those who mourned the most.
Bonnie, who had been widowed younger than my mother—was my mother a widow?—was one of the first to come. She came in, soggy from the snow, and grabbed my mother’s hands without stopping to take off her coat. Her tear-stained eyes searched my mother’s face for the pain she knew was there and the pain she knew was coming.
They sat together in the steel light of the feather-frosted window, and Bonnie sobbed. She sobbed for her dead young husband and she sobbed for my tall, handsome father, and she sobbed for my mother because Bonnie knew.
She sobbed because there was nothing else she could do.
There was nothing else anyone could do, and so, like Bonnie, they came in, silent as snow. Dear friends from church, relatives, even neighbors–everyone came. Some came for a minute, heaving a potted plant into my arms or pressing a fold of money into my hand for my mother before they flurried away so as not to be a bother.
Others stayed until the shadows grew and melted into the freshly-fallen snow. They did not know how to leave a woman who had just been left all alone in the world with three young children and a house that needed fixing. So they lingered.
They lingered until the little green house in the middle of the forest was filled up with the scent of the saints. Even with the drafty windows and a wood stove that wasn’t quite up to the task, there was a warmth in that place unlike anything I had known before. It was warm enough to calm the shivers that convulsed through my body, warm enough to stop my teeth from chattering, warm enough to help me believe that somehow, it would be okay.
I watched from the corner of the couch, from my little refuge behind the tall-backed adults and the nodding heads and the sad voices, and I saw Him. Jesus. Jesus in real hands and real feet and real tears crying over our Lazarus- grave when it was too late and there was nothing else that could be done.
How beautiful He is.
I rested my head on a couch cushion. It smelled like my Sunday school teacher, who didn’t have any children but who loved children more than most women who did. She had been there with me, and her fragrance lingered and filled up my space like a slow, parting embrace.
The entire house smelled like Jesus, in the remarkable way that Jesus smells like Dial soap and Old Spice and a kitchen full of casseroles.
Had He been there that day?
In my mind, I went over all the faces. Some old, some young, some full of their own agonies and some who were just learning how hope could be shattered. Each with a story, but each willing to step in to the day when my story fell apart. Just like Jesus.
It left me breathless.
Somehow, Jesus had come to my living room garden, and He had whispered to me, “Child, child. Why do you weep?”
He said it in words that came through other lips, chosen messengers, but it was there all the same. I clung to them as the bitter sleep drifted in and I thought to myself, if this is what it takes to see Jesus, then let it be.
I think of it, all these years later because we are in a hard bit of the road, right here. I have told you about it, dear saints, and you have come in with arms that ache to hold me up and tell me it will be okay. Some of you have cried with me because you know. You have called and you have written and you have prayed for me even when you do not know me, not really.
You have been Jesus to me.
And I weep because it is so beautiful, I do not know that I could ever trade these moments even for all the answers I ever wanted that did not come. I am surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, and it is you, dear friends, who cheer me on. It is you, dear ones, who minister Christ to me in real hands and real feet and real tears that cry over my Lazarus-grave.
You have shown me Jesus. I cannot wish for any other.
I am left with nothing more to say in my prayers but this: If this is what it takes to see Jesus, then let it be.
Oh, Kristie, as sorry as I am for you and your family to have to struggle along this road right now, it is so amazing to see Jesus showing up for you in such a real way. Praying…
Thank you, Abbie. It has been a sweet time, even with the trials.
I can’t imagine the pain your family must have endured.
Continuing to pray about your circumstances.
What a wonderfully written tribute Kristie! Amazing how in our times of deepest sorrow we see the face of Jesus!
And you show Jesus to us, your attentive readers, through the spiritual insight and lovely words He leads you to write. Thank you for the encouragement for the trials I know I will face in the future.
We all face them, don’t we? It’s good to know I am not unique in my sufferings and I am not alone in this journey. You all are such an encouragement to me!
Overwhelmed. How old were you? So beautiful that you praise and trust Him in the midst of pain and fear. True worship.
Heather–I was eleven. My older brother was about 2 weeks shy of his 13th birthday, and my younger brother was 8. I remember thinking, “I can run from God, or I can press in to Him,” and I chose to press in. And I pressed in.
Speechless, blurry-eyed, and prayerful for you and your family. Thanks for seeing Jesus even in your pain and disappointment.
What a great post:) You are a gifted writer. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, Andrea.
Wow, you’ve done it again. I ask myself, “how does she continually write so well?” Then I remember, tour gift is from God. Write on, dear Kristen. I will continue to pray. God leads clearly and Always provides for His children. Always. 🙂 Psalm 84:10-11. Guess this trial is for your good. 🙂
Kristie, i couldn’t read this without crying. I love how you see Jesus, and remind us to see Him, and know He is there.
My dear friend whom I have met through your blog…yes, Jesus is here, too. I suffer a lot of pain, can’t stand up to do anything for more than a couple of minutes, and Jesus comes to me in a card of encouragement, in our devotions as a couple, in phone calls etc. Let me say that my “cheering on verse” is : for this MOMENTARY, SLIGHT (what? yep) affliction is preparing for me an (2 Cor. 4: 16-18) eternal weight of glory etc. Read it, feed on it, and remember that “the best is yet to be”. , My husband, 69, and I 66, have been married almost 45 years, and ministering for that long as well. He still preaches all over SW Ontario almost every Sunday. We KNOW the WAIT, NO’ NOt YET, answers to prayers. Believe me, He closes doors to protect us, to open another that will bless us!!Love in HIM, BEV
Aw, sweetie, this might be the best one yet! Isn’t it awesome that He never leaves us alone in our hard places in the road and that there are loving saints to give the hug that you can’t “feel” from Him!
My heartbeat fluttered and I felt that familiar warmth creep over my skin as the Holy Spirit took flight through these words on my screen and I saw Him too. Praying for you dear Sister and grateful; so grateful for your place here. Delicious.
Here is a virtual hug. Sniff, sniff. I need to blow my nose.
This is exactly the place that I have come to in my own sorrows. If this is what it takes to see Jesus, then let it be.
You are one of those beautiful saints, Natasha. How you bless me!
Friend, you have such a gift…. You have once again brought me to tears. Wow! Wish I could give you a giant hug. Will be praying for you 🙂
Beautiful, Kristie!!!!!
Thank you, Grandma. Thanks for the words you sent yesterday (was it yesterday?) as well. You have been in the tough patches with me, and I love you.
My. Goodness. What deep, meaningful, heart-breaking yet heart-healing words. Thank you.
Thank you, Katie. It’s always hard to write about that day. It brings me to tears and breaks me, even now.