Written originally January 10, 2017
Happy 24th Birthday, Luke!!!
Last semester, I released balloons one frigid night in your honor, in celebration of your life; I scrawled a letter and whispered goodbye, as I’ve done a hundred times before.
You see, one evening, an incredible girl on my hall came to me with her own story of brokenness, her grief in losing her dad the previous year. Desperately longing to honor him, celebrate him, she shared with me her favorite memories, and we cried and laughed that night in both hurt and hope.
I mentioned you, knowing that grief chooses to knock differently at each door—but praying to extend to her the hope that comes from solidarity, from knowing that she will walk her journey and emerge someday, different but victorious.
We spoke of grieving by doing and honoring and remembering: “we could write letters and release balloons?” I mentioned. She murmured yes, she would like that. We’ve found that grief is best healed together, so that week we bought balloons, her dad’s favorite color and your favorite too, and we trudged to the golf course over the hill. We prayed, and we spoke of how, someday, the Lord will wipe away all our tears, will bring healing to all brokenness, will allow us to dance again with the ones we love. We both can’t wait for that day, Luke. Oh what hope! We released the balloons, and we watched them float into the sky, away in the swirling wind, up to the clouds and out of sight.
This night proved harder than I thought it would, the weight of it pressing heavily on my heart, the irony of it too, the glory and hope of balloons—celebration!—and the despair and misery of death and all it entangles. Who are we to celebrate in the midst of brokenness? Was I making this sacred ache somehow trite and irreverent? But, I have held close these words all year: "Now, now I know this: joy is the affirmation of the truest thing in this life. Joy is born, not from pretending everything is fine, but from holding both hope and truth together. The Christian can stand in that liminal space, the place of grief, even there with joy. Why? Because joy is the affirmation of the thing that is truer than any trouble, any affliction: the affirmation that Love wins. Jesus is as good as we hope, it’s all worth it, and all will be redeemed."
I’ve been learning for a while to walk “in the liminal space between joy and grief.” Luke, today, your birthday, is a day these ideas often puncture my thoughts--but they did yesterday too, and they probably will tomorrow as well. I miss you. I wish I could tell you happy birthday with cards and cake and candles and hats instead of whispers and prayers held silent and close.
Friends, you might be walking in this space today too—celebrating and grieving, these emotions tangled up into a knot that requires all your faith to believe will someday unravel into glory unveiled. Keep going. If you are grieving this season—feeling the weight of celebration and grief, joy and despair, I do know of a few good stores that sell balloons, a few good friends who might trudge up the hill with you—believers who can promise to show up, and hold your hand, and gently wipe away your trickling tears. Let’s crawl, or dance, or walk slowly in that space, up the hill, together. I’m doing that today. Happy Birthday, Luke! You are celebrated, and honored, and loved. I miss you—and sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see the heaven-celebration all around. Happy, happy birthday!