Pieces of Purpose

“Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” John 20:29

Today, I flipped through my calendar—or maybe it was my planner—and stopped on the day Felicia died. Immediately, my heart sank.For a moment, I felt that same sickening, panicked feeling I felt that afternoon. It is still so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that she is gone. There are moments when I know it, and then there are moments when the reality of it hits me all over again. Felicia is gone. Even writing those words hurts. People say that time heals the hurt of grief, but right now, it feels as if this hurt will never completely go away. Maybe time doesn’t erase grief. Maybe we simply learn how to carry love and loss together. The Bible doesn’t tell us that we won’t grieve. In fact, it acknowledges the deep sorrow that comes with losing someone we love. But it also reminds us that, as believers, our grief is accompanied by hope. “But 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.” 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14

I grieve, but I don’t grieve without hope. Felicia’s death has caused me to think about things I never thought I would question. I have questioned God’s purpose. I have wondered why things happen the way they do. I have wondered why someone can be here one moment and gone the next. There are things I may never understand on this side of Heaven.

Isaiah 55:8–9 (KJV) reminds me that God’s thoughts and ways are higher than mine. There are things He can see that I cannot see. And I have noticed something else in myself. I am a little more anxious about wishing for time to move forward. Before, it was easy to say, I can’t wait until Friday. I can’t wait until summer. I can’t wait until next year. Now I am more conscious of time. I am more grateful for the moments I have here on earth. Felicia’s death has reminded me that our days are precious. “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” Psalm 90:12

I don’t want to rush through my days anymore. I want to notice the people I love. I want to appreciate ordinary conversations, laughter, family gatherings, phone calls, and all the little moments we sometimes assume will happen again. But there is still one thing my heart longs for. If I could just know that Felicia is alright. If I could see her in Heaven—even for a moment—I feel like it would bring me so much peace. I believe she is there. I have faith because she was a believer. Yet grief makes me want something I can see. I want reassurance for my eyes to match what my heart is trying to believe. Then I remember Paul’s words: “Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord: (For we walk by faith, not by sight:) We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.” 2 Corinthians 5:6-8 For we walk by faith, not by sight. Those words mean something different to me now. I cannot see Felicia. I cannot see Heaven. I cannot see everything God is doing. But I can still believe. Jesus told Martha after her brother Lazarus died:
“Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” John 11:25-26 That is the foundation of my hope. My hope isn’t that death isn’t real. I know painfully well that it is. My hope is that Jesus is greater than death. Jesus also told His disciples: “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you.” John 14:1-3 There is something beyond what I can see here. And Scripture gives me another beautiful promise:
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.” Revelation 21:4. No more death. No more phone calls carrying terrible news. No more dates on calendars that make our stomachs drop. No more wondering whether the people we love are okay. No more goodbyes. Right now, however, I am still here. I still have days God has given me to live. And perhaps one of the things grief is teaching me is not to wish those days away.

James 4:14 says our life is “even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.” That doesn’t make life meaningless. It makes every day more precious. So I want to love while I can love. Call while I can call. Visit while I can visit. Forgive while I can forgive. Laugh while I can laugh. Serve God while I have breath. And appreciate the ordinary moments while they are still ordinary. There will probably still be days when I wish God would just pull back the curtain for a second and let me see. Lord, just let me see that she’s okay. But Jesus’ words to Thomas speak directly to that longing: “Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” Maybe this is part of what faith looks like in grief. Faith doesn’t mean I never question. Faith doesn’t mean I don’t cry. Faith doesn’t mean dates won’t trigger memories or that my heart won’t sometimes ache for what used to be. Faith means that when I cannot see, I still choose to believe. I believe Jesus is who He said He is. I believe His promise of eternal life. I believe that those who die in Christ are with Him. I believe there is more beyond this life than what my eyes can currently see. And I believe that one day faith will no longer be necessary because I will finally see. 1 Corinthians 13:12 (KJV) says, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.” Right now, I see only part of the picture. One day, I will see clearly. Until then, when my heart asks, “But how do you know?” My answer will have to be: I don’t know because I have seen it. I know because I believe the One who promised it.