The sting of death

“Oh death! Why do you touch the tree beneath whose spreading branches weariness finds rest? Why do you snatch away the excellent of the earth, in whom is all our delight? If you must use your axe, use it upon the trees that yield no fruit; then you may be thanked. But why will you chop down the best trees?” These are the worlds of Charles Spurgeon, later modernised by Alistair Begg.

The axe of death has chopped down the tree under whose branches I found comfort, counsel, friendship, support and much more.

Dad wore many hats. He was a husband, a father, a friend, a church elder and colleague. To me, he was my dad, my friend, my namesake, my counsellor and as we often joked, he was “ba mulamu” (brother in-law). With dad’s death, the axe of death took all of this and much more from me. I doubt there is a combination of words in the English language that can accurately describe the thoughts and feelings that enveloped me on that fateful morning of his passing. It is hard to put to word the feelings I wake up to each morning since then. All I can say is, I miss him.

A little hope

I carried a little dose of hope on my journey back home. I thought that I would get home and find dad still alive. I hoped that once I landed in Zambia and my phone connected to the local network, my phone will be buzzing with his call asking how far I was from the town centre. I hoped that as he had always done, he would come and pick me up and take me home.

My phone did not buzz. He was not waiting for me at the bus station.

During the last part of the journey, as we drove to our home, I still pictured dad coming to meet me from the taxi. Instead, I was greeted by a gathering of mourners.

He did not come to meet me.

This “little hope” would almost run out during the burial. As his body was lowered into the ground, I knew there is no coming back from there. Foolish me went back home and still thought I would find dad there. That when everyone else has gone, he would appear from somewhere and we would be reunited with him. That as we did on numerous occasions, it would be just the two of us chatting late into the night while everyone in the house was sleeping.

He didn’t reappear. He wasn’t there to talk to me through the night.

A couple of days before leaving home, I visited his gravesite again. It was just the way we left it. He is still buried. When time came for me to return to Germany, dad was not standing there waving me goodbye as he always did. He did not sit and pray for me one last time. I did not hear his voice wishing me a safe journey.

He wasn’t there.

The “little hope” was now all gone. I now know that I will never see dad this side of life. I will never get to sit with him and talk like we did before. As hard as it may be, I have to accept that dad is no more.

The big hope

One mark of dad’s life was his love for his saviour Jesus Christ. He always told us about that. So even if dad is no longer with us in the body, I know that he is with the saviour he loved and served. Even if all the “little hope” is gone, I have “big hope” that I will get to see him someday. Oh how I look forward to that day.

Because of this “big hope,” I also know that dad is not “no more.” Oh no, he is “some more!” He has left the afflictions and sufferings of this world behind. He has left the pain and sorrow and is now at peace. He is “some more.” It is comforting to know this. It is even more comforting to know that unlike the “little hope”, this “big hope” will never run out. I know I will get to see my dad again.

This thought though, does not take away the pain for us left behind. It still hurts to not have him around. It hurts to imagine a world without him. I miss my dad. I miss him dearly.

For now, I will remind myself to be grateful in this grief. Grateful to have been his son. Grateful to have shared the same name with him. Grateful that he loved us. That he loved me. Grateful that God gave him to us. That we got to share many moments with him. Grateful that he pointed us to the cross.

I miss you, dad.