No More Night

I woke to the primal screams of a young woman in deep grief. As my sleep-heavy mind came to consciousness, after a short night interrupted by 6 voracious mosquitoes, I realized what I was hearing was not innocent squeals of young ladies teasing each other in the dorm. These cries came from a much darker place.

At first I was afraid a student had died. But as the wails deafened, I knew what had happened. Jessie (name changed to protect her privacy) was screaming for her father. He had died the night before and she received the phone call this morning from her brother in the United States. Her father was in Upper Egypt.

I hurried out my door and stepped into a hushed world of sorrow. Jessie lived kitty corner to me with her roommate. She was the first student to welcome me, seeking and sharing friendship on the snow day when I felt alone. She tucked her arm into mine and together we clambered slippery slopes of wet powder, laughing all the way. Along with her friend, we built a snowman, took pictures, drank juice, and dried our socks as the three of us enjoyed a quiet day of camaraderie.

After lunch at the restaurant, students began to smoke, which bothered Jessie's sensitive lungs, so I suggested we wait outside. We walked around, sharing life stories, talking about best friends and dating and women going to university. Her life was so different from mine and she carried a hidden sorrow even then. Quietly, she shared the tragic story of losing her brother and we grieved for a moment in silence. It had been 5 years.

We became friends. Her roommate arrived late, so she had a friend to go to eat with, sit in chapel with, and spend time with. But every now and then Jessie would stop to talk, ask me to help her with homework, and she always smiled when we passed in the hallways.

Why does death visit those who have already experienced the wrenching pain before? I know this is the irony of life, that we all must die some time, but why? Why couldn't God heal her father so she wouldn't have to lose him so early? She was just barely into her 20s. It was too soon.

We didn't have morning worship in the social room that morning. The women's assistant dean suggested I read some verses, so I grabbed my Bible and found the familiar verses, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 and John 14:1-3. I was thankful for the many years we sang The Blessed Hope in choir and Bible class in home school where I memorized the promise that Jesus was coming again. Then someone prayed in Arabic and I prayed in English. A simple prayer, pleading for God's comfort. The young women huddled around the grieving one in a sacred moment of united support and care.

I left to prepare for the day. I had to teach class but I told the young woman staying with Jessie to let me know if she needed anything. Others came and went throughout the day, the Union counselor, a pastor, teachers, a group of quiet guys from the dorm, each extending comfort in the way they knew best. Each grieving in their own hearts.

Her grieving came and went in waves. She would rest quietly on her bed, propped up on pillows, an ever present friend or two sitting by her side or nearby. Then she would speak to a family member or friend on the phone and the keening would resume. She was her father's favourite child and now he was no longer alive. She had missed the funeral as he'd been buried quickly that morning. 

After my morning class, I stopped by her room. She was lying in bed now, dressed completely in black, propped up on pillows, a weak smile on her face when I sat down in the beige plastic chair next to her and held her hand. Ever the thoughtful one, in the midst of her grief, she thanked me for coming. She told me she was able to speak to her father just two days ago but the mention of him brought the tears again. I rubbed her arm and began to hum, It is well with my soul, Day by Day. 

I didn't know what to do. Death is unnatural and all the words we want to say seem empty and meaningless. The verse, weep with those who weep kept ringing in my head (Romans 12:15) and I knew that was my role in this tragic scene. Then another teacher came to see her and I stepped aside.

I'd never met her father, but I'd been praying for him for two weeks. At dorm meeting before the Easter holidays, the women's dean invited us to randomly pick the name of another young lady in the dorm and then pray for them. We each had a chance to say our prayer request and Jessie asked for prayer for her father who was ill.

When I heard her screaming this morning, my heart sank. Did I not pray hard enough? I knew rationally that I did not influence her father's death through a lack of prayers, but the guilt taunted me. Perhaps if I'd spent several hours praying, instead of simple God, please bless her father and heal him prayers, he would have been okay.
  
Tonight we were supposed to reveal who we'd been praying for and give them a small gift. I'd heard Jessie softly say at the first meeting that she would like a flower. My sister had suggested earlier that day that I write a note of encouragement and give it with a small gift to Jessie to encourage her, so I found a beautiful card among the stationery she'd sent as a welcome package before I'd even arrived. Praying for words to say, I found Bible verses of comfort and inserted Jessie's name to personalize them. Then I went looking for flowers.

The purple trees were in bloom. Their flowers were already dropping delicately onto the verdant green lawns, a lavender spring carpet, and I was afraid if I broke off a branch all the flowers would fall. I found the fullest branch, snapped it from the main branch, and gently shook it to see if the petals would remain. Miraculously, they did, and after blowing off several small bugs, I found a half litre water bottle, filled it with water, and placed the flowering branch in the makeshift vase. I slipped the card and flowers onto her bedside table.

Each time I glimpse our mortality, the fear returns that it will come too close to me. My grandfather, a dear friend who was like an aunt to me, a man who filled the role of father. And then there were those who I knew less but still grieved their loss because it happened too soon. Young men, old women, no matter the age, death never came at the right time.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
~Dylan Thomas

What a hope we have, that we don't need to live in constant fear of death. Grieve, yes, it is a natural part of the process of loss. But fear that grips us with uncertainty of the future, no. The most wonderful part of this hope is that when it's all over and Jesus returns, we can go home and be with our dear family and friends forever. No more pain, no more tears (Revelation 21:4). Let's always be ready and hold our loved ones close as we wait for that day. It has delayed too long already.