I told someone yesterday that I will never understand why God took Vance from this earth so early. Not when he had four kids who still need raising. Not when he had a wife that needs him. Not when he still had so much living to do.
I don’t believe the trite little things people say, like “God needed an angel,” or “God needed him in Heaven.” First of all, that’s not how angels or death work. You don’t become an angel when you die. Secondly, God doesn’t need anything. He’s God. It’s not like he needed his buddy to come over and help wire up the Pearly Gates or something. When people talk like that, I know they mean well, but I really want to slap them. Because in saying that, they are implying that this tragedy is somehow what God wanted. That he caused it. This is not God’s fault. Let me say that again, a different way. I do not blame God for this.
Do I question him? Yep.
Do I wish this horrible thing never happened? Oh, yes. So much so.
Have I yelled at God? More than once.
Am I angry with God? Yes. Less than I was but it’s still there.
But God can handle all of that and at the end of the day, he gently reminds me that he loves me.
Jesus, too, knew loss. His dear friend, Lazarus, died. The Bible tells us that when Jesus heard this he cried. He mourned the life of his friend. Jesus was God in flesh, so he knew that Lazarus would be raised from the dead four days later. And yet, he wept.
I find comfort in that. I know that Vance is with Jesus. I know that we will one day be reunited and that brings some peace to my otherwise turbulent soul. But even in that peace, I weep. Not for Vance, but for the hole he left behind. For all the things he won’t be here for. My our children. For his parents. For his sister. For myself. Because we miss him. Because we love him. And grieving is the final act of loving.