Dad parked the car in the parking lot of the First United Methodist Church. I opened Mom’s door and she stepped out. Dad walked around the front of the car and held Mom’s arm as they walked up the steps to the front door. I followed along behind them.
“Larry, is that you?”
I turned to see Gene and Lois Vogt walking toward me. I stopped to talk with them for a few minutes before heading inside. The couple walked ahead of me, up the steps into the church.
There was a long line of people stretching from the entry foyer down the middle aisle to Brad’s casket, sitting at the altar, in front of the pulpit. The line took a sharp left at the casket, heading toward a receiving line with Brad’s wife, Bobbie, and family members. Pictures of Brad sat atop his closed casket.
As I stood there, waiting for the line to move forward, the Lord whispered to my heart: “Brad’s not in the casket. He’s up here in heaven with Me.”
I could have jumped and danced the rest of the way to the casket. This was the answer to the question, which I asked the Lord over and over again on the way home from Iowa: did my friend Brad give his life to Jesus before he died? Now, we will see each other again sometime in the future, I thought. Praise the Lord.
My joy lasted just a few minutes until I reached the casket. I turned left toward the receiving line where I eventually would offer condolences to Bobbi and her family. Standing next to the altar, an agonizing grief swept over me like a tsunami wave. It overwhelmed me. I wept and struggled to hold back howls of mourning within my chest.
I finally arrived to where Brad’s wife, Bobbie, stood, but I could not talk. I wept and babbled. She ended up hugging and consoling me.
“I understand, Larry, I understand,” she said through sobs.
She introduced me to her sons and their families. I moved forward, shaking hands, but still emotionally out of control. I finished and headed toward my parents who sat in a middle pew on the left side of the sanctuary. The grief lifted and I felt better.
“Larry, you need to talk with Brad’s parents,” said Mom, pointing toward Hap and Marie Schoonhoven.
I turned around and the heavy grief fell upon me once again. I moved toward them, barely able to walk because of the agony I felt. They ended up consoling me.
I finally sat down next to my parents. The cloud of grief seemed to have passed. A little later, my sister Linda sat down next to me. The service began.
Sitting there, I asked a question in my mind: “Lord, what was that heavy grief all about?”
The Lord whispered to my heart almost instantly: “I allowed you to feel a fraction of the grief I feel when a person does not make it into his divine calling. Brad should have been a prophet.”
The heavy grief dumped itself on me again, but this time, it was much worse than before. I vomited tears. I held my hands over my mouth to hold back the wails attempting to erupt out of my throat. I leaned forward. I leaned back. I was out of control. My sister and Mom looked at me. People leaned forward in their pews to catch a glimpse of the out-of-control mourner.
After a while, the grief lifted. I held my head in my hands, trying to catch my breath. Sweat rolled down the side of my ribs from the all-out mourning. Peace eventually quieted me. Praise God, I thought, this is finally over.
I felt Him whisper to my heart: “My church is a bunch of nice losers. They lay their hands on the sick and pray for them, but when they die, they aren’t mad at all. They don’t check themselves out to see what happened or what they may have gone wrong with their prayers and actions. They accept defeats and don’t think any more about them.
“Now, Major League baseball teams are all filled with good players. Each player has to be one of the best in the world to make it to the Major Leagues. Losing teams have good players on their rosters, too. But after a while, losing teams’ players don’t mind losing because after all, they still receive their Major League paychecks and bonuses.
“But winning Major League baseball teams are different. They hate losing and will do anything and whatever it takes to win. They hate losing.
“I want My church to hate losing!”
This time the grief, which hit me, measured a ten on the Richter Scale. It was so bad my sister leaned over toward me.
“Don’t you think you should go outside and get a hold of yourself,” she whispered.
If I had attempted to move, I would have fallen on the floor. Everything would have erupted out of me, making a bad situation much worse than it was. The grief lifted after a few minutes, but I sat on pins and needles for the rest of the funeral service.
The Lord is the Master Director who chooses the times when He interacts with us. It has little to do with whether it is convenient and everything to do with His purposes and plans for our lives.
I will never forget the day of my friend’s funeral.
(Taken from my memoir, The Hunt for Larry Who, an Amazon eBook.)
Larry Who 