007 - Paths, Anomalies, and The Second Choice

December 2004 - January 2005

As the anniversary of my father's passing approaches, I’m remembering the things I had chosen to bury until I felt strong enough to revisit his last days.

It began with a surgery scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving, and I was I was late to the hospital. I didn't see him before the orderlies wheeled him into pre-op. So I waited with my brother, sister, and mother.

The surgery concluded without issue, we were told, and I waited my turn to spend time with my father, to apologize for being late and just be there for him. As he drifted in and out of sleep, I sat by his bed holding his hand. I remember thinking how unusual and precious it was to sit there and unabashedly hold my Daddy’s hand.

I visit each day for as long as I can and am glad to see my dad recovering.

Then comes the dream. Monday, around two in the morning. My dad and I sit in folding chairs in front of his driveway amidst a pleasant summer day. He turns to me and tells me it is time for him to go.

"Where?" I ask.

"It's time for me to go," he repeats.

I protest, not understanding what he means.

Then I wake, and am convinced he had just died. I wait for the phone to ring.

It never does.

During my visit on Tuesday, I told him I couldn’t visit again that evening because I was behind on building my son’s new bedroom. His response seemed distracted... depressed. It was the second day in a row that he didn’t seem himself, and though we expressed our concerns, the nurses said it was due to the pain meds.

Five a.m. the next morning my six-year-old wakes me up. She'd been awake and watching cartoons when the phone rang. She's never up that early. My stomach turned to led as I took the phone from her hand and was told there was a serious problem with my dad.

Racing out the door. Scraping frost from the windshield. The drive. Double-stepping the stairs past the security guard. The nurse’s face in the hallway. Turning the corner to see my mom at Dad’s feet—and my heart imploding as my brother told me the news. I fell into his arms.

I’m never more than two moments from tears. Even now, writing this, I’m pulled back. A wall of water behind my eyes. These are memories I chose to forget for a time. Not anymore. Some memories ought to be remembered.

Paths and Second Chances

“Anomaly” is a word that carries tension. It signals something unexpected—something we want explained or resolved. We also like paths: clear routes laid by someone who’s gone before, promising predictability in the unknown. And given a choice, we prefer second chances to second choices. We want another shot at our way rather than laying our desires down for something different.

Grief doesn’t honor our preferences. It isn’t neat or predictable—for the one grieving or the ones watching. In those early days I heard a lot of certainty: a five-stage path to follow, admonitions that Christians shouldn’t get depressed, warnings that grieving “too long” meant I was dwelling and needed to “move on.” People offered paths because death makes us all uneasy.

Instead of accepting those views wholesale, I looked for biblical examples—how to grieve and how not to. I reread the lives of Jesus, David, Job. I reread Psalms and Proverbs. What I found was somber encouragement. David devastated by the death of a son, and grieving his sin with Bathsheba. Jesus described as a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. Scripture told me not only that it was okay to feel what I felt, but that I didn’t have to hide it. I was in good company.

Job’s losses dwarf mine. Ten children gone in a single day, his wealth erased. Satan targeted him directly—because God Himself pointed Job out as one who feared Him and shunned evil. We throw around “spiritual attack” loosely. Job shows us what it actually looks like. And yet: “Greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world.” God restored Job, not because the pain was small, but because God is faithful. That is encouragement for anyone who responds to Him as Job did.

Preparation I Never Saw

Looking back over my adult life, I see a hundred small trials that seemed as minor as splinters—but they were shaping me for the hardest fight of my life. They were giving me sensitivity, wisdom, fortitude, and authenticity I would need later.

I forget God’s abilities quickly. I can’t see five minutes ahead; He sees the end from the beginning. He placed those tasks and trials so I could get through losing my Dad. What a caring, faithful God. Part of His wisdom was teaching me the path I actually had to take to get here.

When Dad died, I knew what I had to do. In other seasons, grief knocked and I told it, “Not now. I’m too busy. Come back in six months.” I began to learn the cost of being selfless: I needed to grieve, but others around me did too. So I put my needs on hold to be Papa—to lead other battles before I led through the valley. I waited until their mending began, then grieved quietly, confiding tears to my pillow. It felt strong—and in some ways it was. But it also reinforced a mistaken idea of strength.

Men feel pressure to “be strong.” As Christian men we add more weight: we’re to lead, to set an example, to show God can carry us through anything. I agree strength is needed, and I agree we are called to lead. I disagree with how we sometimes define it. Strength is not teaching our sons and daughters to be non-emotive. Leadership isn’t avoiding the dark valley. Scripture doesn’t teach that Christians don’t sorrow. It takes courage to walk through the valley of the shadow of death; it takes strength to lead others through it. I know—by Scripture and by experience—God’s grace is sufficient.

Anomalous Grief

Webster calls an anomaly “a departure from the normal or common order.” With so much confusion about what Christian grief should look like, I often feel anomalous. In truth, a Christian’s grief is different.

It isn’t glossing over pain. It isn’t ignoring loss. Christian grief is honest about sin’s last tragedy. It names the damage—and clings to the hope of sustenance and restoration. It walks the valley with eyes and heart open to the wreckage we wrought, and to the God who redeems. In that sense, Christian grief is anomalous to the world.

I recently read Danielle Durante’s reflection on Daniel as a man who lived a second-choice life. Torn from home, language, culture, he embraced where God placed him because he trusted God’s providence. His second choice was God’s first.

That’s the heart of what I want to say about death and grieving: we need to see death from God’s perspective. The pain and sorrow we feel were never meant for us—God’s first choice was that we never taste them. We chose differently. In a sense, God grieved when we died in Eden.

I’ve written before that I may remain heartbroken for the rest of my days. Death severed a living, loving relationship between my Dad and me. By God’s grace, we may pick it up again when I pass on, but for now, it’s on hold.

That echoes Eden. Adam and Eve’s rebellion severed the living, loving relationship with God. They died spiritually, then physically. God did not desire this for us. Scripture shows He would have preferred we not sin. As I await restoration with my Dad, God awaits restoration with each of us. Until we are given spiritual life—as Jesus told Nicodemus in John 3—we remain separated. “Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Born again speaks both to the difference between physical and spiritual birth, and to the reality that we were once spiritually alive and died in sin. Through repentance and faith in Christ’s completed work, we receive life anew.

An Appeal

If you died today, do you know where you would spend eternity? If not, please consider Jesus’ own words: “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father except through me.” And His call: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” As Paul writes, “By grace you have been saved through faith… it is the gift of God—not by works.” Receive the free gift of forgiveness Christ offers.

To the one grieving and reading this: after a year unlike any I’ve known, I am okay. The sun has shone. Some smiles have returned. That’s because my hope is rooted in this Truth. It does more than carry you through sorrow—it makes you better than you were. It is the power of God for a life that cannot perish or fade. Reach for it. Read it. Believe it even when you don’t feel like it. Call on Him, on His terms. He will see you through and create a work in you that you could not imagine. I am living proof.

I’m not saying mine is the only way to grieve. There are many ways to grieve, but only one Truth about death’s real problem. Some won’t emote much. Some move faster. Some bury themselves in work; others keep moving as if nothing happened. Sometimes I wish I were one of them.

But then—no. This was purposed.

These lessons weren’t only for me, but for others. One day I may need to call on them to help someone else—maybe through these journals, maybe years from now. It isn’t mine to wish for a second choice. It isn’t yours either. God is calling you through this grief. Answer Him, and be okay. I wish you nothing less.

My walk through grief isn’t done. But I think this will be my last journal… I hope it is.

Farewell for now.