A Time to Mourn

If you would have told me this morning that I would write two blog posts today, I would have thought you were nuts (here's the other one).  But, you would have been right.  Anyway…

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

~Romans 12:15

I knew today would be different the moment I walked into church.  We were late, and we walked into the side door as the church was singing “How Great Thou Art” in Kikaonde, the local language.  This hymn has been a favorite of mine for as far back as I can remember.  When singing the refrain, I feel as though my soul really is singing.  So even though I did not understand the language in which they were singing, I sang along in English.

But this hymn is more to me than my soul’s song to God.  It reminds me of my grandmother who passed away in 2005.  It has been 5 and a half years since she passed, but sometimes it feels like just yesterday.  At her funeral, we recessed to the choir singing “How Great Thou Art,” and now I can’t hear that song without thinking of her.  I praise God that she knew Him, but sometimes the pain of missing her comes, and I can’t help but pause and cry.

This isn’t the only song that does this to me, either.  Another favorite of mine – “Here I Am Lord” – has taken on multiple layers of emotion as well.  It is a song representative of our call into the mission field.  It has been a favorite of Tiffany’s for longer than I’ve known her.  In fact, she processed to it at our wedding.  But our wedding would not be the last time she processed to this song.

My cousin Michael was killed by a train in September of last year.  I posted a blog about it back in the fall, but the hole is still there.  At his funeral, the family processed into the sanctuary to “Here I Am Lord.”  Although I have not heard this song today, or even recently, I am daily led to prayer for my family as I have a memorial card for Michael serving as a bookmark in my Bible for my daily devotions.

So, why am I getting emotional about Grandma and Michael today?  Because I received an email this afternoon from my best friend.  His paternal grandfather passed away on Friday.  And so I am mourning with him, just as he mourned with me when I lost my grandmother and my cousin.  My heart goes out to him and his family as they look to God to comfort them during this time (which He promises to do; see Matthew 5:4).  The pain will be real, but so is the comfort they have in knowing that Grandpa Allen is with Christ in heaven.

Our prayers are with you, Allen family.  Please know that, though we cannot be with you during this time, we love you dearly and are with you in spirit.  May God wrap His arms around you, holding you close and reminding you that He is ALWAYS there.  Always.

A Series of Goodbyes, Part 3 - The Close Cousin

On Saturday, September 18, Tiffany and I got in the car and began our drive down to Columbia, MO.  We had been planning this trip for several months, having set up several meetings to share with people down there about the ministry we are preparing for.  We were excited, looking forward to what promised to be a busy and rewarding weekend.  Our emotions were rocked, however, when the phone rang about an hour and a half into our drive.  My mom was calling, so I answered.

"Hello"

"Luke!  It's Ma."

"Hey, Ma."

"Hey, I've got some bad news coming down from Chicago."

pause

"K..."

"Your cousin Michael was hit by a train and killed last night.  We don't know any details, but he was not in a car."

It is only by the grace of God that I managed to keep the car on the road.  My mind was racing.  What do you do with this information?  Did this really happen?  People getting hit by trains only happens in movies, right?  This can't be real.

But, it is real.  So very, very real.

Michael James Rauen was born in mid-July, 1987.  Being about a year and a half younger than my younger brother Andrew, Mike was the first cousin born on my mom's side of the family.  In all, there are now 16 of us... he was number 5.  The thing about our family, though, is that all of the cousins are like siblings.  We may not talk all the time, but we know that we are always there for each other.  Whenever we get together, it's as though we never really left.  So, when people ask if I was close to Mike, all I want to say is, "He's family."  For us, that's all that matters.

Mike walked with us for 23 years.  His life wasn't always easy, but life never is.  He didn't always make the best choices, but nobody ever does.  Through it all, he was a good kid.

He was passionate, smart, and kind.

His faith was real, and his love was deep.

We hear stories of people dying and only a handful of people making it to the funeral.  We hear stories of people who lived in obscurity and died without anybody knowing.  Mike is not one of them.  The line at the visitation went out the door and down the street for 6 hours, and only stopped when the funeral director stopped allowing people to get in line.  The sanctuary was packed during the service.  The funeral procession to the cemetery was at least 40 cars long... we don't know the exact number, as it was too long to see all of and count.

Mike's impact on those who got to know him is undeniable.  But knowing all this does not make the loss any less painful.

All I want to do is be able to see him one more time.

To laugh with him again.

To give him a hug and tell him I love him.

Goodbye, Mike.  I'm sorry I never got to tell you how excited (and scared) I was for you when you joined the Marines.  I'm sorry I never got to tell you how proud of you I am.  There are so many conversations I've wanted to have with you, but now I won't get that chance.  There were times when I saw or heard something about you and shook my head, or laughed, or said, "That's Mike."  There were times when I came across a joke, or a poem, or something Irish, and said, "Mike would love this."  I'm glad I got to be a part of your ceremony, though I wish you could have been there with us.  It was beautiful.  You were a good man, Mike, and I miss you so much.