Letter for a Funeral

I know that many of you must be thinking how sad it is that I am halfway around the world instead of there with you, and in many ways, that is true.  Though, thanks to the times we live in, I was able to be present with my family in Papa's room the other night, and I got to fall asleep to the sound of them singing at his bedside, I would  have of course likes to be there in person, to hold hands and give hugs, as I would like to do the same today.  But the fact that I am here, in Russia, at this time is only partly sad.  You see, I've never been more proud of my Oma and Papa than in this last year.  Not only were they brave in this battle against Leukemia, but I saw them come together and depend on the Lord for strength in a whole new way.  When we had the miraculous privilege of spending extra time with Papa in a time of remission, I was so happy to hear stories of him telling restaurant waitresses and other people around him about God's healing and love, pointing to him as the author of that miracle time.  And this is why I'm not sad to be here - because more than one person here in Russia has heard about the love, grace, and healing of our savior because of my Papa's life, and even in his death, as one of my Russian friends told me the other day "But I remember his story and how amazing it is."  My grandparent's faith, because it relied on Jesus' strength in a time of great weakness, has given me the opportunity to share the goodness of the gospel with some of the people in my life here, and that is not something that I can be sad about.

After hearing the final news from my family, I read the following passage from Hebrews:

"Therefore brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed of pure water.  Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.  And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near."  Hebrews 10:19-25

I've never read that passage quite in this perspective or context, thinking about what it really means to draw near in an actual sense beyond figurative.  I've never thought about how it might be to literally, actually 'enter the holy places' with a 'heart sprinkled clean' of sin and a 'body washed with pure water'.  I think reading this on a day when I saw my Papa breathing across the room through a computer screen across the ocean in the morning, and now know that his labored breathing has been replaced with the life and freedom that God has so faithfully promised to us, the reality of my place in His kingdom has become solidified in a way that I think can only happen when someone close has died.  Just like a birth or a wedding is a small picture of the way that God relates to us, death can be the culmination, and the entering in, and the taking part, of the gift we've been promised and held on to.  For some of us, we've held onto this promise for a long time, for some, a short time, and for some, we might not have really ever truly taken hold of it.  But if we have, death only means finally walking into the 'new and living way that <Jesus> opened for us'.  So, let us indeed 'hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering', as the author of Hebrews says.  Why?  Because it is comforting, yes.  But also because it is true, and when we have been forced to look at it so closely, we understand more than ever how important it is to live and walk with our eyes wide open, our feet ready, our mouth laced with gracious words, our hands ready for service, our heart willing to do, or go, or love, or listen, or say what is needed.  As someone close to me has gone to be with our eternal God, it is easier to think about the Day drawing near when I will join him, when hopefully all of you will join him.  But let us not forget the most important One whom we will be joining on that day - the one who made it possible in the first place, as part of the first plan, where grace is the story, and peace is the place.

To My One and Only Papa,

I wrote a postcard today that I won't ever send.  The idea of it arriving too late and being half of a whole made me keep it with me.  But today, I got to send it to you in a different way.  An almost instant - through the internet - bedside-read sentiment for you to know that you're in my thoughts and prayers.  Being so far away, I can only imagine what it looks like for the atoms and molecules inside of a body to destroy their own home - how the articles and the long scientific names and the different colored ribbons supporting your struggle actually gets so personal as to slowly take your breath away - the cells on the power point are now fully realized in a way the student can never be prepared for.  But it's a fascinating threshold, too - to think that you're so close - so incredibly close - to the freedom and uninhibited, completely sanctified and free-from-struggle LIFE that all of our great big multi-colored family is running toward... it's a difficult paradox to grasp.  In only a short time, you'll get to be with God in a glory that we've only seen in an infintismal amount.  The intimacy we experience in our interactions with God on earth will be so much sweeter for you... so soon.  And just before being there, you leave as we all do, as we all entered - helpless, cradled, known, and designed for grace.  You'll fully know what we only experience from a distance, because you ran the race and you're almost done, and there's only celebration on the other side.  It will be strange without you - to sing, to dance, to speak on your behalf... but oh, it's just a taste of where you'll be, and where I'll meet you soon.
With love,
Juliana