Yet because of you, I have seen Victory. Not your victory, but His victory. Which became her victory. Because of you and your taking of life, I have seen again that New Life is the end of the story.
Even you, O Death, are being used for a greater purpose. Even you are playing a part in the grand plan to bring New Life to us. Even you submit to the Victor. Even you cannot foil what He purposes.
I will grieve and cry and sleep in sorrow because of what you've done, yet I will rejoice and sing and rise in hope because of what He has done.
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One week before Sarah died, we were visiting with her husband and rejoicing in the good news that she was responding to meds and had finally turned a corner. We thought she was out of the woods. We thought she would soon recover. We thought we'd be gathering again in the near future to hear the testimony of how God had healed her.
Instead, one week later we gathered at their home to mourn her death and that of her unborn child.
It was shocking, to say the least. Even though she'd been in the hospital for awhile, no one saw this coming. We woke up on a Wednesday morning and heard the news. The burden of grief weighed on us immediately, and it felt like a stone around our necks.
Sarah was our colleague, our neighbor, our friend. She and her husband are an integral part of our community here, and the entire community felt the enormity of the loss. Not only did she die, but she died in our hospital, under our care. The loss felt personal. Sarah was given incredible care, but her condition was too advanced and she eventually succumbed to it despite everything we could possibly do being done.
How do doctors grieve the loss of a patient who is also their friend?
How does a community grieve the loss of a neighbor we greet on the sidewalk and sit next to at Bible Study?
The answer is together. We grieve together.
This is what love looks like. This is a community of people gathered together, leaving their shoes at the door, to be present with one another in a culture where no one grieves alone.
On the morning that Sarah died, our community immediately gathered at her house to collectively grieve with her husband, Daniel, and their families. That initial grief gathering was raw. Lots of tears and wailing. The loss was fresh and acutely felt by all. Later that evening we gathered again, cramming people into every corner of the living room and hallway to support each other and to pray and to fellowship in the aftermath of death.
That first evening of fellowship led to another, and another, and another. Our community gathered every single night for fellowship at Sarah and Daniel's house until the funeral 10 days later. Someone would give a devotion, we'd worship and pray, and somehow find ourselves laughing with joy in the midst of such sorrow. Those nightly fellowship gatherings were beautiful and life-giving.
I will admit it felt counter-cultural. Americans would never do this. We grieve much more privately and individually. Yet spending time together each night was a powerful source of healing. As a community who collectively suffered a loss, choosing to connect with each other every night in order to worship our Lord was a balm for the wounds of grief.
In the midst of this, we learned more about the African perspective on death. It was eye-opening and challenging for us Americans. We continually heard people say, "God has done it" or something similar. It was God's will for Sarah to die at this time. That's the reason she died. We must, and do, accept God's will in this.
Such a perspective offers great comfort to the African worldview.
It also goes against the grain of my own worldview.
My response to such tragedy is Why? It isn't fair! She was too young! She had more life to live! Why did You allow this, Lord?
My response was to weep with an American friend at the injustice that Sarah and Daniel will now never have what we have: years ahead of them and children in their midst.
My response echoed these lyrics by Bebo Norman:
Your broken body, it cannot weather
The years your youth still longs to spend
So go down graceful, sleep with the angels
And wake up whole again
'Cause it was not your time; that's a useless line
A fallen world took your life
I agree that a fallen world took her life. The Fall left us in a world where everything dies. But I also agree that God has done it. He at least allowed Sarah's death, as He allows all death. And I must wrestle with these truths.
As I wrestle, I also rejoice in another truth: that Sarah's death brought glory to God. I was reading through Philippians when Sarah died, and Paul's profound words regarding death rang out: "...now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death" (Philippians 1:20b).
Whether by our lives or our deaths, Christ is exalted.
It was not only Sarah's death, but her baby's death, that brought glory to God. This is a really hard truth for the American worldview. The death of an unborn child bringing glory to God? The idea rankles. It's wrong, unjust, unfair, wholly inglorious.
But Daniel's perspective, which he earnestly expressed in the days following Sarah's death, is true: Sarah did not die childless, as some might assume because the baby was never born. (Bearing children is of preeminent importance in this culture.) Rather, Sarah and her baby are both in heaven together, and someone is calling Sarah "mom" even now.
I wept when I heard him say this. I wept because it's true. And I wept because my entire being still cried out against the unfairness of it all. I wept because there's a tension in my response to Death.
That tension remains, but I am grateful for it. The tension allows both grief and joy, exhaustion and rest, angst and peace. It allows room for the mysteries that surround Life and Death.
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In the midst of the grief process, Philippians 4:8 struck a chord with me:
"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble,
whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely,
whatever is admirable ⏤ if anything is excellent or praiseworthy ⏤
think about such things."
Sarah loved the Lord and followed Him, and she and her baby are in heaven with Jesus right now. That is true.
The doctors at this hospital did everything within their power to try healing Sarah. That was noble.
Our community gathered around Sarah and Daniel and their families during her sickness. We supported them and encouraged them as best as we could. That was right.
There were ceaseless prayers being offered for Sarah's protection and healing. Those prayers were pure.
The memories of Sarah as a kind, loving, compassionate woman fill us with gratitude and joy. That is lovely.
The greater community, including hospital staff and our church community, worked together to raise funds for funeral expenses and the outstanding hospital bill. That was admirable.
Our community gathered every night to worship together and to remember God's goodness and faithfulness in the midst of death and sorrow, forsaking other commitments in order to do so. That was excellent and praiseworthy.
So we are thinking about such things. We are thanking God for a life well lived, a life that was devoted to serving Him, a life that gave glory to God even in death. We acknowledge God's sovereignty over all things, including death, and we stand amazed at the truth that "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints" (Psalm 116:15).
There is glory in death. Glory to God.
