This Too Shall Last
There was chai tea, turkey buns, pies, games, and a campfire on that perfect fall day.
At this covid-friendly, outdoor, family Thanksgiving we'd never guess that six weeks later our dad/grandpa/husband would be fighting leukemia.
Through my dad’s cancer journey this winter I held on to the hope of visiting with him around campfires this summer.
Now, grief has me longing for those first seconds after waking, when it is all just a bad dream.
But instead, I wake to a stinging reality, This Too Shall Last—a book I read this month about finding grace when suffering lingers.
In this post, I reflect on K.J. Ramsey's perspectives as I share my wrestling with suffering, goodness, community, and hope.
Suffering
I was researching trauma before my dad’s cancer diagnosis, sensing a need for a broader understanding of how the body’s physical response to accumulated stress affects health and inner healing.
The tightness in my stomach, heaviness in my chest, ache in my head, or pain in my neck are all messages.
Two excellent books I read on this are:
The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, and
Healing Trauma: A Pioneering Program for Restoring the Wisdom of Your Body, with 12 practical steps and exercises to help assess where the body is in a fight, flight, or freeze state and to bring resolution to these places.
K.J. Ramsey also references these resources in This Too Shall Last, noting:
“We locate the place we find ourselves in by noticing our emotions, our bodies, and our inner dialogue. Faith is a response that requires paying attention to ourselves,” (pg. 212).
The night after my dad passed away I’d wake often in tears, haunted by five months of hospital images and questions like:
How could my dad be okay without us? How could we go on without him?
My husband would lovingly hold me and assure me I could breathe through another wave of grief. Eternal life and heavenly hope just didn’t bring a lot of physical comfort or mental relief in those early hours. Ramsey gets this space:
"You don't need another before and after story; you need grace for the middle of your story" (pg. 42).
Our brains provide “grace for the middle” by protecting us so that we don’t drown under an abundance of love and can manage it better in smaller waves.
A guest speaker at church recently made a statement that resonated with so many:
“Grief is love that has nowhere to go.”
5F4-room 24 was the hospital room my dad began his leukemia journey and it was also the room where he took his last breath with my mom by his side. This detail leaves me curious, after numerous hospital rooms over three different extended stays, could this have been a coincidence?
No one missed the significance of my dad’s passing on Good Friday evening, or the tragic beauty of my husband’s and my voice heard through my mom’s cell phone in the hospital singing, “hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me…Jesus Christ, our living hope…” as my dad breathed through his final hour.
As we drove home from leading worship that evening we received an urgent message, “come now, this is the end.” We turned the van around and my siblings and I were all en route to the hospital when only minutes later we heard the haunting video call ringtone, a triggering sound that connected us throughout this family health crisis.
We looked into our phones to watch my mom share that our dad had passed peacefully and sobbed the rest of the way to the hospital where we gathered around him in prayer, worship, and deep mourning.
There was a mercy that he was in palliative care, due to widespread internal bleeding from leukemia, for only two days and I'm grateful he had many cherished visits from family and friends in his final hours.
It isn’t a bad dream, I wish it was, but “it is the reality of a broken world.” That was the line that resonated with my dad when the doctor shared what caused leukemia—preferring that over “bad luck!” And I think that's the line that comforts those in long-term suffering.
I look at our world map a few weeks later in our homeschool room and my kids and I agree that the continents only begin to reflect how broken this world is.
Ramsey says:
“Suffering whispers, shouts, and screams the story no one wants to remember: we are not in control, and we are all going to die,” (pg. 60).
Death will be ALL of our endings but this isn’t the way it was supposed to be. The Garden of Eden, full of every good thing then, contrasts with every terrible thing now. Despite our fractured earth and hearts, the goodness of God is evident every single day, if we have eyes to see, and it foreshadows when all will be made new!
Goodness
My head hurts from holding back tears when our church sings, “your goodness is running after me” on Mother’s Day, two Sundays after we'd sung this as siblings at our dad's celebration of life.
I know your goodness God, even in this agonizing season, but even goodness hurts right now.
Most of the songs we've sung at church this past month have brought stinging tears as the Holy Spirit draws close (Psalm 24:18).
I wipe my eyes and wonder how many others have felt this way at church. Ramsey considers this too, sitting in discomfort with chronic pain, week after week, while everyone else stands in worship:
“I wonder how many people whose lives are lined by the long-term suffering end up quietly leaving the church or barely coming at all, simply because being there is too painful,” (pg. 350).
I see where my dad used to stand in worship, clapping offbeat with all his heart and speaking out words of faith. I dab at my tears, again, and join in the chorus because I know this is not the end of the story and the legacy of his faith challenges me in my grief to REMEMBER. God gave my dad that word as his last sermon title.
Ramsey recognizes the testimony of spaces of long-suffering:
“Grace is not just power to overcome. It is power to endure,” (pg. 365).
Moments upon memories trigger emotion and I allow myself to feel and accept that love hurts but somehow the epitome of Love will make this right, in time.
Ramsey reminds us:
“Without vulnerability, the truth that God's love is steadfast remains abstract. Tears, groans, and sighs create the relational atmosphere we can allow God to parent us,” (pg. 171).
My husband chokes back his own raw tears as he picks up my parents’ travel trailer to sell—it should have been Dad pulling it out for their first trip of the season.
My vision blurs as I drive through a maze of downtown high rises after dropping my mom off for hip surgery—it should have been Dad driving her there.
This faith journey, a personal relationship with Jesus, always has room for lament. Even Jesus asked where God was in his darkest hour (Matthew 27:46)!
And when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer last spring, I reflected on Sarah Clarkson's book This Beautiful Truth (blog post link): How God’s Goodness Breaks into Our Darkness. Ramsey's words remind me of these truths again:
“When the smile of God feels hidden behind clouds of pain, grief, and self-doubt, the beauty of this world pulses with the energy of its maker, whispering for us to come see,” (pg. 217).
I plant my flowers, packing dirt under my nails, as they rise in their newly rooted glory. I hum songs of worship, feeling closer to Jesus and my dad, as I soak up the quiet beauty of this outdoor space.
My prayer throughout this health crisis and now in grief:
God, keep my heart soft to you and to the world.
I look up from washing dishes, to see my six kids taking turns swinging on the rope hanging from the flowering Mayday tree.
Goodness is keeping my heart soft as it follows me (Psalm 23:6)!
Community
The generous souls that have surrounded us with food, flowers, and fellowship in this season have witnessed our story and been witnesses of Christ's love. Ramsey agrees:
“When we allow someone who is empathetic and safe to see our pain, shame, and need, we place our bodies in a position to remember original love,” (pg. 109).
Our vulnerability draws others closer to us and we experience Christ’s strengthing presence together!
“Our crosses are too heavy to hold on our own. Even Jesus needed help carrying his,” (pg. 336).
Ramsey's big question in This Too Shall Last:
Is God good?
And maybe we can only answer this question hand-in-hand?
He is!
Hope
I still feel like my dad could walk into the room and everything would be made right as we laugh about the ridiculousness of this last year.
I see a picture of my dad and stare a little too long, searching for a hidden message.
Then I remind myself, again, this isn’t a bad dream, this is my reality.
This is my one life and I'm responsible for my choices in caring for my body, mind, and soul—as mentioned at the beginning—even in grief.
So I set out to follow through on my phrase for this year and “do the next right thing in love” for myself, my family, and my community.
I wrestled through this first month with honesty, avoiding Christian pat answers, knowing my heart would find truth in the messiness of my pain, by the revelation of the Holy Spirit!
I know more wrestling is ahead. But like a twinkling light far off in a lighthouse, I’m beginning to see glimpses of the incredible hope and joy there is in seeing my dad again, for eternity!
It is beginning to feel comforting and not cliche.
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
—Revelation 21: 4
When we know the things that will pass and the things that will last our hope is renewed in a way no one can sway.
Ramsey says:
“But it's on the couches, through tears, that I've come to see that living with suffering that lingers can mean more fully receiving God's presence that lasts (pg. 44). And one day soon, we will rise. We'll trade our places on this couch for honored seats around a table. We'll sit, with bodies that no longer ache and minds that no longer fear, and instead of pain, we'll share laughter. The tears we need to glimpse grace will be wiped away Christ's tender, scarred hands (pg. 49). The couch was a throne all along (pg. 50).”
I would never have guessed that beautiful Thanksgiving evening was our last campfire together, Dad.
But our memories and love shall last, until we sit around a heavenly campfire and reflect on this season together.
I can’t wait!
I love hearing from readers! Share your reflections in the comments below or on social media…
I send out “Soulful Words” at the end of each month, an email for those who value slowing down and caring for their soul.
Our next quarterly event is for those who are local: Join us for dinner around a chunky table as we reflect on our home educating journeys and grief stories. RSVP under Events in the Traveling Life Together FB Group!
