It's not only love scorned that hurts. It's love torn. This morning, pastor Joe asked me to pray for Bob and Bri, blessing them as they prepare to move to Texas. It wasn't easy. Blessing them is easy. The hard part is blessing the new paths they are walking. Over the past few years, they have become part of our family, like our own kids. We share Christmases together, birthdays, Memorial Day, Labor Day. They are best of friends with our kids; we've literally prayed their children to life when it seemed they were unable to conceive. They bless us with Bri's amazing musical gifts, Bob's organizational abilities, their love for Jesus and each other. In short, they occupy a big, loving place in our hearts, and in just a couple weeks our hearts will have a huge Katilus-shaped hole that no one else can fill.
This afternoon Linda and I headed over to Chautauqua for the Koinonia closing program. It is always a tearful, joyful time, as the newest class shares what God has done throughout the weekend. The sky was bright blue with puffs of pure white, the sunlight dancing off the amber and crimson of the fall leaves as I wondered aloud about the irony of life. Surrounded by beauty, my heart was heavy. It's not that we are experiencing personal difficulty. Everyone gets their turn at the trials of life; right now it's not our turn, but we have friends going through all sorts of difficulties; cancer, dealing with grief, watching their children suffer through illness, job loss, divorce. The list just goes on and on. The beauty of love is the bonds that form between those who have shared life together. The tragedy of love is the bonds that form between those who have shared life together, when circumstances force a rending unbidden and unwelcome. This heart anguish of saying goodbye has made me reflect on the depth of God's love for us as he bid goodbye to his Son, laying him first in Mary's womb, and then in a manger, and finally upon a cross.
I would give much to be able to avoid this separation, to turn back the clock so as to be able to anticipate growing old together. But God tells us we are pilgrims, sojourners, strangers in this world, and any true pilgrim will testify to the goodbye tears that are the price of love torn asunder. Jesus himself said that unless the grain of wheat fall to the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain of wheat. That dying is necessary for the fruitfulness to be manifest, and dying is never easy unless perhaps love was never present. A few days ago, I spoke of a friend's devotional reading, one I never imagined I would need to hear so soon. I need it again tonight.
"Faith is not believing that God will do something, because God can do it whether you believe it or not! His ability is not dependent upon you thinking he can do it.
"Faith is not believing God will do something. That is hope.
"Faith is believing God IS doing something right now, even though you don't see it."
I'm having a hard time seeing what God is doing. Or maybe I see it all too clearly, and don't like what I see. Tonight, faith for me isn't even trusting that he is doing something that I cannot see; it's believing that what I see him doing is good. Were it not for the record of Scripture and the Gospel it proclaims, I would be hard pressed to believe that. We spend way too much of our lives in the Good Fridays, with tear-streaked faces and trembling hands. At the same time, we know that Sunday is coming when tears are wiped away in amazing wonder at what God has done. The gratitude comes hard tonight, offered through gritted teeth and reddened eyes. But it is there. The goodbyes hurt, but even so, I wouldn't trade the pain if it came at the cost of not having experienced the joy.
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