22nd Sunday after Pentecost

Last Sunday we discussed what's coming for us as the last part of the year unfurls itself. During the week we touched a bit on this as well. With all that in hand, it's time to see if we're indeed ready and able to ride through the rest of this year as we should: calmly, with the peace that only God can give us, no matter what the future holds.

Today, we'll look at what may be the ultimate distraction to our work - our own lives. Here's a personal (and painful) example.

While we're still some weeks from Advent, we've entered that time of year when a terrible recollection begins to grow ever stronger: the sickness and death of our dearest eldest child. We've shared this to some degree in the past. But the events have grown now almost 6 years old. So it's been a while.

But years have no bearing on the depth of sorrow that comes with marking this anniversary. He suffered a massive stroke on December 18th and died on the following January 2nd. Thus Advent and the Christmas Season now must bear the weight of recalling those 18 days he was in the ICU, with wild swings of hope and despair, culminating in his death.

We bring this up not to add to your own sorrows, if you have something of this weight to bear, but to simply share something personal in the hopes that you know you are not alone. And we bring it up now, rather than closer to Advent and Christmas so as not to dampen the joy of the season that so many of us look forward to.

Prior to our son's death, we always felt deep sympathy for those whose loved ones died near Christmas. It just seemed to cruel for death to come at that time. And the idea of the recollection remaining seemed a cross that must be extraordinarily difficult to bear.

But now we've been a part of this collection of those who once - and still do - call for a special heartfelt sympathy.

Not that this is an appeal for sympathy. It's not. Frankly, sympathy at this point, while gratefully accepted, really doesn't assuage any of the permanent sadness that I've labeled "the Great Sadness." Maybe a bit dramatic, but there it is. I even wrote and recorded a song recalling our son's death about four years after it happened. 

Part of that song addresses the whole "move on" thing. There's this school of modernist psychobabble that advises us that - after some predetermined (by them) length of time, we must all "move on" from the sorrows or tragedies that visit our lives. But this is abject nonsense - at least that's been the case for us. There's not "moving on" from the death of a child. Frankly, there's not moving on from the death of any loved one. Such matters take up a permanent residence in our hearts, in our memories. They revisit from time to time, sometimes more than others.

What does make sense, however, is the idea that we must not cling to our sadness, our sorrow. We must not linger or sink back into it and allow it to cause us to despair. And we most definitely must not allow it to separate us from God, Who permits such things for His own reasons.

Such reasons may remain mysterious to us, as is the case in the death of our son. But we know - our faith informs us - that whatever God brings to us or allows to happen to us is ultimately for good. It's can be hard to swallow, but there it is.

And indeed, He gave us the grace to know this and to avoid turning on Him, as has happened to others whom we know who experienced the death of a child.

Our point in recalling all this is to show a powerful example of how our own personal lives can, and likely do, create tremendous distractions for us as we try to do a good job each day. Each of us must deal with this in his own way.

Sunday is our day of rest, of course. But it also may be - as it draws to a close - a time to look forward to the week's work that awaits us. Anticipating any distractions that we know may pop up is one way to be prepared. Hope this has been helpful in that endeavor.

Happy Sunday!