The Greatest Comfort

I’ve always been a worrier.  Even as a kid, I would get what my dad used to label, “nervous stomachs.”   I worried over somewhat “typical” kid fears, things like thunderstorms and the dark. When I got these knots in my stomach, I would try to comfort myself with a special stuffed penguin and the Patty Duke Show.

But I wasn’t the only worrier in the family. With her permission, my youngest sister’s top worries as a kid included (but were not limited to): mom and dad running out of money and demons.  “There were always the demons,” she said.

So, perhaps not the most normal child of the three.  But then, I did seek comfort from Patty Duke

Several years ago, I was putting my youngest to bed and she said, “Mom, I’m just a little nervous tonight.”  The admittance came mere moments after she kissed her dolls and put them away for the night. Under our bed.

My daughter used to stash her collection of dolls under our bed because, as she would explain it, “They might come alive at night.”  

Of course, I thank her aunt for genetically passing along the strange demon doll fear.

In reminiscing these fears with my sister, she said there was really only one thing that would temporarily help when she had a nervous stomach. Our dad would come in and pray with her. I remember similar moments with dad. The problem with the Patty Duke show was that it ended. So, when I couldn’t shake my fears, dad would come in, kneel by my bed, and pray to our heavenly Father.

But what is our comfort in this life, as adults, when we fear or become dismayed?

Each year provides distance from the passing of my parents, but the length of time never negates the ache. Every once-in-a-while I find myself enwrapped in memories  of them- good memories, which I’m thankful for. But the sweet recollections are not always void of the vivid memories of their deaths and the thoughts I had during their last moments on earth.

I remember singing hymns around my dad’s bed:   “It is well, it is well with my soul.”  Lord, allow your supernatural peace to overcome our distress. 

I remember counting my dad’s labored breaths:  One….two….three.  Lord, we’re all here now.  Please let him go home.  

I remember the touch of his foot once he went to Jesus:  This is what it feels like for a body to be separated from the soul. 

I remember my mom’s words in the moments after dad entered into glory:  “Do you see Him?  Do you see Jesus?”  

And I remember the look on mom’s face when my sisters and I sang in her small room during her last days on this earth:  “And I’ll sing with the Angels…”  Lord, give her strength until that very moment she is singing with the angels.  

I remember starring at her withered hands that were once so strong:  My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.  Forever.  Even when our hands look like this.  

I remember wishing I had been a better daughter:  Mom, I love you.  In spite of our difficulties, I love you. 

I remember the touch of her hand once she went to Jesus:  This is what it feels like for a body to be separated from the soul. 

I remember looking into her face and wondering what she was seeing:  Do you see him?  Do you see Jesus?  

Often, anxiety seeps in. Death is agonizing, and not surprisingly so.  After all, death is not the way it’s supposed to be, but until Jesus returns, we will experience suffering and death in this life. Our bodies will one day be separated from our soul.  Though there is rejoicing when a believer enters into glory, there is deep grief for those they leave behind.

And the grief never really goes away.  It’s not like difficult company that we wave good-bye to with a sense of relief.  It sticks around and shows it’s face, sometimes in the most unexpected times and places. And when it comes, when the details of death’s agony are at the forefront of my mind, I long for the tender and loving hand of my father to calm, comfort and reassure.

Our Only True Comfort

On one Sunday when I was particularly anxious, I was reminded of our great comforter.  During the worship service, the Heidelberg Catechism, question number one, was quoted, and I’ve been daily repeating the first sentence of the answer for the last couple of weeks:

Q. What is my only comfort in life and in death?  

A. That I with body and soul, both in life and death, am not my own, but belong unto my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ; who, with His precious blood, has fully satisfied for all my sins, and delivered me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me that without the will of my heavenly Father, not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must be subservient to my salvation, and therefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me sincerely willing and ready, henceforth, to live unto Him.

The only true comfort when we’re anxious and worried in this life is Jesus.  The only comfort when we face death and experience the weight of it’s grief is Jesus. Our comfort comes in knowing and believing that we belong to our precious Savior, Jesus Christ.  And because we belong to him, because Jesus claims us as His beloved children, He in turn cares for us more deeply than we can even begin to comprehend.  Our well-being does not belong in our hands, thankfully, but in the hands of Jesus so that not even a hair falls without him willing it to happen.  There is nothing outside of the Lord’s grasp.

This truth is embodied in Paul’s words when he says, “For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”  Every aspect of my life – my joys, my fears, my struggles, and tears – are in the faithful hands of Jesus.  Because of this reality, I need not despair, but I can live boldly and freely unto Him. And every aspect of death and suffering – the touch, the words, the breaths – are in the faithful hands of Jesus. Because of this reality, I can rest in the promise that death is not the end. It is just the beginning.

This brings ceaseless comfort.  Comfort greater than a child’s deepest fears, comfort greater than large waves of anxiety, comfort greater than profound grief from death, and comfort even greater than the tender hand of a loved one along the way. There will be a day when we have the privilege of saying, along with all those who have gone before us, I see Him!  I see Jesus.  The One who is my comfort both now and forevermore.