5

Awakened

JANUARY

On the last Saturday in January—six weeks after Casey’s death— Kit sat beside Hannah in the New Hope chapel, mentally replaying the details from the memorial service that had just concluded.

Resurrection always startled and amazed.

As she listened to Wren laughing in the hallway with a few of Casey’s friends, she stared at the rooster painting Wren had completed in honor of him; the bright colors, thick layers of paint, broad strokes, and swirl of movement in the feathers and head all reminiscent of her beloved Vincent. Completing a painting would have been a significant accomplishment under any normal circumstances. But summoning the strength and vision to paint it while she was still struggling to undertake the simplest daily tasks seemed miraculous. Who could have predicted that planning a memorial service with her pastor would bring her to life?

“In all my years of conducting funerals and memorial services,” Hannah said in a low, confidential tone, “I’ve never had that happen before. Which is sad, I guess, when you think about it, that I can’t remember anyone ever coming to faith at one that I’ve led. I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t been bold enough in offering invitations. But I’ve never wanted to be manipulative or take advantage of people’s grief.” She paused. “Did I look as surprised as I felt?”

Kit smiled, remembering the expression of shock that had crossed Hannah’s face when one of Casey’s friends spoke up and said he thought it would be cool to follow Jesus. When another friend agreed, Hannah had led them both in prayer. “You handled it beautifully. It was a beautiful service. Such a gift to Wren. And to Casey’s friends.”

Hannah glanced toward the hallway, which was now empty. “I hope they’ll move forward with faith. I invited them to come to church tomorrow, but I’m not sure Wayfarer is the best place for them. I can already see a few raised eyebrows if they come in smelling like pot.”

It didn’t take much effort for Kit to conjure memories of raised eyebrows toward Micah when he came to church wearing torn jeans and a grubby T-shirt or all black, sporting a new Mohawk. The eyebrows were for her too, a silent reproach that shouted, Why don’t you do something about him? And she wanted to shout back, Can’t you understand how miraculous it is that he’s even here? But Micah wasn’t blind, either, and there came a day when he decided that going to church wasn’t worth his time.

How was it that Hannah, who had never met Casey, had been able to take Wren’s stories about him and weave a narrative that captured his life with compassion, tenderness, and truth, while the man who had baptized Micah and led his confirmation class couldn’t even call him by the correct name during the meeting to plan his funeral? And did anyone hear a word of hope or proclamation of the gospel at Micah’s service? Kit couldn’t remember anything their minister had said. Perhaps no word could have penetrated her grief.

She touched the stem of the flower Wren had placed on the chair where Casey had left his goodbye letter—a single sunflower she had plucked from the vases the florist had delivered. Were there flowers for Micah at his funeral? There must have been. Not ones she had ordered, though. Other people must have sent them. She hadn’t known what to request for a seventeen-year-old boy. Robert must have taken care of the details. He must have taken care of most of the details in those weeks and months after Micah died. Had she ever thanked him for that? She couldn’t remember. And it was too late now.

Hannah looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. Can I help you clean up in here?”

“No, no, you go ahead. I’m sure Wren will take care of it.” If not today, then later. And if not on her own initiative, then with some gentle prompting. Now that she was showing signs of life again, it would be good for her to get back into a regular routine of cleaning. Kit rose with Hannah and gave her a hug. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for her.”

“It’s a privilege.” Hannah tucked her Bible into her bag. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will,” Kit said, and walked with her down the hall.

“Were there flowers at the funeral?” Kit asked Sarah on the phone that night.

“What funeral?”

Kit picked up a dishrag and wiped off the kitchen counter. “Micah’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did we have flowers at Micah’s funeral?” When Sarah didn’t reply, Kit said, “I’ve been trying to remember today whether we had flowers at the church. We must have, right? People sent flowers?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don’t have any pictures from that day.” She had searched through all her boxes of photos but hadn’t found anything—not even a church bulletin. “Do you remember if anyone took any?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen any. Why?”

“Just wondering. There’s so much I don’t remember. I thought some photos might help.”

It took a moment before Sarah said, “With what?”

Kit rinsed the cloth and draped it over the faucet. “Knowing that all the details I couldn’t take care of were handled.”

“Of course they were,” Sarah said.

“Okay.”

“I know there were flowers, Mom. I don’t remember what kind. White ones, I think. Lilies, probably. Dad said no pink. I remember that.”

Kit smiled. That sounded like something Robert would say. “You went with him to choose?”

“I must have.”

“Thank you.”

“For choosing flowers?”

She switched the phone to her other ear. “Not just for that. For all the ways I must have leaned on you back then.”

“I didn’t do much, Mom. I was away at school, remember?”

“I know.”

“It was Dad who . . .”

“I know. He took care of all the practical things I couldn’t do.” She pictured Wren’s rooster, its golden beak open, sounding the call to awaken. The Spirit was just as reliable and persistent a chanticleer.

Perhaps along with the obituaries she’d been writing, she could write Robert a letter to say she was sorry she hadn’t expressed appreciation to him. Not just for the flowers. But for every burden he’d had to shoulder without her help. It seemed a significant oversight, not thinking about addressing that issue before now. Maybe she had. Maybe in her fog of grief and depression she had managed to thank him. It wouldn’t hurt to do it again. And to be as specific in naming her gratitude as she had been in naming his sin.

JANUARY 27

My dear Wren,

It was a beautiful memorial service. I don’t know which details you’ll remember—maybe all the ones you wish to—but here’s what will remain with me. I will remember Hannah speaking the words of our assurance and faith that death—no matter what kind of death—never has the final word. But death can feel like the most brutal exclamation point when we’re consumed with grief. We wonder if the dawn will ever break again, if joy will ever return, if the promise that God will work all things together for the good of those who love him really is true. We need to be regularly reminded in community that the victory is won and that Christ really is risen from the dead. It’s at times like these that our community of sorrow can become again a community of hope. And even joy.

I heard it in you today, and this I will remember and treasure too: the sound of your laughter ringing after Hannah offered a prayer to lead two of Casey’s friends into life. In that moment the veil between here and eternity really was opened, and you joined in the joy of heaven singing over lost ones who had been found and brought home. By saying yes to honoring your friend with love and tenderness, you created a sacred space where others encountered Jesus. What a generous gift you gave.

You asked me the other day if Micah believed. I told you I wasn’t sure what his thoughts about faith were at the end, but that I was confident in God’s grace and the power of the cross. Today I was reminded of the promises spoken over Micah at his baptism. I was reminded that before our son knew his own name, God knew him and poured out his grace. I was reminded that there was a day when he claimed those promises for himself, even if he didn’t fully understand what they meant. And though the darkness clouded his vision in the years that followed, I can trust the certainty of the promise that light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never overcome it.

This is the confidence you painted in your rooster singing in the dark. It’s a profound vision of hope. We spoke the other day about your worries that Casey was overcome with shame at the end and that his reference to a rooster crowing was one of despair. You worried he was more like Judas, who lost hope, than Peter, who was able to press on. But I think his reference to the rooster reveals where his hope was rooted, even if he didn’t fully understand it.

There’s a detail in Luke’s Gospel that isn’t in the others, and it’s always been a powerful one for me, that when the rooster crowed—at the very moment when Peter was saying for the third time that he didn’t know Jesus—the Lord turned and looked at him. That’s when Peter remembered: Jesus had predicted his failure. Not only had Peter claimed not to know Jesus, but up until that moment, he hadn’t known himself. He hadn’t yet seen within himself his own capacity for cowardice and duplicity. As painful as that moment must have been, it was also the moment when Peter’s pride was broken. I hear in the rooster crow not only the sound of failure but also the sound of awakening. And both can be sounds of grace.

When Jesus predicted Peter’s denial, he told him that Satan had demanded to sift the disciples like wheat, but he had prayed for Peter, that his faith would not fail and that once he turned back, he was to strengthen the others. It’s interesting to me that Jesus did not pray for Peter not to fail. He did not pray for Peter to resist Satan and courageously defend him. No, Jesus prayed that Peter’s faith would not fail after he failed, and that once he turned back, he would be like a stake in the ground, providing support for his brothers.

I like to think that’s how he prays for me too. I like to think that’s how he makes intercession for all of us, that when we fail—when, not if—he prays we will not lose courage but press forward in confidence of his mercy, love, and forgiveness. I like to think of his grace extending to those whose faith does fail, that he is tender to all who lose confidence in his love, to all for whom this world is just too hard.

I’ve stood on that precipice of despair. There were times after Micah died and after Robert left our marriage when I thought for sure my faith would fail. At times it did. That’s when I had to borrow from the faith of others to keep persevering. There were times—many times—when I denied I knew Christ by turning aside to nurse my own anger, resentment, and self-pity. In those moments I hardly knew myself either. By God’s grace I received the faith I needed in order to keep returning to him. But how can I fathom the mystery of my receiving faith when others do not? I’ll write an obituary for my own unknowing in this too.

I marvel, though, at how another part of Jesus’ prayer for Peter has also been answered in my life, and I know it has and will continue to be in yours as well: that when we have endured these dark nights of sorrow and testing, we will turn and strengthen others who are struggling to persevere. This is a gift we can offer others out of the deep chasms suffering has carved in us: the gift of compassion and comfort. When we see our own capacity for weakness and failure, we can be enlarged with patience and tenderness toward others. We can see and love with grace-washed eyes.

I wonder what was in Jesus’ eyes when he looked at Peter? It couldn’t have been surprise. He had predicted Peter’s failure. It wasn’t disappointment. He hadn’t expected Peter to do any differently. I don’t even think it was, “I told you so.” I like to imagine that through his silent gaze, Jesus communicated a tender knowing that said, “I have prayed for you. Remember.”

With you,

Kit