Proper Sorrow

(Top: Betty Edwards Coffman, Mr. Barnhill,
Flo Edwards Clanton, Maxine Edwards Blackburn;
Bottom: Georgia Edwards Rogers,
Anna Edwards Olson, Mary Edwards Putman)

My Aunt Betty died on Thanksgiving.
She was 95, and by all accounts, she was ready to Go Home. My mother wept when I told her that her older sister had passed. And now only two remain.

Why do we cry when people pass?

“Bett,” as she was known to the family, lived a long, full, blessed life of service to others. She was trained as a nurse, and at one time was in charge of the nurses in a large hospital system in Houston, Texas. She had seen it all, from births to deaths, and everything in between. She was ready to go.

Why are we sad when our loved-ones are no longer suffering on earth?

Aunt Betty had been going blind for several years. We used to play Scrabble together with a giant-sized version of the game. You could read the tiles from across the room. Bett had to hold them under a bright lamp she perched on her dining room table so she could scrutinize the characters.
For a while, the mother-in-law of one of Bett’s nephews lived with her to help her prepare meals, get dressed, and other basics of life. That went on for a couple of years until the caregiver required care of her own. Then Bett moved in with a granddaughter in the small, Central Texas town of Hamilton. She still beat me at Scrabble plenty of times.

Why do we mourn when a loved-one has escaped the physical frailties of this life?

I spent many summers at my Aunt Betty’s house. Truthfully, I think she and my Uncle Herbert were the only ones who could tolerate my pre-adolescent behavior. My cousins and I got along famously together—that’s a blog post for another time, after the statute of limitations has run out. I guess, for my cousins, that statute has expired with the demise of their mother.

Bett drove a 1960’s era Studebaker Lark. It was baby blue, had a standard transmission with three-speeds on the column, and no air conditioning. She used to take my cousins and me to the drive-in movies in the summer, and we’d lay on our bellies on the top of the car with its heavy-gauge steel roof to watch the show. There were no indentations on the top. We’d tell her, “drive like you’re running out of gas,” and she’d pop the clutch in and out and make the car lurch and pitch. We thought it was hilarious. I’m certain my uncle, had he known, would not have been as amused.

Why do we count it a loss when bodies wear out, minds begin to turn to mush, eyesight dims, and strength wanes until a final breath is taken, and a spirit is released from its earthly tent?  

I think it’s all about perspective. And when we mourn a loss, are saddened by a death, and weep for the dead, we’re missing the most important point in the universe. That loved-one is no longer in pain. The blind are now seeing with a clarity never before experienced. The maimed are whole, the crippled are strong once again, and the spirit has been returned to its Maker.

The Apostle Paul noted that he longed to die to be with Christ—even though he knew that to remain on this earth to continue the work of the Gospel was more profitable for the saints to which he wrote in his epistle to the Philippian church (1:23):

“…I am in a strait betwixt the two, having the desire to depart and be with Christ; for it is very far better: yet to abide in the flesh is more needful for your sake.”

Paul also wrote of Hope to the Thessalonian church (1 Thess. 4:13-14, 18)

 “…I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.  For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him…Wherefore comfort one another with these words.”

My mother had five sisters and one brother. All but one have now transitioned from the imperfect to the Perfect. All were believers in Jesus Christ and His power to save. And while I am selfishly grieved that I will no long play Scrabble with Bett, and I am profoundly saddened that my cousins have lost their long-suffering mother, this sadness is tempered—even replaced—by the awesome realization that Aunt Betty went to sleep on Wednesday night, bed-ridden and blind, and woke up Thursday morning to see Jesus in all His glory with eyes that will never fail.