My words don't seem adequate, but I would like to point you to some great words that will really encourage you.
I sit down at this keyboard questioning my own resolve to try to put into words the events and the intense emotions of these past couple of weeks. Through my words do I really want to bring people down the road of mourning through which we have been walking? Will people want to relive similar moments that they've passed through in their own families? Will they want to feel again the same feelings they've already had? Do I want to relive them?
It would be easier to bury myself in my work here, in my life here in Brazil… but that would be to ignore the hole that was left by my father's passing. That would be to ignore the commitment with which I started writing these group updates so many years ago. I started writing wanting to give people the chance to walk with us this life of ministry and to see it all: the good, the bad and the ugly. I guess some of these e-mails are harder to write than others. I guess some of these e-mails are harder to read than others.
Fifteen days ago today I got the call that he had died in the midst of the craziness that has become the normal of my house. Aaron's voice was hushed on the other end, and I jokingly asked him if he was calling from a library. He told me he had some bad news. I went upstairs to hear him better; and when he told me… I went numb; unable to think, unable to feel, unable to believe what I had heard. Trying to deny its reality as long as possible, I thought about not telling Marla until after her small group. Like a fog covering my mind, I couldn't see what should be done. I didn't know what to do.
Marla told me I should go back. I said ok. My boss told me to get tickets to stay for a week. I said ok. My travel agent sent me the e-tickets. I said ok. Within 24 hours of receiving the news I was on an airplane heading back to Oregon still in shock, having cried only twice. When the tears came, they came in waves. They came accompanied by gasps for air as if all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked out of the room; I was struggling to simply breathe.
Numbness accompanied me home to Oregon, broken occasionally by Facebook messages that seemed to shake me temporarily to reality. It was strange being home. Strange suddenly being in Oregon surrounded by family and loved ones and buried in food. It was strange not hearing his voice coming down the hall. When I got home, my Mom told me that it was the second day in a row that he hadn't come home from work. The house so full of people, and yet it felt empty too. Like something was missing. It was weird sitting next to the computer that I had just helped him buy writing his obituary. It was weird seeing the two dates under his name… as if bookends to his life. It was harder than I expected seeing his body. Being a pastor, I've seen bodies before. Empty shells; not really looking like the people that they once had been. Yet it did look like him. It was his hair. Those were his hands. Hands that had held me and guided me as I grew up. They had always been strong hands. Yet they were cold. My brothers and I held each other as we wept in the small chapel where his body lay. We said goodbye in the same order that he had welcomed us into this world. First Ben, then Aaron, and finally me. It fun picking out photos to go in the slide show of his life for his memorial service. It was exhausting going through his closet picking out clothes of his that I would use. It was hard seeing my brothers cry. It was hard seeing Marla weep through the screen of a computer, not being able to take her in my arms. Sometimes physically shaking because I couldn't be there for her and the girls. Oh, it was a week that I don't wish to relive. It was hard. It was difficult. It was tragic.
But we were blessed too. Blessed by the mountains of food that just kept arriving at our door day by day. Blessed by the smell of flowers as we walked in the house. Blessed by messages that arrived via Facebook, personal visits, e-mail, cards and even checks in the mail. Blessed by the outpouring of love that evidenced a life that had touched so many others. Blessed by the miles that were traveled by so many people to simply be present, to honor and to hold. Blessed by the embrace of others. Blessed by the tears of so many who also mourned the loss.
There was laughter too. With the people who were present, it'd have been impossible not to laugh. We joked; we laughed; we gave each other hard times. We looked at pictures and remembered when. It was awesome being together. It was awesome seeing cousins that I hadn't seen for too long. The have the chance to get to know each other as adults. To embrace that part of us that, when we get together, will be eternally 12 years old. We made memories that we hadn't made in years, even decades.
The Spirit of God was their too; in it all, through it all, giving His comfort…. giving His consolation as only He knows how. The morning I left for Oregon, as I was making coffee, Marla told me that she had had an interesting dream the night before. I asked her what it was and she said that in her dream, she saw the coronation ceremony of my dad in heaven. I asked her to explain more, and she said that she couldn't. She said that it was holy, that is was beautiful, that it was celebratory and she knew in an instant what it was. Through tears she told me that she got to see the greatest moment of my Dad's life. There were dreams that others had too. Dreams that gave comfort. Dreams that eased our sadness.
Then there was his service. It was a memorial service that, according to the program was given in loving memory of Gary Routon; but it was a service where Jesus Christ was exalted. It was a service where half way through the first group of songs, I felt the power of so many prayers lift the weight of the sadness of the loss. A service where we laughed, cried, heard stories and heard of Jesus. Where the redemptive power of His perfect love was proclaimed.
Something changed in me at that service. Even now, I can't explain it. And though the grief continues to roll through me like waves, leaving me exhausted and difficult to focus on anything, something is different since the service. There is a comfort, there is a sense of consolation. He lived a life that pointed to Jesus. He lived a life that touched others. He ran his race, he finished well.
But there are things that still need to be done. Things he'd be great at helping us deal with. Forms that need filled out. Policies that need to be understood. Sorting that has to be done. Leaves that need to be raked.
But his contribution in this life has already been made. And no words either spoken in a microphone or written on a computer screen will ever sum up the impact of his life in a neat little package. No text or Facebook post can ever capture what he meant to each of us. Nor will we ever fully understand the depth nor the breadth of what he meant to his Heavenly Father. A love which he now experiences fully.
As I close, I would ask for your continued prayers. Prayers for my family that must now begin the process of learning a new normal. I ask, because those prayers have already proven powerful. I ask because we need them still.
For the only Cause that matters,
Micah
