It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting . . .

“Daddy, my balloon!” shouted the beautiful little girl, as her butterfly balloon fluttered away over the trees into the sky and beyond.

As I stared at the bright tear filled eyes of the little girl, my heart broke into a million pieces that seemed to scatter into the air. But, immediately I felt the spirit of God speak to my brokenness saying, “This is right. This is the most perfect way to demonstrate the loss that this day represents.” And with that truth to comfort my heart, I clung to my balloon string with all my strength. 

My day had had more turns and elevation changes than a back country mountain pass. It had started blissfully: A rare opportunity to sleep in on a Saturday morning combined with at least an hour of quietness after rising. If you have had young children then you know that sleeping in generally means forgoing any peaceful morning time you might enjoy. Sleeping in is most often rewarded with being awakened by children playing loudly BEFORE you can gulp down your first cup of coffee. This morning had been a rare exception to this rule. As the late morning wore on we leisurely readied for a trip to the opening of a farmer’s market in our area. This was actually to complete an assignment from my editor, but it was as fun and relaxing as the rest of the morning had been.

I would say the morning hours had been perfect, but I made a purchase at the farmer’s market that was a foretaste of my afternoon, a goat cream cheese danish. I had purchased it thinking I was buying the treat my husband has requested. The lovely vendor insisted that it did not have a real “goaty” taste. I think ‘real “goaty”‘ has to be defined by the tongue of the taster:  It was the most “goaty” tasting edible that had ever entered my mouth. Talk about bittersweet. Apparently my face after taking a bite of this pastry convinced my husband he didn’t need to try it. 

As the morning turned to early afternoon I became more reticent. The time had come to keep my promise to a dear out of state friend: I was going to attend a funeral for her. She hadn’t made this request of me, but I had volunteered hoping it would bring some measure of comfort to her hurting heart. This was not the funeral of timely loss, but the funeral of a classmate that had ended her own life. 

Perhaps the idea of attending a funeral of someone you didn’t know that committed suicide seems macabre. However, as a committed Christian, I never desire to celebrate death. In fact, I could almost be considered a prude when it comes to death. I refuse to listen to music, watch movies or read books that glorify death, murder, and suicide. I do not appreciate jokes that make light of hell. While I do not fear death for myself, I fear for the death of unbelievers. For many on this earth death symbolizes the end of hope, and that is not something to magnify. Instead what I hoped to do in attending this funeral was to encourage those who had lost their loved one, and show love to my grieving friend.

Not the knowing the family of this lady, I had little idea what to expect. I knew the family had been serious about their faith: They had paid for their daughter to attend a Christian academy.  I knew she had had many friends, but she had suffered several years of depression. I knew she had left behind her own family, a husband and two children, but they had been out of state at the time of her death. I did know that I would meet up with some friends of my friend who I had met on a couple of occasions, and I suspected I would run into some people in the community that were mutual acquaintances of me and the deceased. So it was only with the confidence that Christ had called me to this house of mourning for a purpose that I entered this gathering of unfamiliar people filled with extraordinary grief.

I was one of the first to enter the funeral. This gave me time to look at the display of a life left behind. There were photos of the lady and her family. Some of her favorite books were displayed, mostly poetry. The pictures of her and her children were endearing. I felt drawn to this woman with bright blue eyes, and contagious smile.  But, what got to me was the display of her personal Bible and devotional books. How could all these pieces fit together to make the puzzle of her life? How did one examine all the evidences of hope against an ending of despair? 

I took an end seat in a row near the back. I read through the program for the service, and realized this lady had been born only three weeks after me. She had lived through the same decades I had. She had had similar experiences to mine, and she ended her life at age 40.

It included her favorite Bible verses: Jeremiah 29:12 and Romans 8:28. 

Jeremiah 29:12  Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you.

Romans 8:28 And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.

My thoughts became perplexed. My heart ached. My faith challenged.

As the service began her husband and young children entered the room. They were followed by her parents and her sister. None of it seemed right. Young children should not be attending their mother’s funeral. Parents should not be burying their daughter. A 37 year old womanshould not be singing at her older sister’s funeral, only three years her junior. This could not have been God’s plan for this woman’s life, and those that loved her. 

The difficulties continued throughout the service. I prayed earnestly that truth would be spoken with love, and I assume it was spoken. The speaker was the deceased’ s brother in law, a pastor well-versed in the Word of God. He spoke of a young woman of vitality. He spoke of a God whose love and grace reached beyond death. He spoke of a woman who claimed faith in that God, but became so disillusioned in her faith that it became a shipwreck: Physical ailments pierced her faith like an iceberg, and the emotions of her heart drowned her spirit. 

My tears stayed until I witnessed her sister praise the Lord, singing “It is Well with My Soul,” the favorite hymn of this tormented lady. Was there any reconciliation of all the conflictions resonating within our hearts?

The total breakdown came when her son spoke. I remembered my oldest son at his age. Ten is a delicate age for boys. They are still remarkably sweet and thoughtful, but struggling with the realization of how difficult life can be. And this ten year old spoke during his mother’s memorial service. Afterwards both parents shared their thoughts and feelings through written words read by dear friends, because they trusted not themselves to present them. This was followed by the congregation singing “Amazing Grace (My Chains are Gone).” But was it true? Were her chains really gone? 

When the service ended with a prayer by the woman’s final care takers, the family asked every one to take a ballon outside with them. This was supposed to be a symbolic hug from us to the drealy departed. I felt somewhat uncomfortable with the idea, but had no intention of disrespecting this hurting family’s wishes. Somberly I waited with my single red balloon outside. I had noticed the two bereaved children had been given two balloons each. Each had a red balloon, but the girl also had a butterfly and the boy a shark. 

We were waiting on the outside lawn for a bit of time, because we had to wait for all the guests to leave the service. I was standing near the widower and his children. My heart was praying so many things for all of them, but my mouth remained uncustomarily silent. And then it happened . The balloon slipped from the little girl’s hand. Not the red balloon that was meant to be released, but the special butterfly balloon.

“Daddy, my ballon!” she cried. 

He picked up the little girl with her mama’s eyes and held her tight. They both watched as the butterfly ballon fluttered off through the sky. It was soon beyond sight, but they kept staring after it. We all kept staring after that butterfly. It was gone. She was gone. We couldn’t bring them back. This little girl had no idea what the loss of her mother would mean for the rest of her life. Her mother would not be there to kiss her boo-boos. Her mother would not be able to walk her through that treacherous trail called adolescence. She would not be there to help pick out her wedding dress or talk her through her first pregnancy. Her mother would not be there at all.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell God, “It is too much, Lord! It is all too much!”

Did God leave me in that moment? Did He reject me for my lack of faith?

No. He did not leave me. Because He is faithful. He promised in His word . . .”I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee” ( Hebrews 13:5b).

In that moment God met me. He reminded me He was there, He had a plan, and that His plan was for good. 

Was it good that a forty year old woman to take her life in her own hands, and leave her family without a wife or mother? No. Even unbelievers know that “Thou shalt not kill” is one of the Ten Commandments. But, God allowed her to have free will with her life. Somewhere in midst of her pain and suffering she lost her will to live, and traded her freedom for death. I judge not this woman whose spirit was broken, but I will learn from her. And I will pray for those she left behind.

 . . .for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to heart.  Ecclesiastes 7:2

Was it good for me to go to the house mourning that day? Yes! A thousand times, yes!

Yes, I came home with questions, burdens, and grief. But, I also came home with a new awareness of the gifts God had given me. I had a beautiful family, fairly good health, loving friends, and a Savior that even death could not take away. 

I received two more gifts that day: A resolve to live my days more purposefully and a heart of more compassion to those suffering from brokenness of body and spirit. 

I hope I left some things at that service, as well. I hope I left words of encouragement to grieving family members and friends. I hope I left the burden of my friend’s desire to be there with my attendance. But, I know I left sincere words of prayer and intercession for the bereaved. 

People often say God’s ways do not make sense to us. And I agree. Many times our finite minds cannot contemplate God’s sovereign design. But, as I pondered the Word of God about visiting the house of mourning and obeyed His call, it became clear. It made more sense than my own plans or ideas about what would have made me “happy” that day.  I had been where God wanted me to be for that moment in time.

At the end of the day it was well with my soul. My mind had questions, my heart held some residual sadness, but my soul was still held by the God of the universe. My faith had been challenged, but it was grounded on the Solid Rock. My life may be as fleeting as a balloon released into the air, but when it is released, my spirit will rest with God. There with God, and there alone, will all questions, sadness, and challenges cease. Until then, I am hanging onto my balloon.