Confession: I’m not talking to Jesus
I sat with my brother, Jay, at the pub and learned that it was the place where he first met Michelle, his wife. He showed me their table in the corner and he told me about a friend who brought Michelle over and told her she needed to talk to him. What unfolded was 20 years being married and countless hikes in the woods.
Jay pointed across the river to the Indian reservation and told me about the medical services he qualified for since he is part Native American. We laughed in delight about his and Michelle’s shop being opened on the water back in August. I told him how proud our dad would be of him, seeing him in the shop and living life fully. I told Jay how much I admired him for living life in a way that was meaningful for him and not bowing to societal expectations.
We talked and laughed and reflected. He shared the hurts he carried. The words were honest and real and just like all of our conversations over the last few years. He and I have always been able to talk deeply about life, especially the melancholy things.
He asked me about my family and how I spent my days. I told him I launched my book and he was genuinely happy for me. Then he asked me, “so Jules, what’s next for you?”
I didn’t have an answer. I shared that I had been planning to write a children’s book this Fall with hopes of going back to work in the next year. Those plans, however, would have to get put on hold since I was choosing to delay and pivot based on the needs of my youngest daughter. I told him I was entering a season with unknown things ahead because everything I had envisioned was not going to happen. I was still adjusting to the new reality. It was October 1st.
Jay died on October 13th.
Suddenly. Shockingly. Confusingly.
Do you know that sometimes writing doesn’t help?
Writing doesn’t always bring clarity.
Sometimes writing just makes the pain more amplified.
As a Christian, I know that I’m supposed to cling to Jesus in this grief and seek the peace He gives. Right now though, I don’t want peace. And I don’t know how to talk to Jesus.
I’m not mad at Jesus. I just don’t know how to talk to Him.
Some Christians might remind me that the Holy Spirit intercedes on my behalf. Ok. Shrug. That’s fine with me. I’m still not ready to have a conversation with Jesus about this.
My question isn’t, “why, God?”
Or, “why have I lost so many family members?”
It isn’t even, “when does it stop hurting?”
The question in my mind being played on repeat is Jay’s voice asking me, “so Jules, what’s next for you?”
My answer is also my question:
What if we don’t get to have a “next”?
Jay’s “next” was a hike and the following morning his death.
Eventually my “next” will be my last chapter, last moment, last thought.
What will I leave for the people I love and the people who love me?
I hope I leave more than words, printed or said.
I hope I leave more than memories, fond or difficult.
I want to leave meaning and purpose and direction.
Reader, you will find that all in Jesus.
I may not know what to say to Jesus right now but that doesn’t change who Jesus is.
He is still my all in all. The way, the truth, the life. He is still the One I look to, the One I walk toward, even when I have nothing to say. He doesn’t require me to say anything at all. He only asks that I believe and have faith.
And so, in this silent grief, I walk by faith, toward the One who gives and takes away.
Adieu, Jay.
Adieu.
