The Kindness of God
Wrestling with what I know and what I hope
I suppose that eating one’s own words is a good diet for discipleship.
Two weeks ago I wrote about vulnerability in writing. My claim at that time1 was that I feel less vulnerable about what I write, and more worried about the way in which I present my thoughts to the world. Are they perfect? Am I being clear? Is this worth anyone’s time? And the dreaded Do I have typos or bad grammar?
I wasn’t thinking about an essay I’d written months earlier. In May I submitted a pitch to Fathom Mag, and they graciously published my article this week. I feel all kinds of vulnerable about the actual content of it—the grief of losing my father, who was an atheist.
I’ve written about grief several times before, but this essay feels overtly more specific. I share it in hopes of encouraging, coming alongside, and learning with others who have lost loved ones who did not call Jesus, Lord. I share it because it’s what I needed in those weeks after Dad’s passing, when I was looking and questioning and searching for loopholes…things I suppose I’m still looking for.
What I have found, though, is the way—once again—God is making things more beautiful than necessary. All the intertwined stories, all the open doors to His kindness, the way He is ridiculously good. Grief has steeped me deep within His goodness.
That might be the main reason I’m sharing the essay.
I have a lot to say about this but it feels like I need a small space to do it in. Does that make sense? If you need a small space, too, I’d be honored to have you read this piece and come back here to talk about it, or shoot me an email.
I reserve the right to always change my mind and call it growth.
Oh my, Tresta, tears welled up as I read this essay about your dad.... such a cross of beauty and truth and grief. The power of place is a real thing and who knows but that your dad and Eugene Peterson's paths crossed once.... And the gift of knowing that your dad's place was cared for by a company owned by Christians is indeed a comfort.
My mother died of cancer when she was 55, I was 31. When she was in the ER at UCLA where we'd taken her because of her pain, I was told in no uncertain terms there would be no talk of Jesus at her memorial service (although my brother the pastor could do the service). Years before she'd accepted Jesus but the ensuing difficulties of her life buried that decision and in the end she seemed resigned to a hard life. However, seeds had been planted along the way by my brother and I, many prayers prayed on her behalf.
I wasn't with her when she finally passed as I had to return from SoCal to our home in the Central Valley in CA, but my sister recounted what she witnessed right at the end of mom's life. She'd been in a coma for several days and my sister and her husband had been keeping vigil. L. glanced at my mom in her hospital bed and my mother's eyes blinked open, a tear rolled down her cheek and she looked at my sister and said, "Sorry," and she was gone.
I've hung on to that last scene all these years, confident that my mother's spirit knew what the truth was, that a single word "sorry" summed up all that was in her heart before she left this Earth.
We cling to hope and continue to be kind and "trust in the slow work of God" (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin).
It is a blessed work, my friend, one which you carry on well.
Peace.
This was beautiful, and true, and holy. Thank you.