Almost every night for the past two and a half years, I put my Dad to bed.
We did the same thing every night. After visiting with one another for a while, it’d be bedtime. I’d get him changed and in bed and then I’d read from the Scriptures. I used a worn old devotional with a broken binding called In Touch which weaves together a half-dozen passages with a similar theme. Then we’d pray. At first, we both prayed. But as time passed and he declined, I would pray for both of us. We’d conclude with the following liturgy.
“I love you, Dad. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I love you, too, Peter. In the morning.”
“In the morning.”
“In the morning. I look forward to it.”
“Me too.”
He’d picked up that back-and-forth repetition of “in the morning” from a conference he’d gone to more than a half century before. He told me about it when started our little litany, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the source. But there was something eschatological about it.
We were looking forward to seeing each other in the morning until the dawn of the great Day of the Lord when there will be no more night.
At the same time, I was very aware that “in the morning” sounds uncomfortably like “in the mourning.”
We would only be saying our nightly ritual as long as my Dad lived. There would come a morning when I wouldn’t see him and I would be greeted by mourning instead.
And that day has come. And these mourning mornings are hard.
I’ve had loved ones die before. My sister Joy. My Mom. My friend Greg. But this is the first time I’ve had someone living in my home die. And passing by my Dad’s room, only to be reminded that he’s not in there, is so much harder than I expected it to be.
My Dad was a terrible snorer and a couple days ago I heard a phantom snore in the night. I used to listen for her snoring as a sign that he was still alive. But that night, the phantom snore reminded me he isn’t around to do any snoring. I won’t hear it ever again.
Every time I went through the doors near his room, I’d make sure they didn’t slam, not wanting to disturb him with the noise. Now, every time I walk through one of those doors, I’m reminded that I no longer need to worry about how loud I’m being. He isn’t around to hear them.
I don’t have to check in on him when I get home. He’s no longer around at meals. His bathroom doesn’t smell. The grab bars are gone, along with all of the other assistance items.
All of these things stab my heart. Again and again.
“In the morning” has been replaced by “in the mourning.”
But I know the two will switch again. “In the mourning” will be replaced by “in the morning.” I can feel only hints of it now, but I know it to be true.
Mourning will fade into acceptance, which will lead to adjustment, which in turn will become gratitude. My chaplain training has taught me this, and I’ve experienced it with the other deaths I’ve endured. And hope will remain.
St. Paul wrote, “we do not grieve as those who have no hope” (1 Thes. 4:13). He didn’t write “we do not grieve.” Instead, he wrote that the grief we experience is a grief which is thoroughly intermingled with hope.
This is why I dislike the term “celebration of life,” with its denial of death and its refusal to mourn. Let’s acknowledge death and name it for what it is — that cursed thieving of life from those God created to live in unbroken relationship with himself and one another. And let’s mourn. There’s plenty of time to celebrate. But let’s let the tears flow as they ought to. Let’s forget about putting on a brave face and let’s mourn with those who mourn. Death sucks. It hurts. Let’s not jump up and say, “I’m OK,” when we’re not.
But we grieve in the middle of two resurrections — the resurrection of Jesus in the past and the resurrection of the saints in the future. Death has been conquered (1 Cor. 15:54-56). It is a fatally wounded for. It cannot and will not hold us. Jesus is the firstborn from among the dead (Col. 1:18). We will follow him in his life just as we follow him in his death.
A morning is coming that will erase our mourning. We grieve now, because we hurt now, but we grieve with hope.
So, Dad, I love you. And I’ll see you in the morning.