Saying good-bye

Today is a hard day for me.

Because when I look at today's date, I remember standing in a small country church in Missouri at my grandmother's funeral. Because I was sad that day, overcome with a grief I didn't think I could handle or survive. I wanted to be strong for my mom and make my brother smile and take comfort in the familiar hymns my dad led the congregation in at that funeral. But it hurt. I missed her. I didn't want to say good-bye.

Let me tell you a little about my grandma and me. My Grandma Polly had only four grandchildren and of those four, I was the only granddaughter. And my grandma, for all the flaws that she had, loved me, believed in me, was one of my biggest fans, and was intensely proud of me. She thought I was beautiful and told me so—often and again and again, even when I didn't believe her. I had watched her stay strong and faithful through my grandfather's battle with cancer and fight back to live in her own home without assistance after a massive stroke. I loved her, and when she died in August 2007, I was overwhelmed by the sheer weight of my grief.

But God used that time in my life to teach me about His unfailing love and to remind me of the hope we have in Christ alone. I remember standing at the graveside listening to the pastor read from 1 Thessalonians 4, reminding me of Paul's words that we do not grieve like the rest of the world does, with no hope. It was as if God was wrapping His arms around me and saying: "Remember me. I am here. Put your hope in me. I will not leave you, and one day, I'll bring you home to be with me." The pain was still there, but the hope that had dwindled had been restored. My grandma was with the Savior she had loved so long, and someday, I would be, too.

To be honest with you, I still miss my grandma. I missed her last fall when my brother and his wife had their first child. I miss sitting beside her at Christmas and helping her open her gifts. I miss her handwritten cards and phone calls. Sometimes, I run across an old card, letter, or recipe in her handwriting and hold it close to my heart. I wear the ring my grandfather brought to her from Germany after World War II when I'm feeling especially lonely for her.

I miss her, but I'm not paralyzed by grief anymore. I know where my grandmother is. And some days, I'm overwhelmed by my desire to be home. To be in heaven. To be with the God who has loved me for all eternity and died for me. Sometimes, I sing songs in church and have the deep understanding that as I sing those words, I am joining with the angels and the saints in worship of God. And that's a good thing—because somehow, God has used my grief to draw me closer to Him and help me recognize that He knows my deepest needs, cares, and wants to walk through them with me.

He wants to do the same for you.