In the Gospel of
John, Jesus tells his disciples: “In my Father's house are many mansions: if it
were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for
you.”
If
me quoting scripture surprises you, imagine my surprise at the comfort these
words have given me over the past few days.
I couldn’t remember the exact wording without looking it up, but the
spirit of that passage has run through my thoughts, again and again, ever since
Friday morning.
It’s
something Mikey would do. “I’ll go on ahead,” I can imagine him saying. “I’ll get things ready for you.” It’s what I picture him doing now, in the
company of family and friends who have gone before, easing the way for those of
us who are sure to follow.
Mikey
left us too soon, but not as soon as he could have. When his struggle began, our parents didn’t
think they’d have him for ten years.
Once he reached his teens, twenty seemed like an impossibility. When we almost lost him at 23, no one would
have taken bets on 24. Or 30. Or 40.
Mikey’s
life was the dictionary definition of a miracle, coupled with the admonition
that God helps those who help themselves.
He could have given up at any time, and surely no one would have blamed
him if he had. But “quit” wasn’t part of
his vocabulary.
At
Mikey and Lori’s wedding, I spoke of the roads that led them together; the
hardship and pain they both had endured that eventually brought them to exactly
where they needed to be, in order to find each other. Today, I’d say the same holds true for the
rest of us, everyone who suddenly finds a Mikey-shaped hole in their lives.
His
road led him into all of our lives, and many of us wouldn’t have had that
privilege if it weren’t for his indomitable spirit. There would have been no Youth
Commissions. No Mike McDaniel, or even
Roger Ribbit. There would have been no Mikey and Lori, if Mikey had refused to
continue fighting.
The
overwhelming expressions of love and respect and remembrance over the past four
days stand as a testament to Mikey’s greatest strength, the one no illness
could touch or disease weaken. He always
went on. For every tough hill he faced,
there always seemed to be another, higher hill on the other side, and yet he
kept climbing. For every battle he won,
there always seemed to be another war to wage, and yet he kept fighting. And every time he got knocked down, every
time he struggled to regain his feet, every time life threw more at him than
any ten men could bear, he still believed.
Believed that he would eventually beat the afflictions that threatened
him. Believed that he’d come home again
to the wife who cherished him, the family that loved him, and the friends who
treasured him.
Believed
that there was always a reason to get up in the morning.
And
because he believed, we believed, and that’s why we’re so shocked at his
passing.
And
as hard as it is, as hard as it’s going to be in the days and weeks to come, we
have to do the same. We have to believe,
like Mikey did, that there’s a reason to get up in the morning. We have to find that part of Mikey in
ourselves that refuses to let this tragedy beat us.
We
have to believe.
The
30th Psalm reads, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in
the morning.” We grieve. We cry.
We rail against the night. We
weep in the darkness, but joy cometh in the morning.
And,
it’s always morning somewhere.
_______________________________________________________________The services are done. The families have gone home. The calls have stopped and the cards have slowed to a trickle. As it inevitably must, life, once again, goes on.
Except, it hasn't.
It's only been four days since he passed and one day since we said our final goodbyes.
Except, we haven't.
I've tried to comfort. I've attempted to console. I've swallowed and pushed back and held at bay, telling myself there will be time to grieve once everything is finished.
Except, I can't. At least not yet.
The storm is coming; I'm not naive enough to deny it. I just don't know when.
But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .
