Last week, I received a call from my dear, dear friend Keri telling me that her Mom—like a sister to me—had died suddenly. Even though you didn’t know Linda, I think it appropriate to share my eulogy with you.

Grief, and loss, and eternal hope are elements of life we share. Perhaps, knowing that sorrow comes to each of us, the thoughts that follow about the grieving process, the mercy of forgiveness, the unfinished business of an untimely death, and the hope of hearing Jesus’ voice at the end of our days will comfort you and supply resiliency to your soul.

Now, here’s to my friend Linda, now departed, and the wonderful family she leaves behind, a family that has made me as much a member as if I were born into it …

I met Linda forty-five years ago. At first, she was an acquaintance. Then, she was a friend. In time, she told me I was the brother she wished for but didn’t have, and Linda was like the sister I never had.

When this familial quality of our relationship transpired, and I told her I had always wanted a sister, Linda expressed gratitude, humility, and told me of the great honor I bestowed upon her. Only then did I tell her the main reason I wanted a sister was so I wouldn’t have to do the dinner dishes. As you would expect of a sister, Linda scoffed and rolled her eyes.

In the late eighties, I had fallen on hard times. It was probably 1988. My wife at the time had left me on our fifth wedding anniversary, which was the same day she graduated from Nursing School, most of which I had paid for. In a last-ditch effort to demonstrate my love and attempt a rescue of my marriage, I determined to drive from Fort Worth to my then-wife’s home in Kentucky.

By this point, Linda and I visited by phone almost weekly. When I told her my travel plan, she asked who was going with me. I told her, “Nobody. I’m leaving the dog in Fort Worth.”

Without pause, Linda said, “Preston, no one should make that trip alone. I’ll make arrangements here to be gone a few days. Come through Springfield and pick me up. We’ll go together.”

My suspicion is that many of you here today, if not most, in one way or another have a similar story that you could share. Linda was a generous soul with a profound capacity to love and to give of herself.  

But in my experience, love was not Linda’s greatest attribute. I believe mercy occupies the top spot, but not a mealy-mouth mercy, a mercy without margins. Rather, a mercy that understood foibles, faults, and failures. On more occasions than I can count, after wrestling through one of my shortfalls in a conversation with Linda, I would hear her say, “Well, Pres. I think it’s like this with Father God…” and she would express to me His mercy—and in her inimitable style, often in the metaphor of a story.

Linda’s was not mercy without standard. I always knew what Linda believed and what she thought—her view frequently expressed through tears, but she didn’t back away from what she felt I needed to know. In this, Linda provided a wonderful gift to me. In my position, it’s hard to find people who will be honest with me about me. As Linda declined with Alzheimer’s and dementia, her loss as my friend was significant.

While there is the hope of seeing Linda again, there is also the very-present grief of her absence. The problem with loving deeply is that the loss of that loved one is profound; it hurts like nothing else. The closer you were to Linda, the more complex, perhaps intense, your sense of loss is, and in turn, your journey holding the hand of grief.

Death is not how life was supposed to be. God’s dream was of the Garden of Eden, of walking and talking with us in the cool of the evening, enthralled with the innocence of connection with Him. But with the fall of humankind and our descent into the morass of self-governance, death came. Suffering and disease, darkness, debauchery, and degradation. Such is the tale of humankind—and this story haunts each of our lives.

Steinbeck said it this way:

“I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has frightened and inspired us, so that we live in a Pearl White serial of continuing thought and wonder. Humans are caught — in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too — in a net of good and evil. I think this is the only story we have and that it occurs on all levels of feeling and intelligence. Virtue and vice were warp and woof of our first consciousness, and they will be the fabric of our last, and this despite any changes we may impose on field and river and mountain, on economy and manners. There is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well — or ill?”

I believe that with the consequences of humankind’s disobedience and the introduction of death into innocence lost, there is the mercy of God that we call “the grieving process.” For all that tarnished, turned, and for all the tumult unleashed with the Garden rebellion, in the midst, but only reflected in Scripture, there is the mercy of God given to us to grieve. Were it not for grief, the losses we suffer during our earthly conflict between good and evil, would certainly sink us inexorably into a dark morass from which there could be no escape.

The sorrow you feel today—the grief we share in common—is a gift, a tender mercy. Grief is the comfort of God, healing, assuaging, working-out—from the conception of a grief unbearable, into—with the passage of time—a dawning of hope.

On the one hand, we reflect on the life of a wonderful woman like Linda and we are inspired. “I’ll be more like her.” And services such as this, following death and the real sense of her passing, are inspirational to try harder, to adjust, to stay focused, and be more like Linda was.

This is not wrong. This is inspiration. This is the gift of knowing a great person. Longfellow wrote, “Lives of great men all remind us / We can make our lives sublime, / And, departing, leave behind us / Footprints on the sands of time.”

Indeed. Linda leaves footprints for us in the sands of time. But if we could visit with Linda, in her polite way, she would smile her smile—demurring of any attribution of greatness—and say, “But Preston, there is more. There is something you mustn’t lose track of.”

Indeed. Linda was a fine woman. She was a great woman… because she walked with God.

Death should be ashamed of who he has taken from us, granted. But if interrogated, he would argue that Linda was a flawed person, afflicted with self-sabotage. And, this is true. And, when you die, someone like me will make the same observation of you. Yes, Linda had her foibles and flaws, eccentricities, and exasperating ways.

She would acknowledge this. She would also say, but I have cast all that I am, all that I should be and all that I’m not, into the merciful hands of Jesus.

This is the second greatness of Linda that we should note today: Although a wildly talented and skilled woman, capable of achieving remarkable things in business and life, Linda realized that all of that was so much smoke in the wind if she did not possess a vibrant relationship with Jesus Christ.

So, it’s fine to admire Linda, to wish to be more like her, emulate her, and vow to always remember what she meant. But the key to Linda, the true fire that burned within her soul, was her eternal connection to God through Jesus Christ.

Today, while we sit here remembering, Linda is embraced in the arms of Jesus in heaven. In spite of our loss, even though the hard road of grief lies ahead, for those who know Jesus, there is the comfort that one day, we too shall be as Linda is: gone in body, but alive in Christ.

Dorris, I thought of a statement in Tolkien’s book Twin Towers. It is made by the character Theoden as he stands grieving beside his son’s grave. He said, “No parent should have to bury their child.”

Yet, here you are, grieving the loss of your daughter. I’m sorry. You are not alone, either in human comfort or care for your soul, but this is a difficult loss. Of course, there is the comfort of seeing Linda again, as I have noted and as you know. And, I hope you will take comfort in the fact that you and Chur instilled something into Linda growing up that she formed and fashioned—with guidance from the Spirit, I’m certain, as well as her own juju—into a remarkable woman who walked with God and whom we loved. Were it not for you and Chur, these treasures that we associate with Linda, the benefits to us from her living, would have been in jeopardy. On behalf of all of us, thank you.

Tim, Jeff, Keri; Angel, Alexis, Tyson: Your mom—your mama-in-love—spoke often to me about each of you. She worried about you. She prayed for you. She tried her best to get me to interfere in your lives with Mama-Bear concern but without you knowing she put me up to it. For the most part, I was able to redirect her energies.

There’s humor there. But there is also honest truth. Linda was passionate about you. Wildly determined to be certain she did—had done—all that she could to transfer from herself to you, not because she believed for a moment that you lacked what it takes to be successful in life, but so she could comfort herself during long nights that she had done her best by you. If I had a dollar for every minute I’ve visited with Linda about each of you… well, I would not have driven to Springfield in a Honda. She loved you mightily—and I’ve listened to many phone calls where Linda’s worry racked her with emotion and I couldn’t make out her words through the tears of convulsion and compassion she shed. You were loved. Not perfectly, but for all Linda was worth.

When kids consider their parents, especially grown kids, there is always ambivalence. Lurking in the wings of each story of parental grandeur, there is a memory of malfeasance, even outright failure. As an old man, looking back, and as a man privileged to look backward with many others, celebrate who you are as the child whose mother was Linda. The other things, on some night when there is no moon, ease silently like an Arab moving camp under the cover of darkness and bury your burdens in an unmarked place, knowing that in time, this mercy by you will be reconciled by your heavenly Father. Then, return to the arms and aura of those whom you love and live confidently as one who knows you are loved and has been loved.

Grandkids, Greats, Nieces, Nephews: You know something of Linda, but there’s not enough overlap in your lives and hers for you to know the power of the younger woman: Linda. Ask for stories. Figure out how the pictures of the family can be loaded into the cloud for future reference. Say often, “Tell me the backstory behind this picture.” “Tell me how she made her money.” “Tell me how she learned to build houses.” “Tell me how she knew that she knew that Jesus loved her.” Walk like she walked: with integrity before men and women and with humility before God.

For the rest of us: I’m glad you are here today. I’m proud of you for coming. Proud? You ask. Yes, I realize that you are here because you knew Linda and are missing her. But I recognize as well that you are here to support this grief-stricken family. Thank you. For this, I’m proud of you. You showed up.

I encourage you to continue your support. This first week of Linda’s absence is a whirlwind… but like all storms, this one will abate and leave in its wake the cleanup, not so much of dishes from the meals-carried-in, per se, but cleanup of the detritus that trashes each soul attached to Linda’s departure. Call. Come sit. Say nothing. Listen. Bring a bottle of wine or a cup of coffee. Listen to stories you’ve heard before. Treasure each moment knowing that you are touching the silver lining of a dark cloud.

Be comforted in this: There’s nothing you can do to bring Linda back or to ameliorate her absence. Only grief and the mercy of God can do that. But what you supply is a tender heart, which is another manner of saying, you can be God with skin on.

The shortest verse in the Bible, but likely the most important verse in conveying Christ’s humanity to us, appears in the Gospel of John. In chapter 11, John recounts the story of Jesus being notified that his dear friend, Lazarus, has died. Jesus and his followers make their way to the grave. When they arrive, Jesus asks, “’Where have you laid him?” They said to Him, ‘Lord, come and see.’” Then John writes, “Jesus wept.”

The perfect man, Jesus, God incarnate, grieved and cried at the loss of his friend. Just as Jesus showed us how to live an obedient life to God, He showed us how to grieve.

I suppose there are two comforts in grieving: First, it is a mercy of God instilled within us to manage hurts that otherwise would destroy us. Second, Scripture tells us that when we cry God catches each tear drop and stores it in a bottle. Although your grief may feel lonely and Linda’s absence seems to underscore this, you are not alone and your sorrow is of such vital importance to God that He pledges to never waste a single tear you shed.  

That Jesus cried at the grave of His friend is the beginning of the story. The conclusion of the story is that Jesus demonstrated in His friend’s death that He has dominion over the intruder death. Death! Where is your victory? Where is your sting? Later in the chapter, John reports that Jesus “cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come forth.’”

On January the 20th, Jesus cried out in a loud voice that only Linda heard. And as she did in life, she did in death, she stepped into the arms of Jesus, just as Lazarus did. Scripture notes that when Lazarus walked from his tomb bound in the fetters of death, his friend Jesus said, “Unbind him, and let him go!” All that impeded Linda in this life, all that occluded her soul’s shining—from all that imperiled her, Linda is set free by her friend, Jesus.

With Linda’s departure, we are all reminded that no one gets out of life alive. Death comes for every one of us. It’s unavoidable.

In fact, the message of Ecclesiastes is that since death is inevitable, the wise person begins with the end in mind. If it’s certain that I am going to die, which it is, then how shall I live?

You’ll notice that nothing of this life is going with Linda into eternity. Her car, her money, her beloved copy of the Bible, her clothes and her keepsakes—it’s all still here. Linda’s death is a declaration that life is not things, it is living, loving, and most of all, knowing Jesus Christ, the true and eternal source of life.

We miss Linda, and there will be times for a time when it seems grief is unabating. But Linda has merely transferred from earthly life to heavenly life. She is free of earth’s chains and curses. She is laughing, and singing, and dancing, and holding hands with God.

And one day, so we too shall be.