Greshniku

I could hear the screaming long before I entered the house. The familiar cries of my four-year-old niece were taking on an unfamiliar intensity, and I knew without knowing that she’d figured it out.

My grandpa  -  a strong and meek man, a powerful and humble man, a wise and gentle man - had died three days before. There had been a constant parade of family and friends through my grandma’s house since, and Ashlyn and her little sister, Hannah, had spent long hours playing with toys, diverting attention, traipsing outside with the cousins, and generally going about life.

As I opened the door and walked into the house, the volume of the screams increased. I noticed my brother and sister-in-law, hopelessly negotiating, soothing, and parenting in the kitchen, where Ashlyn was sprawled, unconsolable. My aunt welcomed me with a hug, and my eyes asked the questions. As she hugged me, she whispered, “Ashlyn realized today that she doesn’t get to see Grandpa anymore. She’s been in meltdown mode ever since.”

In that moment, my heart swelled with compassion even as my eyes filled with tears. I hadn’t even imagined how her little mind would wrap around the reality of tangible death. She had been Grandpa’s buddy. Long after the rest of us shied away shamefully in the last months of his life, feeling awkward and sad because the process of loss was too real to us, she’d cozy up next to him and tell him all about her day, her family, her life. He’d listen with joy and rapt attention to the details of her existence. I knew those moments meant everything to him, but I hadn’t thought about what they’d been for her.

As grown ups, we had all of the coping mechanisms. We knew how to talk about our feelings, how to rely on each other for support, and how to look toward Heaven. Ashlyn experienced grief in its truest and most intense form. She didn’t know what her feelings were. She didn’t know how to talk about what was inside. She couldn’t write a poem, sing a favorite song, or even slip away for some solitude. She certainly didn’t understand heaven - all she knew was that she wanted her grandpa, and she couldn’t have him. So, she sat on the kitchen floor and cried.

As I’ve been thinking about my sweet niece and how raw and true her response was, I’ve been overwhelmed with emotions. I’m so touched by the sweetness of her sadness. While the rest of us busied our hands and comforted our hearts, she gave way to the struggles going on inside of her.

I’m excited for her to learn more about Heaven, and for her to one day be Grandpa’s buddy there, too.

But mostly, I’m overwhelmed by the truth of grief. While maybe it gets easier as we get older - as we learn about hope, and we take comfort in the future - I think there’s still a part inside all of us that wants to just sit on the kitchen floor and cry.

And then maybe have a nice bowl of ice-cream.

So, after hours of fidgeting yesterday, today the blog works just fine. I haven’t messed with colors and such much, but at least I’m live and writing.

My favorite (at least lately) verse in the Bible is from the “sinner’s prayer” when the tax collecter whose sins were clear to the world, and who had no hope beyond the grace of God, calls out “Have mercy on me, a sinner!” In Russian, the word for sinner in this context is “greshniku.” Because I want to approach God with that kind of humility - and hope - I’ve become rather attached to the word, and see is as a reminder of who I am, and how much I’ve been given. 

I wrote the following the other day, and it’s amazing how much it fits into this theme. I didn’t even plan it this way!

I walk tentatively toward Your throne, My eyes are cast down, yet I know You’re watching me. The loud and varied sounds begin to hush around me. Some of the sounds are joyous - those who already have been granted freedom in Your presence. The silence they slip into is full of compassion and peace. They remember. The cries of those clamoring for Your attention, desperate that You grant them some large or small favor, grow still, but that silence is full of tension, anger, and judgment. They do not want me here. They don’t understand You, though. They don’t understand that You invited me - that You’ve been inviting me my whole life.

My fingers brush absently at my soiled and torn gown. I believe it was once brilliant and white. I’ve heard that it used to glimmer with unearthly radiance. But it’s been passed down to me for thousands of years. Each wearer added her own stains, and I, too, have left on it terrible, deep marks and blemishes on my journey to You. I fell so many times, and the blood and muck, the tears and rips, have joined the others to make all that was once glorious about it now completely unrecognizable.

The shame of appearing before You in such a state almost causes me to stop. I hesitate, just for a moment, wondering if I should wait until I’m cleaner, prettier, more put together before  I come before you. But then I remember the last note you sent me. So tender and gentle, so full of love and urgency.

“Come to me, now, my dear. Come while you carry too much, while your shoulders sag from the weight of it all. You’re bruised and wounded, and the world continues to bear down on you. Come to me so I can carry you. I love you and I will never leave you. Let me hide you under my wings. Let me give you a new heart and a new songs. Let me lighten your load and wash you white as snow.”

Your words trickle through my mind like the water I long to drink. My journey’s been so long and slow, but I’m so very close to You. Maybe You can’t really keep those promises You so convincingly wrote to me, but my heart soars with the idea that maybe You can.

I look up, my eyes filling with the tears of a thousand thoughts. I’m surprised that Your eyes, too, are wet and hopeful. I walk forward with new confidence. Everything else fades away - all the revelers and their songs, all the politicians and their demands - and there’s only You. You’ve risen from Your throne, You’re taking first steps then leaps toward me. All at once, I find myself wrapped in Your arms. You hold me tight and I can feel Your tears in my hair and hear You whispering “Finally! Oh, finally you’re here! How I’ve waited and hoped you’d come.”

And as I cling to You, I notice the tiniest white sparkle shine like a diamond on my tattered gown. And I know, at last, I’m home.