Three Years Later: The Space Where He Was
It’s hard to believe three years have passed since I last held his hand. The passage of time is really something.
Knowing his future is secure in the Christ he loved and served brings me so much peace and joy. Feeling the loss of him here is a constant state of being; there isn't a reprieve. We miss him every day.
Both/and.
An early draft of this found its way to paper almost three years ago. It holds true today.
It’s quiet now, the space where he was.
His hands aren’t where they should be. We can’t hold them anymore.
We reach for him in this familiar place where he belonged but come up empty. It’s foreign now; he isn’t there.
He had gentle, sturdy hands. Hands that would drop everything to help, comfort, pray, worship, hold, hug, and fix.
Trying to hold on to this place is like holding a fistful of oil.
We rejoice and grieve as those with great hope.
But we do grieve.
As one does.
As we must.
Tiny, insignificant moments bubble up to soothe and strike with uncanny precision, and somehow, we never see them coming.
Soothe or strike.
Rejoice and mourn, laugh or weep.
Whisper, roar. Flutter, flail.
It’s all both/and.
Ever present, the space where he was remains. It’s unmistakable, still, and very, very quiet.
So quiet a day can almost feel like just a day.
A song is just a song; a book is just a book.
So quiet we can almost forget the enormity of it all.
Until.
We brush up against the curves and corners of all the space he used to fill, and suddenly, sweepingly, startlingly, everything isn’t just anything anymore. It’s all a very great something, pouring out from the space where he was.
Flooding all around and in and through us.
Razor sharp and whisper soft. How can a non-thing, this space where he was, slice and heal so effortlessly?
Even as it cuts, we try to hold tight to the shape of him. But we are destined to fail. You can’t fasten the edges of a fluid thing.
Nowhere and everywhere.
Both/and.
The silence is deafening tonight.
His hands aren’t where they should be. We can’t hold them anymore.
The space where he was, it’s quiet now.
For my dad, James L. Barnett. He loved Jesus.
Preserve me, O God, for in you I take refuge.
I say to the Lord, “You are my Lord;
I have no good apart from you.”
As for the saints in the land, they are the excellent ones,
in whom is all my delight.
The sorrows of those who run after another god shall multiply;
their drink offerings of blood I will not pour out
or take their names on my lips.
The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup;
you hold my lot.
The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.
I bless the Lord who gives me counsel;
in the night also my heart instructs me.
I have set the Lord always before me;
because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my whole being rejoices;
my flesh also dwells secure.
For you will not abandon my soul to Sheol,
or let your holy one see corruption.
You make known to me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of joy;
at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.
Psalm 16, ESV