Sunday's on the Way

by Alecia Klauk
(Chapin, SC)

A year ago today was the darkest day of my life. There are others to compete with it, but I still think that day wins. It was the day I knew my baby girl had gone home to Heaven, leaving me empty, bereft, confused, afraid, wounded. Just deeply wounded.

A lot can happen in a year. This one has been no exception. There has been a lot of pain, and a lot of healing. In the end, it has been productive, fruitful, and paradoxically, life affirming, life giving, life enriching.

I have grieved to the depths and found places in my soul capable of more pain than I had ever imagined. I have longed, I have sobbed, I have ranted, I have screamed. It has been long and deep, but it has been real. And in the end, healing has come. I walk out of this year with more knowledge of my Savior, more confidence in His goodness, more assurance that His truth is always true.

When tragedy hits, we are understandably full of such profound questions in the depths of our souls. Our hearts beg for answers, our minds seek comprehension, and our feeble souls grasp for relief. Intensity is perhaps the only word to describe those seasons. I know you have your own. We all do. We all know that kind of searing pain, but I pray that we also know the joy that comes in the morning. Even, dare I say, the joy in the mourning.

Easter was just a few weeks ago, and this year, I kept coming back to one singular thought: Friday. It must have felt so dark to those who loved Him. Even though they had been told what was coming, they didn't understand. So they still must have felt so confused. Lost. Frozen. Terrified. And like our grief, deeply, heart-wrenchingly sad. So many of those dark emotions that we too struggle with on our dark Fridays must have been their cruel companions.

But Sunday was coming. Since that first one, it always does. The light breaks through. Resurrection promises it.

I'll date myself a bit here, but I loved Carman growing up. My favorite song is the old classic, "Sunday's on the Way." If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go youtube it and prepare to be entertained! It's the story of satan and a personified death conversing about the crucifixion and the resurrection during that eternity-altering weekend.

My favorite part takes place early on Sunday morning when death is trying to convince satan that he's got the death of Christ locked up tight. After assuring satan that it's all sealed, and with increasingly vigorous tones of terror, a very animated death exclaims, "Somebody's messin' with the stone!"

With ever-heightening emotion, the narrative continues, "Then the stone was rolled away, and it bounced a time or two. And an angel stepped inside and said (insert Carman's Italian accent for full effect), 'Hey, I'm Gabriel. Who are you? If you're wondering where the Lord is at this very hour, I tell ya He's alive and well with resurrection power!'" I've got chills just thinking about it! There is something about the Holy Spirit within that just quickens when the resurrection is celebrated.

For each of us that have faced a dark Friday, we need to remember that Sunday is in indeed on the way. Jesus didn't stay in the grave, and because He didn't, we won't either. Our loved ones won't. This whole world won't.

I thought about that a lot yesterday as I remembered my little one. That day a year ago was so dark. I could only see and smell death, the suffocating stench of the violent intersection of love and loss, connection and separation, life and death. A very real and horrible Friday. The pain was raw, the darkness was scary, the desolation was visceral.

I spent some time yesterday at the memorial we built for our babies in waiting. It has little girl and little boy statues, a pretty little rock garden, and a plaque in the honor of all babies who have gone ahead so early. I sat in front of them and just asked the Lord to pass along hugs and kisses, to tell them that their mama loves them so much. In commemoration, I wrote their names on rocks and placed them carefully.

I had a moment, a quiet life-should-stop-for-this moment. When I got up to leave, I kissed them each on the head. As I bent down to the girl, an ant bit me. Small nuisance, I know, but it bugged me. It was such a (literally) painful reminder of the fall, its effects, the sting of death. Sometimes my over-analytical mind aggravates even me. But it's not how I wanted that time to end. Friday felt too fresh. Sunday too far.

But in a move of scandalous grace, as I started to leave, Sunday made an appearance. A big, beautiful Monarch butterfly chose that moment to flitter across the garden. He danced through my field of vision, and my over-analytical mind no longer irritated me.

I saw him as a snapshot of Sunday. Life: rich and breathtaking life out of the unlikely. That butterfly was once a lowly caterpillar, consigned to crawl around on his belly. And then, one day, heeding the call of his God-given instincts, he wrapped himself up tight and waited for the perfect moment to break forth and fly. Beautiful. Majestic. Captivating.

That's my children, and all those we love that have gone on ahead. They were too consigned to crawl around on this lowly planet until they heeded the persuasive call home. They too were wrapped up tight, and while to us that are left behind the wrap of death feels so restrictive, truth reveals that it is just the way out. It is the way to flight. God has appointed to each of us the perfect moment for flight. And when we fly, wow, we f-l-y.

Rejoice with me, those who wait. Rejoice in all that is to come. Experience what it means to grieve with hope. Know that no matter how dark Friday feels, Sunday is always coming. Because of the great work of Christ to rise again, we can meet even death with a sure hope, a great faith, and even an abiding joy.

Dedicated with unfathomable love to Journey (4/12-5/17/01) and Eternity (2/16-4/14/09), my beautiful butterflies.