The last day of November, my friend and her son joined me for an American Thanksgiving celebration. It was their first one. When the guests around my table took turns speaking their gratitude, my friend and her son readily joined in. First the son expressed thanks for his mom, and then she spoke gratitude right back.

As the afternoon progressed, we snapped photos, of the whole group, of small groups, including one of my friend and her son. That photo became the last of the two of them together. A few days later, he died unexpectedly. He was about to turn 21.

My friend lives downstairs in our apartment building. Commotion in the middle of the night had roused me from my bed. When I saw the ambulance’s flashing lights and her son being carried out, I sent a quick message to let her know I was praying. A few moments later, I went back to sleep, assuming something serious but not life-threatening had occurred. He was barely out of his teens after all.

When I awoke the following morning, a one-line text was waiting.

He could not be saved; he’s gone.

No.

“Surely my Chinese is failing me,” I thought, but the app’s translate function confirmed my understanding. Still in disbelief, I forwarded the message to a mutual friend. Even though her native language is Chinese, she too thought—hoped—we were somehow mistaken.

Too young.

As I replayed the previous night’s events, I heard the plaintive desperation that my ears had dismissed; I saw the lifelessness that my eyes had denied.

Too soon.

With dread, I forced myself to make my way down to her apartment. In the place where he died, still disordered from attempts to save him, we sat on the edge of the bed. She recounted the last few days of unpleasant but seemingly normal illness and then the shocking horror of his final moments. All I wanted was to escape from that hideous hole and left more quickly than I should have.

Each time I returned, I entered into my friend’s devastating darkness with the same sense of heaviness. Each time, I left with a feeling of hopeless inadequacy, linguistically, culturally, emotionally, and spiritually.

Death is ugly. It is an affront to the Creator’s original plan. Human sin—our sin—brought death, and death is hideous.

Death is dreadfully dark. Always. But especially when it is disordered and a child dies before a parent. Especially when it seems preventable if only. If only.

If only.

But

On those walking in darkness, a great Light has dawned.¹

Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the pow’rs of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.²

On those who dwell in the shadow of death, Light shines eternal.

The Light of light is acquainted with grief. Even more, unlike me, He eagerly enters our hideous holes and bears our dreadful sorrow.³ With human understanding and divine authority, He illumines our darkest days. The enemy scatters. Doubts and fears flee. And in their place, Presence.

Comfort.

Hope.

Peace.

Alleluia, Lord Most High!

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1. Isaiah 9:2. ↩︎
2. “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” from the Liturgy of St. James, AD 60. ↩︎
3. Isaiah 53:3-4. ↩︎

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