Touch The Sky

My car got damaged recently.

We were at the lake, spending time together as a family. When we came back to the parking lot, there it was. Someone had hit my car and left. No note. No name. No apology.

A few years ago, I would have been really upset.

I would have looked at that dent and thought about the cost, the inconvenience, the unfairness of someone damaging something that belonged to me and simply driving away, and honestly, how ugly it looks and what other people would think when they see it.

But this time, I looked at it and realized something.

It didn’t matter.

My family had returned safely from the lake. Everyone I loved who had gone to the lake that day was standing there.

A dent could be fixed. A car could be repaired.

After the losses our family has experienced, I know some things in this life can’t be repaired the same way.

I have lost my mom.

We lost our precious baby Tatum.

And in many ways, grief has taken pieces of our entire family.

I recently saw a post on Instagram that said we should be gentle with people who have lost a parent, sibling, spouse, or child because a part of them is gone too.

I understand that now, in a way I never wanted to understand.

When someone you deeply love leaves this earth, their absence touches everyone who loved them.

A piece is missing from each of us.

From my husband, the patriarch of our family, to my little grandbaby Zyla.

Sometimes Zyla asks questions that are so innocent and yet express what I think every one of us has felt:

“Can we ask Jesus to send baby Tatum back?”

The innocence of a child.

If only it worked that way.

If only we could ask Jesus to send our loved ones back.

But we can’t.

And sometimes there isn’t an answer to the question, Why?

I don’t understand why we have had to walk through this season. I don’t understand why some prayers are answered the way we desperately hope, and others aren’t.

But I am learning that I don’t have to understand everything to trust God.

And I am learning that grief changes you.

Grief has changed the way I see people.

I spent many years in ministry. I have always had a heart for hurting people. I prayed for people who had lost someone they loved. I sat with grieving families. I tried to encourage them and help them.

But now I listen differently.

Now I really hear.

When someone tells me they have lost their mother, father, spouse, sibling, child, or grandchild, I don’t rush past their words.

I understand there is a story behind that sentence.

There are memories.

There are empty chairs.

There are birthdays that feel different.

There are holidays that will never quite be the same.

There are ordinary moments when grief suddenly appears without warning.

So now I pray more intentionally.

I am more intentional about asking, “What can I do?”

And I have also learned to understand when the answer is: “Nothing, thank you.”

Because sometimes there really isn’t anything another person can do.

You cannot fix grief.

You cannot replace the person who is missing.

You cannot say the perfect words that will make everything okay again.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is to be there.

To listen.

To pray.

To sit quietly.

To remember their loved one’s name.

To let them cry.

To let them laugh without feeling guilty.

To let them talk when they need to talk and be silent when they have no words left.

I understand that now.

Life still has stressful things.

There are bills.

There are financial concerns.

Things get lost.

Things break.

Cars get scratched or dented.

Plans fall apart.

People disappoint us.

Life doesn’t stop being difficult simply because we have experienced something worse.

But grief has given me a different measuring stick.

Standing in that parking lot, looking at my damaged car, I realized I measure things differently now.

Everyone came back from the lake.

That mattered.

My family members who are still here are safe.

That mattered.

And those who have gone before us are safe in Jesus’ arms.

That matters eternally.

Those of us who know Jesus have the incredible promise that death does not get the final word.

We will spend eternity together.

The people I love who are already in heaven are not lost to God. They are gloriously waiting on the other side of this life, and because of Jesus, I have the hope that one day we will be together again.

Suddenly, a dent in a car seems very small.

At the end of our lives, we won’t take our cars with us.

We won’t take our houses, cars or bank accounts.

We won’t take the things we worked so hard to collect and protect.

But people matter eternally.

Family matters. Friends matter.

The person standing in front of you matters.

The person quietly grieving beside you matters.

So maybe we should stop a little more often.

Smile.

Give the hug.

Make the phone call.

Say “I love you.”

Sit with the hurting person.

Pray when you tell someone you’re going to pray.

Give grace when someone doesn’t seem like themselves, because maybe a piece of them is missing too.

And when someone says, “No, thank you, I just need some time,” love them enough to understand that too.

I never chose this season, but God is forging something in me.

I still don’t understand some things, and I may carry questions with me for the rest of my life.

But I can see that God is doing something in me through it.

A few years ago, I would have been angry about that scratched and dented red car.

Today, I looked at it and saw something completely different.

I saw another reminder that things can be replaced, but people cannot.

And somewhere in the middle of a season I still don’t understand, I can feel God teaching me more deeply what love really means.

Not the kind of love that depends on everything going the way we hoped.

Not the kind that disappears when life becomes painful.

But the kind of love that stays.

The kind of love that sits beside someone when words fail.

The kind of love that keeps showing up.

The kind of love that holds onto faith even while crying.

The kind of love God has shown me over and over again.

His unconditional love is being forged in me.

Perhaps that is one of the things grief can teach us, if we allow God to meet us in the middle of it.

Life is precious, time is precious, and people matter.

And so today, the dent can stay a dent for a little while.

Because when I look at it, I am reminded:

We all came home from the lake.

And right now, the people I love are safe. Some are here, where I can hold them, and some are in heaven, where Jesus holds them.

One day, because of Him, we will all be together again.

Compared to that promise, a dent in a beautiful red car really doesn’t matter.

Cherish every moment you have with the people you love.