My friend has a beautiful older home that’s tastefully decorated. He is a stickler for detail too – by his own admission to the point of compulsion at times. As I sat in his livingroom one day, I noticed something peculiar. There, hanging on the wall opposite from where I was sitting was a beautifully gilded museum-quality frame. One would expect that such a beautiful frame would possess an even more beautiful piece of artwork within it’s borders, as did the framed works of art on the adjoining walls. Yet as I looked at the frame and the place where one would usually see a painting, I realized that I was staring at a small, twisted-wire hanging cable which formed an upside-down ‘V’, draped over a hook screwed into the wall near the top inside border of the frame. A blank wall was visible behind. “Hey what’s up with the empty frame on your wall?” I had to ask. “It’s so I never forget those who have died, John”, my friend thoughtfully replied, a far away look was in his eyes. He went on to tell me that he had worked as a microbiologist and researcher during the early days of the HIV/AIDS epidemic and had seen many die, including some he’d come to count as friends. The frame is a silent reminder.
Thanksgiving was, all things considered, a joyous occasion. As I sat at the table in Lisa’s Mother’s house, surrounded by various family members, I mentioned that earlier in the day I’d thought of suggesting we set an extra place at the table in Jessica’s memory. Before I could explain that I’d immediately dismissed the thought, the room was filled with a combination of pained facial expressions and deep, visceral groans. Having the ability to be a bit clueless as to intuiting appropriate timing for commentary and topics for conversation, I was now kicking myself, “Boy-howdy do I ever know how to bring down a room.” My inner voice went into high gear. I did what I could to lift the atmosphere, some joined in expressing enthusiastic approval of this or that dish, others stating their disappointment with comments such as, “I’m never making that again. It sure looked better in the cook book than it tastes!” Soon the conversation had once more taken on a life of it’s own, all awkwardness disappeared. We had a fabulous meal.
Earlier, as I’d gone back in my mind to holidays past, I’d been thinking about how Jess could talk – I mean the girl could talk. I’d reflected on her ebullient spirit, the love she had for her family, how she loved the holidays. She’d eagerly anticipate seeing her younger cousins who’d likely spend part of each holiday with us. I thought of how she would intentionally wander into our livingroom and engage her Great Grandmother and Great Aunt in spirited conversation as the two elderly women sat together, warming themselves and dozing by the fireplace. How I loved those times when everyone was seated for dinner, a blessing had been asked, and we simply enjoyed being a family. No, remembering Jess by setting another place at the table for this holiday would not be a good idea because it simply wouldn’t seem like Jessica, if for no other reason than it would just be too quiet. Unlike my friend’s empty frame, in this case a silent reminder would not do.
In the time since we traveled to Gualala in November with Jessica’s husband Matt as he cast her ashes to the sea, I have sensed a rather profound shift in my grief-weary heart. I will stipulate up-front that the sorrow, intense at times, remains – and I’m doing my best to get through this first holiday season without her, as is the case with my family, extended family, and those closest to Jess. I guess to sum up, I find myself reflecting a little more upon Jessica’s life than dwelling upon her death these days. When I am longing for my girl, I seem to be dwelling a bit more on longing for the day I’ll be with her there instead of wishing she were with us here. Think about it. We often spend our lives pursuing longevity, amassing ‘stuff’, living in the expectation that each day shall be as the last, often feeling cheated or angry when poverty, tragedy, failing health, harsh circumstances and the like befall us. I do not think these pursuits are necessarily wrong, yet our lives are so very short in light of eternity and if that’s all there is to living upon this earth, how woefully we set ourselves up for a painful, hope-less existence while here.
Imagine with me for a moment what Jessica’s perspective is – at this minute. As one who believes the Bible to be God’s truth, then accordingly Jessica’s existence is beautiful beyond any of our wildest thoughts or imaginations. To live in the very presence of the One who took our every imperfection to the cross. To see and touch the scars in His hands. To experience His love in a tangible and present sense. Tears well up as I write – yet in that place they shall be wiped away by God Himself. How beautiful and how glorious are God’s promises, how real the ones pertaining to heaven have become to me as I contemplate Christmas this year, and beyond. Yes, there shall be another place set at the table for Jessica, but not here. This year she is dining with the King. ◊
This is a beautiful song, written by
Steven Curtis Chapman after the death
of his daughter in 2008. It is titled,
‘See’
(Previous Post: Beginnings, Endings, and In Between • Part One HERE)
