Now Is When It Gets Hard

The casket—draped with the American Flag—rested on a bier above the open grave. My dad had served in the United States Air Force during the Korean War. Family and friends were milling about, drying tears, shaking hands, searching for kind, thoughtful words:

“We’re praying for you. I’m sorry for your loss. That was a very moving service.”

Walking out from the canopy, I took my mom’s hand and helped steady her feet. My sister’s car was parked close by, and my mom seemed anxious to escape the crowd. She waved and smiled—without joy—as they drove off. I lingered by the tent, listening to condolences, not hearing much of what was said. One of my dad’s friends, a lifetime deacon in the church where I grew up with his daughters, reached out to shake my hand. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Now is when it gets hard.”

No explanation. No advice. Nothing else.

He taught Sunday School when I was growing up. He was Chairman of the Deacons when I was ordained. He had shared knowledge and wisdom as teacher and mentor. But his words fell flat in the flurry of loss, doubt, confusion, and sadness.

Now is when it gets hard.

I waited for more. He just nodded his head as if offering courage to a weary soldier, then released my hand and walked away.

I didn’t think much about it at the time. Now I find myself pausing, tilting my head upward, squinting my eyes, then turning my head and staring into the distance. Those words replay in my mind. Now is when it gets hard.

Why say something so discouraging, so distraught? Why be so brash and blunt? It was like saying, “Hey, you think it’s bad now? Just wait. Now is when it really gets tough.” Was he in the beginning stages of dementia? Did he lose track of his thoughts? Why be dreadful and discomforting at the very moment someone needs grace and assurance?

Days That Are Never Expected

When a loved one dies, your world is upended. It’s like being in an amusement park, jumping off one ride and immediately climbing onto another. But this ride drops from the chain hill, falling into twisting inversions and terrifying dive loops before thrusting you into a vicious heartline roll …

Family to see. Funeral to plan. People to notify. Calls, cards, conversations. Visitors are waiting in line. Food appears like manna in the desert. Text messages flood your phone. Everyone clamors for your attention.

Suddenly the magnets induce a change in the braking fins; the kinetic energy is absorbed; the commotion stops … The casket is lowered into the ground; the sod is replaced; the flowers are set.

Now is when it gets hard.

My dad’s friend knew that. He had gone through it himself. I had not. He knew I had no idea what to expect.

Moments When the Ambush Hits

When you walk away from the graveside, an ambush is waiting. It might be a day, it might be two days, it might be a week or a month or a year, but the attack is going to happen. It hits without warning and lands a quick, decisive blow.

You may have felt it yourself. His favorite song plays on the radio. You walk by her favorite store in the mall. You achieve a milestone, but she’s not there to celebrate. Memories you shared together flash into your mind.

For me, the ambush comes every time I need help fixing something around my house. I instantly think, I’ll call my dad. He was adept at explaining skills and simplifying systems. Lawn mower broken? Call Dad. Car won’t start? Dad will know what to do. He’s been gone for over ten years, but when something happens, I still think of him first.

Several years before my dad died, I had a problem with my clothes dryer. It wouldn’t heat. I was going to buy a new one, but he told me how to check and see if there was a bad heating element. Yep, burned out.

I don’t know if you’ve tried to replace the heating element in a dryer, but it’s not a job for an amateur. There were pieces of my dryer spread down the hallway, past the bathroom, and into the master bedroom. I’m not exaggerating when I say there were more parts, bolts, screws, and wires than I could count lined up in the order I detached them (my dad’s idea). I removed the burned-out element, took it to the appliance store to find the correct replacement, and returned home to reassemble the dryer (with more instruction from my dad). Once all the pieces were back in place, I plugged it up and hit the switch. Voilà. Just like new.

Oh and by the way, my dad helped me accomplish this from two hundred miles away, over the telephone. No FaceTime. No Skype. No video. No text messages. Just talking on the phone.

That’s one example of dozens I could give you: like how to filet a fish, how to make pancakes, how to replace the wiring harness in a car, how to install an outside light wired directly from the breaker panel. Again, all this before Google and YouTube videos became master instructors.

Are there other ambush moments? Are there other times when I think, My dad would know what to do? His sage wisdom was always a phone call away. I asked him for advice about situations at work, raising children, and concerns with church, marriage, and friendships. But now when I want to call him, when I have a question, when I need his reassurance, all I can do is remember he’s not there.

Words That Comfort and Shield

I remember getting the phone call from my sister and hearing her say, “He’s gone.” That night was tough. Funeral and burial plans were tough. His birthday and Father’s Day and Christmas Day are tough. But whenever life’s day-to-day moments launch their assault, I hear the gentle wisdom offered at my dad’s graveside by his friend.

Three years later my mom passed away. Two years after that I lost my wife. And those words—spoken at just the right time, even though I never saw him again (he passed away soon after)—became a comfort and shield. You’re never ready for the loss. You think the first drop is the worst. But now is when it gets hard.

Ah, Sovereign Lord, you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too hard for you. –Jeremiah 32:17

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