Yeah, Though I Walk - Lost (My Little Cousin)

I stood at the window in the lobby of my dorm waiting. It was an April day and I had someplace that I very much wanted to be, yet at the same time didn’t want to be at all. I watched intently out the window waiting for my ride to come. As I waited, I remembered.

She had been born less than 4 years before. A sweet new life, a second child, a little sister, a new granddaughter, the promise of dreams and a rich life to come entered the world on June 15, 1979. She was loved and wanted, and full of hope. She grew. She cooed and giggled and wiggled her fingers and toes. She learned to roll over and to sit up. Then one day the doctors discovered that something was wrong.

An awful diagnosis sent her parents’ world spinning wildly out of control. Leukemia. So young to receive such a dire diagnosis.

I remembered her sweet, energetic little being coming to the Awana Cubbies class that my parents led during our youth program at church. In a room filled with two and three year olds, dashing about, playing and exploring, I could see her bright eyes and her little bald head. She seemed so bright . . . and so vulnerable with her mesh shirt holding her chemo port in place. So tiny, her fair skin so white.

Her treatments were given in a city over an hour away. The schedule was grueling. Her parents were often separated as her mom stayed at the hospital with her and her father took care of the family business. Her older sister would later praise her parents for choosing to include her grandparents as co-parents for her during her little sister’s illness. This was a time of anxiety and fear for My Little Cousin’s immediate family and for our extended family around them.

I remember too her mother telling me that one lesson she sought to teach My Little Cousin was that pain is not an excuse for bad behavior. My Little Cousin was in pain, great pain throughout her short life, yet her mother saw with hope that one day she would grow up and that good behavior would be important and that pain was not an excuse to behave badly. Sadly, she did not grow up, but the lesson her mother sought to teach her was an important one for any person to learn.

The day came when My Little Cousin’s mom gave her daughter a bone marrow transplant. For a short time it seemed to work and then the news came that My Little Cousin was no longer responding to treatment. There was nothing more the doctors could do.

She and the other children in the hospital sang a song based on Revelation 4. “Worthy is the Lamb to receive . . .” and in place of the words of the song they would insert the names of the children that went to be with Jesus.  On April 6, 1983 My Little Cousin’s name was added to the song as she went to be with Jesus. She was only with us for 3 ¾ short years, too short a time. Her passing left behind pain and devastating grief and loss.

My ride never came that day. I never found out why. I have always felt a little sad and disappointed that I never got to say good-bye to My Little Cousin, that I wasn’t there to support, to express my love on this very sad day.

We all struggled to make sense of this loss, yet it seemed so senseless. Her older sister questioned why God would take My Little Cousin and no one really had a good answer. My Little Cousin’s parents seemed lost in the face of this gargantuan loss, unsure how to navigate the grief, crushed and dazed. My heart ached with them and longed to somehow ease their pain, to somehow fill the huge, empty hole that had entered their life. But, I had no idea what to say or do.

With this loss, my questions and doubts continued to grow. I wrestled with “why” and it was a long time before I found peace with that question. I think this loss more than the others gave me a desire to learn how to comfort grieving people, to learn how to walk with those who have suffered great loss in a way that would console and encourage. 

Yeah, Though I Walk: Strength in Loss (My Pastor's Son)

A slight man with blonde hair stood at the end of a lightly yellowed pine pew near the front of the plain country-creamery-turned-church. His face was set in a solemn pose, filled with sadness and yet with peace. The lines that often crinkled at his eyes and the smile that picked up the corners of his mouth were not evident that day. A line of people snaked out the sanctuary doors into the foyer. Most people found a place to stand inside on the March 9, 1977. Person after person stopped and shook the slight man’s hand and spoke words meant to comfort and assuage his grief. Yet so often he was the one offering comfort, hope, and strength.

After they stopped to speak to the man, the people moved forward to stand beside the casket. Inside the casket lay the body of a thirteen year old boy. A framed picture of him rested against the inside of the open casket lid. My Pastor’s Son.

My Pastor’s Son was seven months older than I. He was born on November 11, 1963. He was the only son of My Pastor and his wife, the only biological son they would ever have. Although we knew each other when we were in upper elementary grades, we didn’t hang out much. He was a grade ahead of me and he was a boy . . . and at that age, boys had cooties.

When he was 12, he was diagnosed with leukemia. His parents did all they could to get treatment for their son seeking help from both medical and holistic sources.  I don’t remember seeing him much after he was diagnosed, but his dad continued to preach and shepherd our congregation.  I remember three things about his dad during this time.  

I remember My Pastor telling us several times that he would give his life for his son, that he would gladly die so that his son could live . . . if only he could.

To this day I cannot read 1 John 5:13 without thinking of My Pastor’s Son. My Pastor talked about his son’s imminent death and the normal questions about what would happen after he died. My Pastor’s Son had underlined this verse in his Bible: “These things have I written unto you that believe on the name of the Son of God; that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that ye may believe on the name of the Son of God” (1 John 5:13 KJV). Not only had My Pastor’s Son underlined this verse, but he had circled the word KNOW over and over again. This was the confidence that My Pastor’s Son had regarding what would happen after he died.

The last thing I remember about My Pastor was the obvious depth of his pain and his great strength and faith in the face of that pain. His pain was so stark, so unrelenting, and so all-encompassing and yet his faith was stronger. In the face of his loss and pain, he clung to God with unswerving faith and taught me that in the worst, most terrible losses of life, God is there and able to comfort, strengthen, and provide – even when He chooses not to heal.

Have you had someone in your life that taught you about facing profound loss?

What was he or she like? What did she or he teach you?