Do Not Grieve as Others

A week ago, my wife fell, and I had to summon the rescue squad for help. I was sitting in the hospital snack bar, nursing a cup of coffee while she was in X-ray, when I heard a familiar voice. I looked up to see my friend Paul standing beside me.

"I heard your call on the scanner," he said, "and thought you might need a little support."

He paid for my coffee, and we went back to the emergency room to wait. Nothing was broken, so we returned home.

Paul's appearance, unsummoned, out of nowhere, got me thinking of the steadfastness of his character and the integrity of his commitment to friendship. I've known Paul so long, I've forgotten meeting him. I guess our friendship started 30 or more years ago when our church formed small groups to encourage members within geographical proximity to help and support each other. None of us expected much of the arrangement. Perhaps because a few of us had children the same age who enjoyed having many "aunts and uncles," we stayed with the program, and our group grew. We've been through a lot together. People have had heart attacks, broken bones, illnesses, family difficulties, and deaths. When I think of our small group, however, I do not think of our trials; I think rather of how in every difficulty someone has been present, bringing the needed "cup of cold water." I think of how grateful I am to be a member of this body that has been the body of Christ to me.

One of the clearest examples of my reasons for gratitude occurred about eight years ago. It was late summer, the week before a new semester of teaching was to begin, and I was rushing, remodeling the bathroom. The hired work had been completed, and I was starting to wallpaper. I climbed down from the stepladder to answer the phone.

It was my goddaughter, but she could barely talk. There had been a swimming accident at the shore. Her father, the closest friend of my life, was on life support. I hung up the phone and wept.

The next day he died. My immediate work, the wallpapering, the preparation for a new academic year, became secondary. My wife and I left to be with his family. Our work was to carry with us what comfort we could and to stand with our friends in grief. We stood with them. We laughed, as one does at funerals, and we cried.

Returning home, making the long interstate drive, we were discouraged and tired. We dreaded the start of the school year and knew our bathroom would remain half-finished until Christmas break. It was dark when we pulled into the drive and went into the house. I went into the bathroom and switched on the light. It was done—the wallpapering finished, the light fixtures hung. Paul and his wife had called other friends and together they had stood in our loss, not diminishing our grief, but containing it in the wholeness of Christ's present body. In our grief, we learned gratitude, we learned through the faithfulness of friends and by our own faithfulness that though we suffer trials, we do not grieve as others, and we gave thanks.