Condolences in Tears

To express our sympathy in America we do so many things.  My mushy brain can't think of any except for close friends we might supply meals.  Might buy groceries.  Might get flowers.  Here it is different.  At least in our Muslim neighborhood.  Hindus burn their dead.  Muslims bury theirs.  The day they die or at least within 24 hours they must be buried.

Dirt.  That is the literal translation of the word that they use for burial. Dirt.

A close friend of Hubster's died on Monday afternoon.  Dirt happened that night.  No women can go.  Not a one.  His daughter had recently lost her husband unexpectedly.  It had been less then thirty days.  His son had recently, less than two weeks, lost his second wife who was pregnant with twins.  The story of her death reads like some horror article in a journalist's reveal of a major medical malpractice.

For four of the children in the multi-family household, they lost their second mom, two new siblings and their grandpa in the matter of what must seem like moments.

I wove my way through tiny, tiny gullies in light colors.  Light colors are what one wears when one mourns.  Dark vibrant colors or black are a cultural faux pas.  I went to sit and cry with the widow, daughter and daughters-in-law.  We cried.  We wept.  We wailed.  Greatly wailing.  Deep sobs.  A newcomer would enter and we would all start again.  I was a day late.  Almost unforgivable.  I did not sit with the women and the dead body the day prior in the small window that is held precious to the women of the family.  Chad and I made the decision that he should be there with his good friends and that our darling chaotic children were not the right ones to throw into the mix.

Sitting with the widow listening to the day of death and burial our decision was validated.  Newcomers were called into the death room to fall on the body weeping.  Children were ordered to call out to the dead man bidding him to speak, to walk, to return.   My little ones are not quite ready for that.

As a family we have been celebrating Jesus' walk to the cross each night for a month.  We have a oven cooked pottery like wreath (it is hideous) which has 27 candle holders.  We move the candle forward each night and read from the Word of life about Jesus.  Then we take out a picture from our Big Special Envelope that matches what we read about.  We put tape on the picture and we stick it up on a big poster over our dining room table.

We see crosses at every meal.  Abe is asking about death.  Jesus died.  How do I share this with my little ones well.  As we do our devotionals and look at the Big Picture Bible and Storybook Bible I watch my kids eyes to see if they are tracking.  I want to help them to understand.  I want to clear a way for them to see.  I want them to hear with their fibre tingling.  Till that day (which I pray for daily as it is God who will move) we try to make it fun for toddlers.  Tape, fire, singing and looking at pictures coupled with sitting cosy on mom and dad's laps.  It is fun, it is good.  It is a step in the right direction.  But as we celebrate together in the dark around the candle the weight of it all sometimes seeps over me.  Jesus walked to the cross.  Help me, Father, to follow Him.  As I walk I hold onto the truth........


Sunday is Coming!