Remembering Those We Lost

[I wrote this a few years ago…felt like it was worth sharing here.]

We had just tucked Wakley in and prayed for him. He’s 8, our baby, and, as far as we know, the capstone of our crew. We had just prayed the ancient priestly prayer—“The Lord bless you and keep you…”—which is the last lyric our children hear every night as we make the shape of the cross on their foreheads. So, after our prayers tonight, we walked out of Wakley’s darkened room, quietly shutting the door. That final “click” of the knob is a symphony of sorts in every parent’s ear, a signal that the work of the day is drawing to a close.

But tonight, that wasn’t the last thing we heard. As we were walking down the stairs, Wakley’s quivering words stopped us in our tracks. “Mom and Dad…” He was now crying, and we turned on a dime to check on him. When we walked in, he was clutching this little picture frame, staring at the image of his great-grandpa, Daniel Kemp Wilson.

Before we could say anything, he said, “Mom and Dad, I miss him!” And the most tender tears flowed down his face. It may have been the sincerest expression of emotion I’ve seen in years. Grandpa Dan passed away in 2016, which is half of Wakley’s life ago, but you would’ve thought they’d been together for decades. Wakley was at Grandpa’s bedside just days before he died. He stood next to him in total silence, watching Grandpa being drawn up into Perfect Love. Wakley watched me baptize Grandpa on his deathbed. This is the first person Wakley will ever remember losing.

And when Grandpa Dan died, Grandma Weezie, his wife of nearly 66 years, sent these little pictures of him to everyone. They adorn all of our nightstands, this monument to a man who helped make us who we are. And tonight, Wakley was missing him. Lisa and I crawled into bed with him and had tears flowing down our own faces within seconds. We told stories of Grandpa. We remembered those final days. I told him stories of what Grandpa was like when I was a little kid. It was beautiful, and then peace returned to Wakley. He was asleep five minutes later.

But as we were walking back down the stairs, it hit me. There are a lot of people missing someone tonight. A lot of you this holiday season are looking at old pictures of people you loved. A lot of you are trying to figure out a new seating arrangement at the table this Christmas, knowing that somebody won’t be sitting in their regular seat. You’re saying what Wakley said tonight: “I miss him!” “I miss her!”

So, I just wanted to take a minute to say this to you: I’m so very sorry for your loss. I grieve with you. For those of you missing someone this year, I hope you find time this week to tell those old stories. I hope you pull out the old picture catalogs. I hope you laugh hard remembering what the two of you shared. And if you need to cry, please do. Somehow in God’s Kingdom, tears fall to the ground, watering seeds of hope that will spring up to life someday on the near horizon.

So, remember your precious people. We Grothes are remembering with you

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