Dressed in Scarlet: Time

Time belongs to death, or still more so, to the devil.
We must buy it from him and return it to God to whom it must really belong.

Maria von Wedemeyer, who was later engaged to marry Dietrich Bonhoeffer, wrote this after attending one of Bonhoeffer's sermons during WWII. Both her brother and her father had recently been killed in war, and the sermon on Ephesians 5:15-21 begat these words from the grieving sister and daughter.

I've been listening Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas on Audible this summer, and I keep going back to these words. They ring true. Don't go challenging my theology (Bonhoeffer is doing enough of that via the story of his life). It's not that kind of thing. And yet...

If you believe in the Scriptural account, death came because of human sin in an otherwise perfect environment. The devil, that vile serpent, tempted. And then came death - the end - time that mattered.

Imagine if the only thing in life that was sure was taxes (imagine if not even taxes were sure!). What if death wasn't sure? What if death wasn't a thing? Imagine how we would all live so differently. An urgency would be gone, no doubt, but what would it matter? Because time eternal would face us.

The ache of permanent earthly separation; the deep, deep, deep waters of grief; the agony of days never experienced - none of it would exist.

Instead, we have time. The most beautiful and restricting of resources. It encourages us to cherish the moment, to live fully each day, to accomplish much, to relate more, to choose well. But it cheats us too, of opportunities, conversations, relationships, and so many good things, because there simply isn't enough of it to go around.

Time.

I am so grateful time has passed. 19 years ago tonight, I sat with shocked family in agony over the unexpected death of my older brother. He was 17, I was 14. It was a fluke accident. There was no reason it should've happened, and certainly no reason it should've happened in my world, to my family, to my brother. Such things only happen in books, right?

19 years ago on September 20th, I watched my mother, my father, lay to rest their son, their eldest son. Watching this was the only thing more cruel than the fact that that day I laid to rest my brother, my big brother.

There is no moment more crushing than that moment in a graveside service when parents must leave their child, finally, on this earth. It makes bile rise in my throat. I hate it.

I have no desire, not the least, to go back and relive those dark days. God, they were hard. There are not words in any language to describe it.

And yet. 19 years ago, I had heard his voice only a night ago. He'd watched my volleyball game, he'd been part of my normal only hours before. I long for that.

Each day that passes, still, I believe, gets me closer to the day that I get to see him again.

In those darkest days right after he died, I remember my mom saying once, as if it was her only lifeline at that moment, that she only had to make it another 40 years or so. Just 40 years and she'd see him again.

If I live to what my grandparents are living, I have another 55 or 60 to go still, not counting the 19 now behind me.

Time.

They say time heals, and it does. The ache isn't such deep agony, and the ache isn't always. Now, it comes in much less frequent waves. They still overtake me sometimes. I still let myself get carried away just to experience that depth. To somehow let the universe know that he's not forgotten, that he mattered, that his life made an impression that will never leave history.

And I know I'm not the only one who does this. Although we all experience grief in our own way, there are commonalities we can't escape. The depth, the unending darkness of the abyss of grief, always ready for another revisit, is one of them.

In this life, I'll never come to the end of grieving the death of Chet. Until I make my final trade with the devil and exchange time on this earth for the eternity, I will ache.

Time.

Death is inescapable, and tragic death comes with more frequency than I'd ever imagined. And the reality I've come to see is that death is always tragic, no matter how much you see it coming or how many years one has behind them.

To those who are grieving now in those darkest days, I hope my 19 years gives you hope. You can take the next breath, make the next step, do the next right thing. It won't always feel this way.

But also, 19 years from now, you will still be grieving. They will not be forgotten. You will be forever changed both because of their life and because of their death.