Today marks the 5 year anniversary of our son’s, Mitch Thomas, moving heavenward. I have many memories and thoughts about those days. One stands out.
I had many people offer many words in those days. I was sent sermons on heaven and God’s love. Marlene and I received more than 1,000 cards and letters and emails. I was given books on grief and heaven and family and on the meaning of life. I had many conversations with many people. I appreciate most of them. I have forgotten the vast majority of them. They have fallen into a faceless, amorphous sea of cards and emails and kind letters and books. Very few of them stand out. Most of them were filled with standard responses like, “though the pain has been great, his reward is now complete” or “he is in a better place” or “we will pray for you as you mourn the loss of your loved one” and things like that. Some conversations and notes were theological, some personal, some aimed at bringing encouragement, and some unsolicited pieces of welcomed advice and sadly some with unwelcome advice. Most of those conversations, even the good ones are sadly long since forgotten and are only retrieved by rereading the notes. One conversation however is not forgotten and has never diminished. I memorized it, or perhaps better, it mesmerized me.
It was from Dolores Fitzgerald, a godly, elderly member of the church I planted and pastored for 14 years. Dolores was one kind but quiet saint among more than 700 congregants in that church. I knew her story from years before when we had talked and prayed together. But, honestly speaking, I had forgotten her story until the day after Mitch’s Saturday funeral- on a Sunday. Her story included the painful and tragic death of children and spouse, years apart from one another. I remember that though she bore the pain of loss, she somehow had refused to allow it to tarnish her vibrant faith and visible joy in the Holy Spirit. She was a model of a grace-filled life and sorrow that had been turned into joy.
This is where Dolores comes in. You see, Mitch died on a Tuesday and his memorial service was on Saturday. The next day, Sunday, I went to church alone without family members who were coming to the later service. I sat alone, not really wanting to talk to or sit by anyone. I wanted to simply worship Jesus. I don’t remember the sermon. I was still numb from those previous five days. In that previous week, I had told my son that I loved him for the last time, I held him in my arms, I held his hand as he breathed his last breath on earth, I kissed his cheek and said goodbye. I gently pulled a sheet over his lifeless body in an honor fair well gesture. We planned a service, commissioned him to heaven and buried his body- all in those five days. Now, like King David, it was time for me to go to the house of The Lord and worship.
I remember the worship songs were especially meaningful and drew me close to God, which I needed. I wept through much of the service. The tears were a mixture of worship and gratitude for God and deep grief at the loss of our son.
In to my row toward the end of the service, stepped Dolores- this wonderful older woman of God. She came over, sat next to me patted my knee and remained silent through the rest of the service. After the benediction, when we stood, she gave me a tender hug and simply said, “It never goes away; but it does get better.” And with those words, she turned an walked away, allowing me to think and weep. Today, I cannot get that moment out of my mind. It will be with me until I die and join our Savior and my son, Mitch.
Those were the words I was looking for from a person who had shared our experience and had grown through it. She knew what lay behind me and ahead of me. I had been wondering what I would do, how I would resume life. I had been wondering all week what to expect in the days and weeks and even years ahead. I had two big concerns. I was concerned that either the pain would persist, which I knew I could not bear, or the memory would not, which would bring excruciating sadness to me as I never wanted to forget our son. In fact, I was clinging to every memory of him that I could conjure. In other words, on the one hand, I knew that I could not continue in the intense and even physical pain I was experiencing. I wanted it to diminish. However, I equally and desperately wanted to keep Mitch’s memory and impact a very real part of our life. I wanted that to never diminish.
The memories are sweet and the pain, though still present, is thankfully less. Praise the Lord for people who speak soothing and accurate words of peace and blessing.
This is an anniversary with mixed reviews. But, it is one where I am reminded of love and God and goodness and family.