Death is hard.
Though so much a part of life, we never quite get used to it.
Our youthful, anticipating days,
dreams of El Dorado,
meld into the rhythm of responsible days lived in responsible ways, and
that end seems so far off unless
brought near by sudden interruptions. And yet,
for us steadily moving in the direction of end, it doesn’t really hit home—
the concreteness of it—
until we hold it in our hands, watch its last escaping breath; and
it finally hits that all things truly do end. And it’s hard.
There is no preparation, mental or spiritual, that can make loss feel anything other than
We must all walk through it.
Even with resurrection hope, the path to light is routed through dark and deep.
Others’ deaths are a sadness and a sighing, but we move on with our living
it is our own daughter, our father, our mother, our career, our dream, our health,
and the losses compound and would almost bury me if not for
My Father, when I am sad and afraid, let me not lose the thread that wraps around my broken heart and is somehow keeping me together.
I Corinthians 15: 54-55: When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.” “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”