A quarter of a year has passed since Ben reached the top of that mountain, took a picture and then died on the way down.
I have tried so many times to write something in tribute to my cousin, in gratitude to God for his 26-years of life, in surrender of whatever claim we thought we had on him, and in full agreement that God's ways are good. But it's so hard to write about something so raw, and so big that no matter how many days pass by, or how many miles I run, or how many prayers I pray, the tears still come at every remembrance.
God has given me a gift in every single cousin I have. With each passing day, my love from them grows. But somehow, you never know how much you value something until that something is snatched away. And when Ben was snatched away, there was an unimaginably big hole left that really hurt.
So many people put faces on what I felt: my grandmother without a grandson, his parents without a son, my cousins without a brother, other cousins without a cousin, and so many others without a friend. We felt loss -- major loss. And because we're human, loss is really hard. Individually and together.
I have a group of 13-15-year-old cousins, to whom Ben was a hero. They were just the right ages to bond in just the right way (well, I think all of us were). On the night of his visitation, that precious group slowly trickled into the pew with me, slowly wrapped their arms around each other, and let their tears flow while watching the slideshow of Ben's 26 years of life. There were pictures of them with Ben -- hanging on him, laughing with him, grinning. And they would laugh at some memories, remind each other of things they had forgotten, and then they'd fall quiet and cry again. It was a really good thing to do.
We talked about several things that night that I've continued to think about since then:
1) The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. When He takes away, it means that He already gave. And in either stage, we cannot fail to bless Him. This is our Father's world.
2) We will all be taken away at some point. And we must be ready. When we die, we must know and the whole world should know where we are heading.
3) And as we want the world to know where we are going, we should also strive to take the world with us. We cannot speed through life without sharing Him who is our life and hope, calling men to repent and put their faith in Jesus, and inviting them to drink from Life's Fountain and come to Jesus. This is why we live.
I'm learning that life really is short. I'm learning how pain really is real. And I'm seeing that grace really is sufficient.
I've watched Ben's family rise to praise God, then one of them leave for a mission opportunity in Spain. I've been other cousins calling other cousins to remind them of truth, and faithfully continue to the next thing. I've seen people plunged to the depths of despair in this, and then come to know Christ the Savior as a result of it. And I've been learning: what seems evil, God uses for good.
In June, when the visitation was over, and the funeral was finished, and the dirt covered the casket, and church was over, I went home. And I went running, to sing in my heart, "It is Well." I was reminded of one very true thing as I headed home: We're not supposed to have all the answers, but to know the One who has them is the greatest comfort in the world.
I would rather trust the One who has the Answers and walk with Him, than to know everything and walk alone.
I have tried so many times to write something in tribute to my cousin, in gratitude to God for his 26-years of life, in surrender of whatever claim we thought we had on him, and in full agreement that God's ways are good. But it's so hard to write about something so raw, and so big that no matter how many days pass by, or how many miles I run, or how many prayers I pray, the tears still come at every remembrance.
God has given me a gift in every single cousin I have. With each passing day, my love from them grows. But somehow, you never know how much you value something until that something is snatched away. And when Ben was snatched away, there was an unimaginably big hole left that really hurt.
So many people put faces on what I felt: my grandmother without a grandson, his parents without a son, my cousins without a brother, other cousins without a cousin, and so many others without a friend. We felt loss -- major loss. And because we're human, loss is really hard. Individually and together.
I have a group of 13-15-year-old cousins, to whom Ben was a hero. They were just the right ages to bond in just the right way (well, I think all of us were). On the night of his visitation, that precious group slowly trickled into the pew with me, slowly wrapped their arms around each other, and let their tears flow while watching the slideshow of Ben's 26 years of life. There were pictures of them with Ben -- hanging on him, laughing with him, grinning. And they would laugh at some memories, remind each other of things they had forgotten, and then they'd fall quiet and cry again. It was a really good thing to do.
We talked about several things that night that I've continued to think about since then:
1) The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. When He takes away, it means that He already gave. And in either stage, we cannot fail to bless Him. This is our Father's world.
2) We will all be taken away at some point. And we must be ready. When we die, we must know and the whole world should know where we are heading.
3) And as we want the world to know where we are going, we should also strive to take the world with us. We cannot speed through life without sharing Him who is our life and hope, calling men to repent and put their faith in Jesus, and inviting them to drink from Life's Fountain and come to Jesus. This is why we live.
I'm learning that life really is short. I'm learning how pain really is real. And I'm seeing that grace really is sufficient.
I've watched Ben's family rise to praise God, then one of them leave for a mission opportunity in Spain. I've been other cousins calling other cousins to remind them of truth, and faithfully continue to the next thing. I've seen people plunged to the depths of despair in this, and then come to know Christ the Savior as a result of it. And I've been learning: what seems evil, God uses for good.
In June, when the visitation was over, and the funeral was finished, and the dirt covered the casket, and church was over, I went home. And I went running, to sing in my heart, "It is Well." I was reminded of one very true thing as I headed home: We're not supposed to have all the answers, but to know the One who has them is the greatest comfort in the world.
I would rather trust the One who has the Answers and walk with Him, than to know everything and walk alone.
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