What does it mean when you don’t want to say goodbye?
There was a moment this week when a thought crossed my mind that was completely new and completely frightening. It came suddenly and forcefully. I have no idea why it took me so long to come to it. Perhaps it had to find its way to me first.
Before the thought came, though, you have to understand, I suppose I was doing what we all do when we have to deal with something terrible: we quickly turn our heads the other way, busy ourselves with our daily responsibilities, moving from one task to the next, never allowing ourselves to rest for too long in one place--especially when we are alone--lest we be overcome by emotion.
We have learned—to our own detriment, I believe—how to shut the door on grief. Perhaps we do this because we know the power that grief can exert over us. So we shut the door as quickly as possible, maybe even locking it behind us— though a small part of us knows that at some point we will have to open that door if we are going to continue on living. With that door closed, however, we soon learn that even through the din and noise of busyness we can hear a faint knocking on that door. The busier we get, the louder the knocking seems to get.
When it comes to grief, we know that to face it head on is a tall order. It is much easier to ignore it for as long as we can, hoping against hope that it will pass us by. Like refusing to look at a wound or looking away when we get our flu shot, we seem to believe that if we don’t look it will somehow become less real, less painful. And yet the knocking gets louder and louder and it becomes harder and harder to ignore.
Eventually we have to open that door because otherwise time, like the wind, will knock it down—with or without our permission.
And so, I mustered as much courage as I could find within myself and I opened that door. Initially, I was surprised that nothing happened. I stood there waiting, waiting…but then, like a gust of wind, it hit me. (This is why I said earlier that it came suddenly and forcefully). It came with such rapid force it took the breath right out of me.
You see—I realized right there in that moment that these last few days were the first days in my thirty-three years of life that I have lived without Gramps.
I dare say that is true for pretty much all of us here today.
And with that realization the memories and tears and pain came flooding in. I think it might be true to say that it was possibly one of the scariest and yet truly beautiful moments in my life. In that moment, I discovered that my memories and my grief were indistinguishable. My access to my memories of Gramps brought with it grief, and in a powerful way my grief brought with it memories—some even that I had long forgotten.
For some reason one memory—one that I had forgotten about—stuck out. In this memory, I remember riding in our family van, when I was probably elementary age, to go to Grandma and Gramps’ house. Along the way, as was usual for me, I must have done something to get in trouble with my parents. Go figure. I remember being upset, so upset that when we arrived at Grandma and Gramps’ house I refused to go in and so I stayed outside in the van. I cried there for God knows how long. Eventually, I heard the van door open, and Gramps came into the van. He promptly sat down next to where I was and comforted me while I cried it out. I don’t know how long we were out there; probably as long as it takes for a young boy to let go of his anger, sadness, and embarrassment. I don’t remember specifically anything that Gramps said or did in that moment other than him simply being there as long as I needed before I was ready to go inside. All I know is that this is what Gramps did—when any of us needed it, when the moment seemed too terrible for us to bear alone, he was there for us and he stayed there for as long as we needed. And if we couldn’t come to him—oh, you better believe, he would come to us.
He simply opened the door and entered into our pain, our fear, our doubts, and our sorrow. He spent those moments with us the best way he knew—with persistent kindness, gentle wisdom, and his tenacious humor.
I have to believe that in some way that is what he is doing for us right now. He is opening the door. He does this not because he wants us to grieve or feel pain; rather, he does it so that we might make it through our grief.
Our comfort is in knowing that he will sit there with us for as long as it takes.
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What does it mean when you don’t want to say goodbye?
After awhile I think you soon realize that for all our grief, Gramps has certainly left us with plenty to be happy and joyful about.
I still can’t believe that not too long ago when we went to Six Flags (Geauga Lake?) we pleaded with him that he go on at least one roller coaster with us. Unlucky for him, the one coaster we ended up convincing him to ride was the absolute worst roller coaster I have ever been on—I think all of us got off with kinks in our neck and our hips dislocated.
Some of my absolute favorite times were spent going with Gramps to Cedar Point for the Gorman Rupp reunions. I am sure for most young kids going to Cedar Point is exciting; I am not sure however that they would particularly enjoy hanging around a bunch old people with the sound of roller coasters that you won’t be able to ride in the background. But truly I did enjoy it because at least we could enjoy some of the shows and walk around and talk for the day. That was the best part anyway.
On one particular trip back from a Gorman Rupp day at Cedar Point, along with teaching me about Big Band music and regaling me with stories from his childhood and life as a Marine, Gramps would ask me some rather philosophical questions. Some were silly—like, “how do I know that the color blue I see is the same color blue you see?” But one in particular never left me—he asked me “what is it all about?” Here “it” meant life itself. It seems so weird that he would ask me that question because, if my memory is correct, I was in the 6th grade. I don’t know what he expected as an answer. And I am not sure that I would trust the response of a 6th grader myself. But he asked it nonetheless.
I find that I have never been able to come up with an answer that I find completely satisfactory—at least that wasn’t overly complicated or simplistic. I admitted as much to him a few years ago. I know this is an odd thing for a “pastor” to admit but keep in mind that I have little patience for clichés or easy answers.
And I think this is probably the real lesson he was trying to teach me in asking me that question. He was training me to never settle for what is easy. On several occasions, he reminded me that problems seem so much easier to solve from a distance, but when you get closer you soon discover how complicated and difficult they can be. As strange as it sounds, I think what he was essentially teaching me was that: If something is easy, doesn’t take much effort, and definitely doesn’t smell quite right, you can be assured that what you have is bullshit.
I’m not sure he ever said that but I think he would have approved.
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What does it mean when you don’t want to say goodbye?
I am sure everyone here has their own special memories of Gramps (we heard some of them earlier).
What I hope you see today is that it is through our memories that we have an open door to Gramps, and that as long as we allow the door to remain open, we will find joy and comfort.
Our comfort is that his love remains with us—his family and his friends.
I ask you to hold onto that truth about Gramps because, believe me, that truth will hold you up in the most difficult of times. It will be there for you. And no matter what it is you are going through, that truth will be there to help you through it.
That is the power of Gramps’ life.
We have heard many comforting words today through Holy Scripture. But it is this truth, above all, that should stay with us: Gramps is now at peace because he stands in the presence of Jesus Christ.
We know this because our God is a God who would not let anything, even our own selves, separate us from his love.
God would tear down any wall, turn over any table, and overcome any obstacle that stood in his path so that He could be with us. What more proof do we need of this than that he sent his only Son to be with us in our suffering, to die for us and, rising again, give us hope?
The Apostle Paul in Romans 8 puts it this way:
38 For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,[ neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39 neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
This is my favorite passage of Scripture. There is something about the flow, the meter, the conviction behind these words that gets to me every single time I read them. I quote them today because they demonstrate the power and extent of God’s love for us. Indeed, what I love about it is that it surveys the boundaries of our lives, the things that surround us from the moment we are born until we die, and still even after that. This passage reminds us that God’s love frees us from the ways in which the world and life itself seek to confine us, overpower and defeat us.
Death has no hold on us.
Life has no hold on us.
Our past has no hold on us. Neither does our present, nor our future.
The only thing that has its hold on us, with an eternal viselike grip, is the love of God that we find in Jesus Christ.
I don’t want to assume that all of us here today will be able to feel this love today. Our grief, and the pain of loss, seems to mute our souls to anything but sorrow.
But in our bereavement I believe is the hope that love will find its way because love always finds its way.
My belief is that it is not our acceptance of Christ that awakens us to his love; rather, his love finds its way to us--even if we refuse to accept it. And by God hear me clearly today when I say that I do not believe that if you go by the title “Christian” you somehow have cornered the market on God’s love. Please allow the guy with the collar on today to assure you that has not and never will be true
We don’t lay our claim to God’s love. We don’t own it and we don’t possess it as if it is ours alone. The truth is that God’s love has already laid claim on us—even if we are unaware of it or resist it with all our might.
The only warning I give is that because love by nature is a gift, and not a right, you eventually have to decide what you are going to do with it. Will you refuse it to the point that life itself becomes unbearable? Or will you accept it that you might experience and savor the joy of life that only love can bring?
Today, you have the power and freedom that comes only from God’s love to decide what you will do with that very love.
Scripture tells us that all who are weary, all who are burdened, are invited to come to Christ because his “yoke is easy and his burden is light.” That is an invitation that is every bit as true today as it was when Christ first uttered it.
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What does it mean when you don’t want to say goodbye?
This is the fourth time now that I have asked this question. I think most of us know today how truly difficult it is to say goodbye to Gramps. I know I do.
Our difficulty is rooted in our grief. But, more importantly, our grief is rooted in our love for Gramps and the love he shared with us. Grief is always a measure of love; the greater your love, the greater your grief. We wouldn’t grieve so much, in other words, if we didn’t love Gramps as much as we do. I suppose in coming to understand that grief and love are interlocked at least shows us that even in the face of death we will refuse to give up on love.
I know people don’t want to say “goodbye” today. The good news is you don’t have to, at least not in the definitive sense. We often assume that the word “goodbye” means something along the lines of “I wish you well because I may never see you again.” In point of fact, goodbye means nothing of the sort. Our word goodbye is an abbreviated form of the phrase “God be with you.” Over the course of history it shortened to the word we now use regularly for our farewells.
So I would like to think that saying “goodbye” today is not an act of despair but an act of hope.
If Romans 8 is true—and I have no reason to believe it isn’t—then to say God be with you, that is, “goodbye” is to say with profound conviction that God, who loves us more than anything, will reunite us again someday with Gramps.
So, I ask that question again: what does it mean when you don’t want to say goodbye?
In short, the reason we don’t want to say “goodbye” is that we are human, and we feel the burden of grief. But our apparent weakness in this matter is not a true weakness. In truth, it is a strength; a sign that love is the greatest thing. Sometimes that love means we will have to deal with the painful reality of loss. Yet even then—especially then—love has the power to see us through it.
So, today, we remember. We remember Gramps. Above all, we remember our God, who is the very definition of love, and for that reason won’t allow anything to separate us from his love. Saying goodbye today is not the end. Saying goodbye today is really saying, “Gramps, you go on ahead, we will see you again soon!” We can say this because we are, all of us, on a road marked by love. Gramps traveled that road. He is still on it, though for sure he has discovered its end in Christ. And if we choose to walk that same road we will find ourselves again with Gramps in a kingdom built not with human hands but eternal in the heavens.
This is the power of God’s love in Christ Jesus.
Because of this, in Christ, we find rest for our souls, comfort in our loss, and hope in the face of despair. May you find in the face of Christ today an unspeakable joy, a peace beyond understanding, and a love that absolutely never fails—even in death.
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Amen.
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