Three weeks ago yesterday, my dad joined the throng of saints who from their labors rest.
It was the phone call you don't want to get, the one from a neighbor of your loved one saying there's been an accident, we aren't sure what happened, the ambulance is on its way, and we'll update you when we know anything definite.
And then you wait, and you put your kids to bed after letting them know their grandpa has had an accident, and you wait some more. The neighbor calls you back, you talk to your mom, and you learn that your dad is gone.
Somehow, your heart keeps beating, your thoughts keep progressing, your lungs keep inflating and deflating. You call your brother to let him know. You put on your pajamas and go to bed and cry and sleep and cry and sleep.
And you pray. Pray for courage, for comfort, for the ability to continue. For the right words to say to your kids, your brother, your mom. To your best friend since high school who thought of your parents as basically hers too. To your church family that your dad pastored for 26 years. To your dad's last surviving sibling.
And God in His mercy grants you all that you need, just like He always has and always will. HIs grace is sufficient.
