inevitable

Dear Death,

I. Hate. You.

I’m sick of you talking about you, thinking about you.

I’m sick of you making everyone think they know exactly what we’re going through. Really? Your dad died too? Oh, when he was old, like in his 80s, had lived a long life? Well guess what?! I. Do. Not. Care. We are not the same. I was 26 when my dad died, and you were how old?

And there you go again, making me heinous. I don’t mean to be so mean. I don't mean to compare my sadness to theirs. I know life isn't fair. 

I also know that in your twisted way you bring people together and without you, I would have NEVER felt so prayed over, probably ever. When my dad died, people prayed for our family ALL the time. And I really felt it - still do. And people told me their own story, they opened up to me - still do...I remember a woman whom I admire greatly, thought I knew pretty well, told me her mom had died when she was 8 years old. I was shocked, and in awe of her strength, and I was strengthened – and I did not go around thinking she had told me that just to say “I was worse off than you.” Not at all. See, I was not so mean.

You make me irritable. Unstable. You give me nightmares. You make me afraid.

I hear you, whispering in my ear: “I’m coming for her, too.” 

I worry that you’ll take her, and I’ll be left – not alone, but, still – lost.  We need both of them, and if you come close to either of them, I will… I don’t know what I’ll do. You seem untouchable. I hate that.

I hate you, death. You’ve been wandering around too close us to us. You get the healthy, young, loving ones. You make them sick. I don’t even like it when you take the old, the ones we’ve actually known so long it seems we’ll have them forever. We need them. You’ve taken everything else. We need them.

I like control. And you take everything out of my control. And I know that God is bigger than you and I know the verses that say he works good through all and that he covers us with his feathers and … In Him, there is no darkness. Maybe that’s why I hate you. You bring darkness, and you are so unlike God.

I hate you, death. I wish we could all just coexist and live and die at the same time and that me and Dad and Jay and Dear and Mom and Drew and all the wonderful people I know could just go to Heaven at the same time.

That’s what God intended. God made the Garden of Eden and there was no such thing as death.

And then man decided that we were smarter than God and that it’s better when we are in charge instead of Him and then…. Death.

I hate you, death. I wish you’d go away.

But, in the meantime, warm, fuzzy, joyful people pull themselves together and get on with life even in your midst.

Like my mom. Like Mary. Like my grandmother. Like Mike and Nikki. Like William. And John. And my brave brother.

I went to my sweet sister in laws grandmothers’ funeral recently. And it didn't feel like you were there, death. Sure, someone had died, and there were tears, but – it was a celebration of a LIFE. You were not the victor. You were not the punch line.

God tells me “I have loved you with an everlasting love.” And that’s what all these people do in the face of death, the Carrigans and the Chenoweths and everyone who has said goodbye for now to someone they did not want to say goodbye to – they love the ones that are still here, and they laugh and they smile and the cry tears for the ones they miss and they breathe in and out and they gloriously LIVE.

Just like taxes, no one can avoid you, death. You are inevitable. And I know you’re coming for me, someday.

But you can bet your bottom dollar I’m gonna be twirling around with a huge smile on my face when you find me.