Grief and The Veil

It’s October 31^st. A couple years ago, a former student of mine was fighting for her life after a head on collision with a drunk driver. She later passed on, and her death rocked our campus and church community. It didn’t seem fair for death to take her so quickly, at the beginning of her adult life.

It’s October 31^st. I mourn the loss of our unborn son, remembering that if he had been born, he would already be crawling, and starting baby cereal. How I wish I could hold him now.

It’s October 31^st. My husband and fellow staff are grappling with the passing of one of our own. She was a wasn’t even forty yet, leaving a devoted husband and two little girls behind. Conversations about partner development are peppered with details about her visitation. One staff texted in, “It doesn’t feel real.”

It’s October 31^st. The gray hazy clouds, muting even the brightest autumn leaves hang over the earth like a dingy veil.  For centuries, people believed that the veil between this realm and the next were the thinnest at this time of year. Although I would have shrugged off such a thought in the past, my experience and grief torn heart doesn’t directly negate it.

It’s October 31^st.  I quietly question why God would allow death to penetrate the earth this way. “How does this bring You glory?” I ask. The words of Saint Peter, who wrote to the Dispersed Jews, minister this truth to my aching soul, “… you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” This truth begets an image in my mind of a house built by God, made of my people…my current friends, my student friend, my colleague, my baby. They are living stones, built in the same house as me, and together, though separated by physical death, we glorify God.

It’s October 31^st. The veil may be thin, but I revel that with His own flesh, Christ tore the veil that would have separated us forever.