How Deep the Pain of Searing Loss

Note: I posted earlier today about Spanglish. Be sure to read that - just scroll down. But read this first.

Tonight my mom told me that a friend of ours from church died today. Her name was Jo Ann. She was a wonderful woman with a loving husband and children. She had been battling cancer for years. I'm not sure what finally claimed her; many of us know all too well the additional complications caused by cancer.

In truth, I didn't know Jo Ann very well. I think I only spoke with her a few times in the years I knew her. But for some reason I had a special connection with her. I became intently interested in her condition over the years, and prayed for her quite frequently. At my last Sunday in Orlando before leaving South Bend, her husband was sitting in the row in front of us. For some reason, I was totally overcome with emotion as I sat behind him. The thought of a man coming to grips with the death of his wife, the death of the mother of his children, assaulted me. I imagine it's because of the loss of my grandmother; a fierce, courageous, and witty woman who battled lupus for over 30 years of her life. I've seen what the loss of your one true love can do to a man. I've seen what the loss of your mother does. I've seen what the loss of someone you love does. Death rips your heart apart like nothing else can, not even heartbreak. But when it's the woman you love who dies, heartbreak is part of the equation.

When I read that email, I was only shocked at first. I couldn't comprehend it. But I had the urge to go down to the Grotto to light a candle for her, and to pray for her family. So I left my dorm to take a walk in silence.

As I was walking, I remembered that last Sunday, and I remembered all the things I had thought about. It all came rushing back to me, and I realized that now all those things had come to pass. A man was now a widow; children were now without a mother. The phrase "how deep the pain of searing loss" kept running through my head. And then I remembered the context: "How deep the Father's love for us, how vast beyond all measure. That He would give His only Son to make a wretch His treasure."

I couldn't contain myself. I wept hard as I walked to the Grotto, and then I started to run. I ran and I saw the flashes of trees and grass and flowers that decorate Notre Dame's campus. My friend was gone, this friend whom I barely knew.

I lit my candle at the Grotto and wandered over to a bus stop bench on the side of the road near St. Mary's Lake. And I buried my head in my hands and cried. I cried for the man I knew who was now a widower. I cried for those children - who I don't think I've ever met - who no longer have their mother.

And then I remembered the last time I had cried, and how it too had been for children. Suddenly I lamented the injustice of this fallen world. Injustice is not just found in Africa. Injustice is the result of sin, and it occurs everywhere in the world. It shouldn't be this way. A man should not lose his wife. Children should not lose their mother.

Oh, death! Truly, here is your sting!

I thought of the next line of that song: "the Father turns His face away." I was struck by the fact that the Father does not have to turn His face from Jo Ann. She is welcomed by Him.

I wondered if Christ was weeping for Jo Ann's family, for the loss of such a woman. I knew that He was. And then I wondered if God the Father Himself could on the one hand mourn the power of disease in this life, and yet ordain this tragedy. Yet I know that He can, He does, and He now has again. It is beyond me.

I tried to call people, but was unsuccessful. Something felt so unnatural about facing this grief alone, so deeply painful about facing the darkness of death without a friend by my side.

I got up and walked by the lake, and I started to sing. I sang bits and pieces of songs and hymns that I knew. "Why should I gain from His reward? I cannot give an answer. But this I know with all my heart: His wounds have paid my ransom." "My sin, oh the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part, but the whole is nailed to the cross and I bear it no more."

"And from my stricken heart with tears two wonders I confess: the wonders of redeeming love and my own worthlessness."

I stood there contemplating the stark contrast between the beauty of the lake and trees and the darkness of sin and death. And yet redemption is the link. Redemption is the key. "Here they trusted Him before us, now their praises fill the sky."

I walked back in silence.

Goodbye, Jo Ann.