The greatest of these is Love

On my desk are pictures - - taped and framed, haphazard in placement, spanning years.  I have one where Tony is barely able to sit up straight, his face shining with a smile; and Paige, her cheeks chubby with baby fat, her hair in tight curls around a face that exudes comfort and peace.  Sometimes I look at these two particular pictures, and I feel a pinch on my heart.

They were taken when life was so very different.  My marriage was intact, my dreams were clear and before me, I hadn't had to deal with the soul-crushing pain of loss at that point.  My grandparents were ailing and had lived a long life before their death.  I was so young when their physical bodies were turned over to death.

I was blissfully unaware that tragedy could and would strike.

Yet, thinking back on it now, I had this incredible family to enfold me, to remind me with stories about them.  They were gone, but they were also so very present in my life.

My mom's dad died over 26 years ago, followed by Grandma and Grandpa Fuzzy, some years later.  26 years!  And I still feel the presence of their love in my heart, the warmth of their arms around me, the great joy I felt as a young child when I would race into a room, and see them there.  I can tell you, truthfully, because of their presence in my life, I have been comforted in times of sadness.

And dear God, every day, I think about and feel the pain of losing my brother and my dad and my aunt.  I also feel the joy of having known them so intimately.  You can't have one without the other, right?

Once again, my family is facing a great tragedy.  My dad's brother, Uncle Jim, had a stroke with no chance of recovery, and in that sudden, unexpected twist of life itself, we are embroidering ourselves into the fabric of this family: feeling more grateful for each other; feeling closer to our cousins and aunts, our children, our parents, our nieces, our nephews, our friends; feeling the great moment of love that rushes forth when grief and loss, tragedy and pain, slide into view.

My dad, man, he described it beautifully on the day of Jeff's funeral.  I was fortunate to witness it.  He was seated at the head of the table, my mom sat on the opposite end.  There were four empty chairs on either side, where family and friends had been seated just minutes earlier.  I walked into the room, where it was just the two of them, staring into each other's eyes, tears streaming down their faces, chins quivering.

"Why?"  My mom asked.  "Why?"

"I don't know Lynda, but what I do know is that I've never loved you as much as I love you right now."

Since Jeff's passing, I can tell you that I've never loved harder or felt more passionate about my family and friends. 

This, to me, is God's mercy.  It's God's grace. 
This, to me, is the very proof of His light, His existence.
This, to me, defines my faith and empowers it, and helps me express it to those in need.
It's God's love.

Uncle Jim, may you pass peacefully, and joyfully into the arms outstretched on the other side, waiting for you; and may we use the tragedy that comes from losing you in this world, to lift us up enough to feel the warmth of the light coming from all of you.