Death of a Loved One

(written somewhere along the reservoirs of Oregon’s Columbia River, July 8, 2007)
Driving along the rocky escarpments and rolling scrubs of the Columbia’s valley, I am struck by the duality of this natural world. All along this man-made reservoir are volcanic rocks hurled from some ancient geologic belch, scattered among the sage and short grasses of drought. To look either starboard or port reveals the same drab, mottled khaki world, yet only meters away ebbs the life-blood of Creation as it slowly navigates some hydroelectric course downhill, and yet for the moment, it is there… right there next to the parched shrubs. If only the soil could reach out and take a drink, yet the rocky liner installed by the Corp of Engineers is effective in what is meant to do: hold water so it can flow down to the cities.
I wonder if that is why the farmer is so much more in touch with God? I’m not referring to the local crop farmer with his multibazillion-dollar irrigation rig: I’m referring to good ol’ wait-on-the-rain farmer who knows that he, himself, is not god but instead is dependant every season for the merciful drops of life. Sometimes one more rainstorm is all it takes to make it another year, and it usually comes. Life is like that.
And then you get the phone call. Why does death surprise us? Even for friends who slowly watched a loved one painfully pass, when that last sigh is released, it’s still a powerful and sobering moment. Perhaps it is the finality of the passage; perhaps our repressed hope of resurrection in this flesh is brought to light, and we experience the loss of that hope? Or maybe we just miss their company, their smile, or whatever… them.
I truly believe that the Messiah knows our hearts, our joys and our experience of the reality of death. The Gospel of John captures it in it’s pure, distilled form: “Jesus wept.” His followers were so close to Life, and they didn’t fully get the point, just like these dry grasslands. Yet we have a loving God who sent his Son into this parched world to bring it abundant life, for those who would open the dry soil of their lives to this Living Water, not for a momentary quenching, a quick fix to a personal drought, but a saturating eternity that we can share with those who would come with us to the Source.
Like the farmer, the reign often comes in a moment of drought, when resources are depleted and we find ourselves no longer able to be our own god. And to share this with a loved one on this side of the embankment is an invitation to an eternal fellowship, precipitated by God’s merciful atonement through the Christ.
I hope to see you there.
Jim