Love: Does it End with Death?

I love Daniel.

Daniel’s been gone from Earth for almost 25 years (February 2 is the day he died). Over the years I’ve discovered a multitude of things about grief, about my grieving self— guilt, longing, the lonely hour of 3 AM—and about the way society handles loss.

After a loved one dies, we tend to use the past tense. Instead of I love Daniel, the acceptable thing to say is I loved Daniel. Since Daniel is not living any more, society speaks of him in the past tense. All of the characteristics of him are spoken in past tense, too. Daniel liked to collect stickers; Daniel’s favorite movie was Toy Story, the very first one. He recited jokes from a weathered joke book. He fought bedtime. He had a mischievous smile, especially on the day he went into my desk drawer, took out a self-inking Thank You stamp, and stamped his legs with it.

I know Daniel died. I was there when it happened. I’m not delusional about things, except for when it comes to algebra because that has never made sense to me. I believe that when Daniel took his last earthly breath, his soul arrived in Heaven. He is now in the presence of Jesus, his Savior, whom he learned about in church and through Bible stories from an illustrated book. Daniel still exists; he’s just doesn’t exist here on Earth anymore, except for in our memories.

I loved him while he was my son, for those four short years that I was privileged to be his mama. I still love him, as I love my three adult children who live close by. My love for Daniel has not stopped just because he isn’t with us and I can’t see him open a birthday gift or eat the grilled cheese sandwiches he was fond of enjoying or get his photo taken by the Christmas tree.

I love Daniel. I’ll say it again. I love Daniel. And I invite you to use the present tense when you are talking about the love you hold for your loved one that has passed onto the heavenly eternal.

Even death cannot end the love we have. We don't stop loving a person just because he or she is gone. Love goes on.

The Simple Quiet: Finding Sanctuary in a Broken World

“God doesn’t want something from us, He simply wants us.” - C.S. Lewis


In a noisy world it’s easy to become overwhelmed.

The clamor of the opinions of others consumed me. I read a variety of thoughts and views on current political, racial, and Covid-19 events and I couldn’t seem to stop. Determined to learn and understand, I opened newspapers and listened to YouTube videos. I felt like a soda bottle about to split at the seams. Something in my spirit, perhaps it was the Holy Spirit, let me know that I needed help. God’s voice was what I craved, but other opinions were louder.

Yesterday I got in my Jeep and drove. I didn’t stop for coffee at the little convenience store along the way. I was eager to get to Markham Memorial Gardens, a cemetery on the corner of Durham and Orange counties. I knew that physically going to this location would bring peace to my soul.

However, when my four-year-old son Daniel first died, the cemetery held no peace. It was my valley of anguish. I hated standing at his small gravestone because that stone meant Daniel was gone from life with us. Having Daniel's name, birth, and death dates etched on the marker gave me a reason to have to be there. And I didn't want a reason to have to stand with tears sliding off my chin and a hole in my heart.

Somewhere in the early months of grief, I wrote a poem at the cemetery. It would win no awards, but it was about how I knew that Daniel was alive in Heaven with Jesus. That truth rejuvenated me. It made me smile.

As my family and I continued to come to the cemetery, which we named Daniel’s Place, a strange thing happened. I felt at home among the epitaphs and plastic bouquets. We went to the cemetery and celebrated Daniel’s birthdays by lifting helium balloons with love notes into the August sky. We ate watermelon slices because watermelon had been his favorite. We brought decorative pinwheels to place at his marker. We spread blankets and towels and devoured sandwiches. We shared Daniel stories. My children have grown up with me as we have made our pilgrimages to the cemetery to honor the memory of a boy who loved Toy Story, Cocoa Puffs, and stickers from nurses at the hospital.

If the cemetery had a growth chart you could see how I’ve grown from a newly-bereaved mom of thirty-six to a seasoned veteran of fifty-nine. The cemetery has played a large role in both my grief and my faith walk. While there, I pray, I sing, I read the psalms. I listen to the chatter of birds and watch the clouds. Sometimes I sit on Daniel's Thomas the Tank Engine towel under the massive oak by his grave, sip coffee, and write my own psalms. Some days my words are filled with woe, and other days, they are sentiments of happy praise.

As I walk the grounds and say hello to graves belonging to people I have never met, Daniel's Place reminds me of the brevity of life on earth. Our days are numbered and only God knows when our last breath will be. The cemetery makes me think about what is important and how I want to live the rest of my days.

When I turned into Markham Memorial Gardens yesterday, immediate emotion swept over me. The tears that blinded my vision were unexpected. I’m no stranger to tears; I’ve cried at the sloping grassy knolls surrounded by oaks plenty of times. I’ve even been known to wail. But I had never felt tears like these. I analyzed them. (Yes, I do label my tears!) The tears that morning stemmed from a pilgrimage that began twenty-three years ago when I wanted nothing to do with this burial spot — to the past decade — when I choose to come because I'd discovered a sanctuary of holy calm. The cemetery encourages me to recite the first verse of Psalm 61: “O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water. I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory. Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you.”

Your place of simple quiet might not be a cemetery. Perhaps it's at a park bench or a chair in your back yard. Maybe you are one of those who has a beautiful garden. Wherever you find that space where you go for the purpose of seeking God, go there. Sit down. Stretch your legs. Close your eyes. Breathe in. Take care of you. Take care of the precious life you have been given. Sometimes it's necessary to physically travel to a spot — like a park bench or river bank — where you can connect with God. When you arrive there, you know that pulling yourself out of your usual day-to-day surroundings is life-giving.

In a world vying for our attention, we need to make time to pause. Remember who God is and who we are. Our minds are confused, but God is peace. Our hearts are heavy, but he promises to ease the burden. In the sanctuary of the cemetery I walk among the graves barefoot because like Moses, I feel God’s holiness. I come with brokenness and pain, a fragile creature. He feeds me with forgiveness, hope, and healing, as only he can do.

When I left Daniel’s Place yesterday, I was aware of the need I have in a noisy world to cling to the righteous hand of God. "So do not fear,” God says, “for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (Isaiah 41:10)