In a Barn

An acquaintance of ours died recently. 

Though I couldn’t attend the funeral, I spoke with her daughter a few weeks later. She told me that at first, the family decided they weren’t going to have a public service. Just the family. Six or eight people. But as they were leaving the funeral home after making the arrangements, both sisters had the sinking feeling they’d made the wrong choice. They went back inside and changed their plans to include whoever wanted to come. To their surprise, over a hundred people signed the guest book. From those guests, they heard stories of love and appreciation they’d never have heard otherwise.

“We would have cheated ourselves of so much,” she said. “But we would have cheated a whole bunch of other people, too.”

Her words cinched it for me. A few days later, on our drive to our grandsons’ Christmas band concert, I replayed the conversation for my husband.

“When it’s my turn to go, I want a big party,” I told him. “Why is it so hard for people to understand that these types of gatherings are for the living? The love, support, and stories can provide healing as we cry and laugh together. I hope there are gales of laughter at my funeral, but I don’t believe in saying ‘Don’t cry over me,’ either. It’s an honor to think my friends might cry for me, just as I will honor them with my tears if they go first. Tears are healing. They acknowledge our humanity and they value the person’s life.

“Well, there, now you know my views on this.” I ended my rant, we reached the school, and we enjoyed the concert.

Afterward, we stopped at our son’s home briefly. The boys changed out of their concert clothes and the middle one, Allistar, went out to take care of his chores. Within minutes, he returned with the news that he’d found their cat, Scamper, dead under a heat lamp in the barn. This was not unexpected, since the old tom had become disinterested in food. Still, I’m sure it was a shock for Allistar. His brothers went out to see for themselves and returned shortly to the house.

I put on my boots and coat and headed for the barn. I found Allistar kneeling in the hay, stroking the dead cat. Overhead, the guinea fowl roosted on their perch, adding soft sounds of life and warmth to the otherwise forlorn setting.

As though God had granted me our driving time for rehearsal, I voiced the same thoughts for the second time that evening. “It’s okay to cry,” I told Allistar. “Your tears honor Scamper’s life.” I talked about how good it was to know the cat had died warm and safe and how he wouldn’t have to endure another cold winter. How appropriate that Allistar had been the one to find him since he cared the most.

Then I kept my mouth shut and simply cried with him. My tears had far less to do with the death of a barn cat than with the pain in my grandson’s heart. Less about this fresh grief, and more about the distressing losses and upheaval he’s had to work through in recent years. More about my helplessness to fix any of it, as much as I wanted to.

After his dad came to sit with him, his grandpa and I drove away, a far quieter ride than the previous one. Somehow those few heart-rending minutes in the barn with my grieving grandson became a defining moment for my Christmas this year. I received a profound reminder of the way God came to us in a stable, in all our dirt and squalor, pain and tears. He came not only to give us life but to grant us peace in our pain, comfort in our sorrows, and healing for our broken hearts.

My prayer for you this Christmas is that, by God’s grace, that baby in a manger will meet you in a profound way, wherever you are—turning grief to joy, brokenness to healing, and despair to hope. Merry Christmas!