Grief

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Jarred awake by the sharp ring of my cell phone, I groped to find it on my nightstand, and then hurriedly flipped it open. Flopping my head back down on my pillow, I mumbled, “Hello?” as my eyes involuntarily closed themselves. As a nineteen year-old college student, it seemed like bedtime was a relative term, and my body was demanding every ounce of sleep it could claim at the moment.

“Sorry to call you so early,” my dad said gently from the other end of the phone. Was it early? Late? I had no idea. My phone also served as my clock, so I could only guess what time it was. “No problem,” I instantly responded, drifting farther into my own world of drowsiness. If Dad had something to say to me, he had better say it quickly, before I was completely gone.

“Papa died a few hours ago.”

I sat up. My eyes opened wide in the total darkness of my room. He was gone. Just like that.

I heard a few details, asked a couple questions. I think I said something to Dad about how nice it was that my grandpa was in a better place.

Flipping my phone closed, I saw the time, 4:13AM. I flipped on a light, then walked to the door, then sat down on my bed with a bewildered look on my face. I glanced to my nightstand and saw a picture of my grandpa and me, taken years ago. When he was younger and healthier, with an arm around me, and a proud smile on his face. And I crumbled.

As I quietly let out my sobs, I wanted so badly to have someone there, to sit with me while I grieved. If their tears could let me know it was fine to shed my own. But I was completely alone. 600 miles away from my family had never seemed so incredibly far.

I picked up my cell phone. Surely someone could talk to me. I set the phone down, realizing that most of the family was just getting the news themselves. I stood to wake my housemate in the other room. But, wait—she didn’t even know my grandpa. How could she understand what it felt like to lose him?

Falling on my knees in front of my bed, I dropped my head and felt another tear fall down my cheek. “Hold me, Jesus,” I whispered. “I need you now.” Arms encircled me, a shoulder came underneath my head, and He was there. Just like that.

It was still dark when I arrived at the Chicago airport. Getting out at the curb, I unloaded my carry-on bag and dashed inside. My plane was scheduled to leave in fifty minutes. Ticket counter, security line, loading gate, boarding pass…I walked onto the ramp just as they called my seat number.

The plane took-off, the overhead lights dimmed, and my headphones were plugged in. I was here, it was now, and Jesus sat beside me. I told Him that I wanted to be strong, but felt so very weak inside. How could I be a support for my family when I felt helpless?

He told me that He knew it was painful, and that His heart hurt for me. He said the next few days looked hard, even impossible. And then He pointed out the window, and I watched as He made brilliant orange streaks begin to rise through the dark night clouds. I had never seen a sunrise from the sky before. It was a completely different view.

Several months have passed. Once in awhile, my thoughts dart back to that awful moment when my mind stumbled upon the realization that I was completely alone. And hurting, and needy.

And then I remember the way Jesus was there for me. Just like that.

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