"We grieve, but not like others who have no hope" (1 Thess. 4:13).

It really does bring a measure of ... is comfort the word? ... to read kind words from people sent after dad's sudden death yesterday. It's the "weep with those who week" dynamic of Rom. 12:15.

A friend and colleague who knew dad and therefore spoke with credibility said he was a "special man." Indeed he was. To describe him now would sound too much like the revisionist history so common from loved ones when even a bad man dies. The more so because it would seem like exaggeration. A recounting of his character and actions is unnecessary for anyone who knew him and knows it would be only half the truth. Over the years I heard stories from others of times and events that he never talked about, accounts of crises when he stepped in to lead the way, and of decisions made because it was the right thing, not the easy thing.

This same friend said, "grieve well."
Potent words that made me think what that means. What is grieving well?

I think it includes grieving fully, not throttling it back in an attempt to look under control or greater than the circumstances. Even if that pretense would be done only to deceive self.

It probably also means doing it in the way that suits me, not in a way I think others would grieve, what I suppose biblical grief looks like, or in a way others would approve.
In my case that includes music. Mozart's Requiem, Barber's Adagio for Strings.
And being alone and quiet.
Doing ordinary tasks with a heavy heart and fully feeling that heaviness as I work.
Sometimes just sitting.
And being sad.

I remind myself of some of the real blessings in this. The circumstances were no less than we would have scripted if it were ours to design. We had all just been together - the folks, the three sons and our wives (who were his daughters) - for the first time in two years. Mark arranged for dad to get a 4-hour release from the physical rehab unit (hip repair after a fall) so he could go to the hospital and see his "Sweetie" on her birthday, and they had a few minutes alone together before we all left and he went back to rehab. He apparently died very suddenly and any pain he may have felt was momentary.

One of the last things he said to me was, "I'll never walk again." He meant that he'd come to realize he'd always need either a wheel chair, a walker or his electric scooter to get around.
Wrong, dad. You're walking just fine now!

And as someone pointed out in one of the comments on Facebook, he got to see his daughter for Christmas. They hadn't been together in more than 47 years (she was killed in a plane crash on 1/3/71). Oh to have seen that reunion!!

The God of all grace ministers to us in our grief.