I’ve been thinking this week about connection.
How to we bridge the gap between one another, between ourselves and the kids at the Home of Hope, between ourselves and Jesus?
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One of my most profound childhood memories happened the night before Grandpa’s funeral. I was twelve years old. A large collection of family and friends gathered in Grandma’s small apartment, along with enormous quantities of food and an endless supply of adult beverages.
Elmer was a colorful character who lived a big, full, over-the-top life. As the evening progressed, Grandpa’s twelve brothers took center stage and told story after hilarious story. I remember the walls shaking as laughter rattled the windows.
I also remember feeling confused. I asked my mom why everyone seemed so happy. “Grandpa just died. Shouldn’t we be sad?”
“Of course everybody’s sad,” she said. “But what do you remember most about Grandpa?”
Easy answer. “His laugh.” He had this deep, full voice, and I think he loved to laugh more than anything.
“Don’t you think that’s how he’d want us to spend time remembering him? Can you imagine him wanting us to sit around quietly?”
I couldn’t ever remember him sitting around quietly. That’s not what he would have wanted.
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It was a confusing dilemma for a 12-year-old, and likely for many adults.
The stories reminded me of a special relationship with a special man and that made me smile with joy. But Elmer was gone, and that made me cry with sadness.
I thought I had to choose, and I didn’t know the right answer. I carried around some guilt about that for a while.
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I wonder if this false choice sometimes gets in the way of understanding Jesus. I suspect He embraced joy and sorrow, gain and loss, happiness and sadness as spectrums rather than distinct choices.
Sound familiar?
Have you ever gotten trapped, as I did at Grandpa’s funeral, by the notion that apparently opposed feelings can’t coexist?
Could this dilemma create a barrier to connection?