Go Rest High (A Letter to Heaven)

     You told me time really would heal.  Less than six months before you were gone.  The words were for Matt, but I hear them in my mind all the time.  You knew grief...the ins and outs of it...how to minister to people in the midst of it.  It's been a year and a half since I kissed you goodbye for the last time this side of Heaven.  Sometimes the grief is just the dull ache Matt taught me about that night on the balcony.  Sometimes it's easy to tell stories about you and share memories and laugh.  And sometimes, the smell of McDonald's coffee makes me weep because I miss you so much.  I can close my eyes, and see you in the driver's seat, picking up coffee for you and cinnamon rolls for me.  Sometimes my pots and pans bring me to tears, because they are the pots and pans you decided I needed to have.  When I remember not to turn the heat too high because they are so classy they work well at lower temperatures, I think about how excited you were to order that set for us, even though Gran didn't think it was the most romantic wedding gift!  Just this week, I was thinking about you in your school days, being asked to memorize a bible verse.  You always picked "Jesus wept," because it was the shortest recorded in Scripture.  I think about the teachers you said hit you on the wrists with rulers, and I still feel rage as I picture myself going after some 1940's schoolmarm with rulers of my own.

     This week, as Matt and I celebrate our fourth anniversary, I picture you on our wedding day.  With tears streaming down your face, you hugged Matt and whispered, "Take care of my baby."  And he keeps that promise, Papaw.  He keeps it every day.  He prays over me and speaks peace into my days and guards my heart so carefully and sweetly.

      Sometimes I listen to the voice mail you left me on my birthday several years ago.  I never parted with it.  Sometimes I just need to hear those words..."I just called to wish you a happy, happy, happy birthday.  And I love you very much, of course you know that, and you'll always be Papaw's girl.  Always.  Happy Birthday, Baby."  

     So, Papaw, some nights, like tonight, the grief feels fresh.  When the anxiety gets the best of me and everything overwhelms me, I wish more than anything I could put my head on your shoulder and feel the panic subside.  I wish you were right here to just make things okay.  I wish I could have a sip of Diet Rite. I wish I could feel that immediate peace.

     A wise man corrected me when I talked about the peace you gave to me.  He said you didn't give it to me; you showed me where it already was, hidden in my heart.  And that's true, isn't it?  You were my anchor, but you were really showing me the Anchor for my soul, the hope of Jesus.  That's the peace I am fighting for.  I'm fighting with everything I have to hold onto the peace and freedom I have gained.  I hope you know that.  And I think about you as I fight.  That same wise man (I guess that's why he got a Ph.D.!) talked to me about your legacy.  What did you pass onto me?  What do I carry on in your honor?  I know I want to make people laugh.  No one was better at that than you.  A close friend says my sense of humor is one smaller part coping mechanism, one (more important) part Joy of the Lord.  That's from you, isn't it?  Even in the most difficult times, I want to make people laugh.  I want to be someone who gives peace.  I want to be someone who can help in the hardest of circumstances, praying for peace that transcends understanding.  I want to be in the Word.  When I think of you buying me a bible just for my reading level, painstakingly putting on tab after tab after tab...I want more than ever to be a woman in the Word.  Oh, how I hope I will carry your legacy well.

     I love to think about you in Heaven.  I love that you have perfect, complete joy.  No sadness.  No worries.  No pain.  I love that you are seeing your faith realized as you spend eternity praising the King of Kings.  I love that one day I will join you there.  You must be mesmerized with every exquisite detail.  The streets of gold, the water...I can just picture you telling Jesus it's better than Florida.  I bet you make him laugh.  I picture you watching a thunderstorm, not from your front porch, but from above the clouds.  Have you seen storehouses laden with snow?

     I do not grieve without hope.  My anchor holds.  The anchor you helped me find time and time again.  And just when I need it most, I'll hear "Because He Lives" and know I can face tomorrow.  I'm working hard on the "all fear is gone" part, but I'm getting there, step by step.  I love you very much, but of course you know that.