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I do not go to a lot of funerals. Thankfully I have not
lost many people who are close to me in recent years, and I’m not
one to attend services unless I know the deceased or their families
reasonably well.
I broke this rule in 1997 when two teenage brothers who
attended my church were killed by a drunk driver during the holiday
season. I went planning to write a column on the tragedy of drunk
driving; I left a sobbing wreck. I eventually did write the piece
but sat on it a month while I gathered myself enough to edit it into
something halfway coherent.
So I’m not exactly the picture of composure, but in the
past two weeks I have attended funerals for two good friends. One
was 81 years old, a man who had been ill for some time; the other
was only 44, taken unexpectedly.
The two men never met but were similar in many ways.
Both married young to the loves of their lives. Both loved the
outdoors and working with their hands. Both impacted me, and
others, in ways they probably would not have suspected.
The people who affect us the most are often not aware of
it. They don’t know because they aren’t trying to impress anyone.
They live their lives in faith, secure in who they are. For them
life is not a race, a show, or a game. It is a gift, too short to
be wasted and too long to spend being anything but genuine.
My younger friend was the husband of a great woman I
worked with several years ago. At first just work friends, we
became close when my wife and I decided our kids might be old enough
to risk a camping trip. Though we enjoyed camping before having
kids, the thought of taking the little rascals away from such
niceties as indoor plumbing didn’t thrill me. My wife was sure
they’d clean up just fine but I wasn’t sold.
Our friends’ boys were a bit younger but already veteran
outdoorsmen. Their invitation to join them was the first of many
campouts, and what began as an exercise in safety in numbers became
a valued friendship.
My older friend was part of a small men’s Bible study I
attend. Those who have not been to a Bible study may envision a
group of pious, freshly scrubbed, steely-eyed types trying to
out-holy each other. I suppose that happens somewhere, but this is
just a group of wiseacres who love God and each other, and have fun
in the company of both.
I knew him just over a year, but at this busy time in
life there are few people with whom I socialize weekly. He was one,
just as my younger friend was one of few with whom we shared entire
weekends. We moved away several years ago and have not kept up as
well as I wish, but he and his family remain an important part of
what we were and are as a family.
Christians are often conflicted at the death of a fellow
believer. We feel as sad as anyone but there is a nagging voice
that says we shouldn’t, a sense that true faith would bring only joy
at the passing to a better place. This voice should be throttled.
“Jesus wept,” John 11:35, is the shortest verse in the
Bible. Jesus did not weep for Lazarus, whom he would soon raise
from the grave. His tears were for Lazarus’ sisters and their grief
at their loss.
So grieve I will, and without guilt. I will also give
thanks for two irreplaceable friendships.
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