Conversations with Dirt

I found myself standing out in the drizzle and cold in a small town in Virginia this past December, staring down at a small plot of earth, having a conversation in my head with the dirt and the body that was now buried six feet below.  At various points, I wasn't sure if it was teardrops or rain getting in my eyes.  It was so compulsory, so involuntary, the conversation that ran through my head.  But it was like every other conversation I had with Jon when he was alive - simple, comfortable, without effort.

And in that moment, as I stood over that gravestone marker, I realized how much I still missed my friend and how much I still wished he was here.  

It will be a year ago tomorrow that I got that dreaded phone call from Pastor Brad.  "He's gone, Courtney."  Blast it all, Brad.  Don't tell me that.  Not today.  Not now.  Don't tell me my friend is gone.  My keys were nearly in hand.  I was just coming to visit him at the hospital.  Don't tell me he's gone.     

There have been a lot of moments since then when I have found myself absentmindedly thinking, "Ah, I should remember to tell Jon about that."  Or maybe I'll think to myself, "Jon would find that funny."  I watched The Civil Wars perform on the Grammy's last year.  I wanted to tell Jon about it.  I saw a sign last week for the first game of the Blue Jackets' hockey season.  I wanted to text him to see if he had bought tickets yet.  I still watch The Big Bang Theory and laugh and wonder if Jon would have found it funny, too.  I've watched countless movies and told myself about all of the details that Jon would have picked up on, the ones I always seemed to miss.  I ran my finger across the books on my shelf and counted all the books that Jon randomly bought for me over the years - War Horse, South, Touch the Top of the World.  

Those memories are bittersweet, but I'm grateful I have them nonetheless.  They are marks of a friendship and a friend that I will forever remember and be shaped by.  The sadness still comes on occasion - and I've learned that it's okay.  I've learned to welcome it with open arms.  I've learned to not apologize for the tears when I have conversations with others about Jon and what he meant.  I've accepted the reality that I'll probably never make it through "Never Once" by Matt Redman ever again without thinking of Jon or wanting to cry.   

And I know I'm not alone in that grief or sadness.  What his family has experienced - is experiencing - eclipses whatever I might feel.  But in the end - we all know the same reality: we'll see Jon again.  Heaven isn't some pipe dream, not something we're wishing is true.  It's real.  And my friend is there.  Walking. Dancing. Celebrating. Rejoicing.  And as much as I want my friend here - I want him there more. 

We are not people without hope.  Our hope is in Jesus Christ and Him alone.  And we'll cling to Him and run to Him when the waves of life sweep over us, threaten to send us tumbling down to the abyss, when the memories get to be just a bit too much.

And I'll cling to Him even when I find myself having a conversation with a piece of dirt.