I Will Praise You In This Storm

There has been entirely too much death in my life these last few weeks.  It needs to stop.

Beginning with the loss of Mary's grandmother at Halloween, continuing through the suicide of USMS Deputy Director Chris Dudley at Thanksgiving, and then the passing of a former colleague at work just after my birthday, I have had three noteworthy encounters with the grim reaper in fairly short order.  To say nothing of the immensity of the tragedy at Newtown, CT, this past Friday, or how death is striking at others close to me: brother-from-another-mother Glenn lost a cousin, Kerry Bowman, who died en route to see Ben perform on stage in Austin on Saturday.  It seems overdramatic, but I can scarcely turn around without news like this coming at me this fall.

I understand the passing of a nearly 96-year-old woman; I cannot comprehend the suicide of someone my age and to whom I felt such similarities; I mourn the fact that cancer can take a colleague so young, with unfinished business. In each case death has come and left a unique mark, as if its fingerprints changed each time, and so induces a sense of whiplash in its wake.

Perhaps I am just coming into a time in my life in which these sorts of things will, simply, happen.  After college we laughed about the "bubble" of weddings we all got invited to--the wedding wave, cresting then ebbing, as lives paired up.  Those faded away and then shortly thereafter we cooed at the wave of babies, as those friends began expanding their families, children who are now teenagers. Is the next wave to be one of funerals? Already?  I certainly hope not.  But here we are.

I don't believe it would be unusual for a mid-forties man to begin noticing death, and pondering it more.  The teenager is indestructible and so doesn't care, the 20-something too busy to notice, the 30-something too tired (by kids, job, etc) as well.  By this point, as my friend Lou points out, it gets harder to persuade myself each year that I have more than half my life still ahead of me.  The passing of others close to us in age certainly doesn't help reinforce the lie of indestructibility.

If anything, it has to be a reminder of our anchor, our one place of constancy, our hope.  Advent is meant to be a season of anticipation, of preparation, of celebration of the coming of the Christ.  This year Advent has a darker tone for me.  And yet it does provide the kind of opportunity to seek God through the adversity, to remember He continues to hold us even when we're no longer together.  Casting Crowns put it well:

I was sure by now
God You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say "Amen," and it's still raining

As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm