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The subject line looked innocent enough: “Call.”

I clicked on it automatically without giving it much thought.

How quickly can you be transported from a normal Saturday afternoon to holy ground?

How long does it take to open an email?

Click.

And there I was, on sacred ground. “Amy please contact Ms X. Her father has died unexpectedly and her siblings can’t get in contact with her. Let me know when you’ve reached her.”

The sacred space of the onramp to an unexpected, unwanted road leading to a place we didn’t want to go.  My very first post was about sitting with her at the airport Burger King waiting for a flight to take her to her mother’s funeral. You can read about it here.

Now I say, “Call your sister.”

Both parents gone in six months. One as expected as can be with cancer. One like looking to the right and being slammed into on the left.  Call your sister.

He’s gone. (He can’t be.)

The sense of home in the States forever altered. The sense of home in this world forever altered.

Holy ground.

Tickets purchased. Cars arranged. Bag packed. Heart numb. Memories flow. Mind jumps. The over whelming urge to JUST BE THERE. Ministering to each other, this ragtag band of shocked mourners.

Sunday morning, an early ride to the airport as we retraced steps taken just months before.  But one day, every tear will be wiped and we will not walk these paths.  I love the conclusion to John Donne’s “Death be not proud.” And death, thou shalt die! But until that day, this is the ground we walk.

The holy ground of grief. Oh how I hate you.

 

Related post:The line between then and now (messymiddle.com)

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