Bring Out Your Dead

Search and Rescue: Best Volunteers Ever! 

I like parades.  Granted, not everyone enjoys sitting on the side of the road, often in the heat, waiting for friends and strangers to walk by in various states of dress…or undress…depending on the event.  It is one of the few times I can experience acute vicarious embarrassment and yet still enjoy myself. 

Small town parades are the best.  Although the spectacle of watching a gigantic purple dinosaur impale himself on a lamppost before crowds of thousands has its own charm, towns that pull out a moth eaten Barney suit and stick it on a mortified teenager are spectacular.  Towns like this are an exquisite and dying breed. 

When I was young, most groups in town would decorate a float.  Real flowers adorned the floats of any organization who had as it’s member a woman (generally named Gwen, often a real estate agent) who knew how to fund-raise in a community where asking for money was deemed a brazen activity reserved for the town alcoholic.  More righteous groups stuck to the plastic flowers, which were made of folded plastic with a staple in the middle, displaying both their waterproof characteristics and economic frugality.  Both qualities were deeply admired by the Chamber of Commerce and scorned by Gwen, who really was much before her time and shouldn’t have lived in such a backwater town as ours. 

With a happy heart I placed my chair at the end of our drive and waited for the parade. Off in the distance I heard the sounds of the Cadet Bands, long before they were visible. By long before I mean about ten whole minutes, which is how long it took to get from the old elementary school to the main street.   It didn’t disappoint.  Soon I was watching embarrassed tellers from local banks, walking in groups of two and three, waving and handing out candy.  Those who were prepared had on their sunglasses, the great barrier that prevents the wearer from the need to acknowledge any customer they might see.  Various charity groups followed, carrying banners and talking to friends as they went.  Sadly there were few floats, most business not able to afford the cost of decorating them since the exodus of all the Gwens; but they were out regardless, walking the street and creating community.

I was awash with admiration, mortification and a myriad of cringy emotions when I saw a small group that made me look twice:  Search and Rescue.  In the past, family members of mine have worked as volunteers in search and rescue.  They are some of the most dedicated and committed people you could hope to have looking for you when disaster hits: salt of the earth, trail mix munching, mostly-made-of-sinew movers and shakers of the back woods.  I cheered reflexively and then shook my head, trying to figure out what I was seeing.  The bright orange shirts looked sharp but on the stretcher was a yellow something.

It was a body bag.

Specifically, a body bag which looked to be occupied, which wasn’t exactly the message I expected them to send.  I was thinking of a mental picture which left one focusing on the rescue part of their work.  In my surprise I started to laugh hysterically.  Not that parading around with a mock dead body was a problem, it was just surprising.

Now, I know this community and I can tell you without any hesitation that there wasn’t a body in the body bag on this stretcher, though I thought maybe they could use one.  I wondered if they had considered placing one of their members on the stretcher, wrapping them in a blanket and placing a mug of hot chocolate in their hand.  Perhaps being search and rescue folk they were all too capable to assume a “rescu-ee” role. * I’m unclear if they of the grim search and rescue message they were sending but perhaps solemnity was what they were after. Watching them walk by still made me happy, “Bring out your dead,” I declared to no one.

It won’t have escaped you my friend that I haven’t written for a while and while I won’t go into the details, I can share that death, loss and grief rushed into my life like a flood in the last few months.  I’m told in scripture that such calamities are common to man, but as I have awoken in the night, rising to consciousness while simultaneously descending back into unspeakable grief, I have wondered how anyone manages to survive life’s common sorrows.

To add an interesting twist, I’ll share that through one of my trials, I was entirely certain that the Lord would deliver me out of a muddle of a situation only the providence of the Lord could fix.  I fasted, prayed, stood on the promises of God, fasted again, prayed more and believed the solution would be rectified.  I have to tell you my friend when God did not intervene and the bottom fell out, I was devastated.

As I’m certain you have experienced, the blows of life rarely land one at a time.  They often come in a flurry of successive strikes, leaving a soul reeling. When the element of faith is added to a storm, God’s sovereignty, man’s faith and suffering can create an agony of the soul that is difficult to bear.  So when the town came out for the parade on this particular summer’s day, I was happy to find myself represented by a group that brought a body bag to a celebration.

In fact, I had used the parade metaphor with a friend last week.  She made the mistake of asking me how I was and, at that moment, I decided I would speak freely.  Poor darling, sometimes we need courage to stand by those who are suffering, this friend has it in abundance.  Here’s my text to her as she helps me describe what I’m experiencing.

The only way I can describe it is a picture. 
I was in a parade going to a lovely place with all my friends. I had a sense of purpose and my children were happy. Everyone had a role to play.  I was standing with the Lord thanking him in faith for our future which I hoped would take shape. 
Then, I suddenly realized that I was foolish.  I was not going to be in the parade.  I was pulled aside with my family and all my goods were sold off in front of me and destroyed. I was ushered out of my community in shame and with haste.  Some people threw insults, others stopped talking to me.  
I found myself on a side street with my family; alone and afraid.  We were injured, bleeding and unable to stand.  My children are weeping and asking what happened. While in the background the parade marched on. People called out and wished me well. Some mentioned they would visit soon. 
Thank you for reminding me God has a plan.  But I can’t get there. I am trying to figure out if we are just marked for destruction.  There is something that isn’t adding up and isn’t working and it seems to be with my faith.  
I don’t have the ability to figure out faith anymore.  I’m just trying to take the next breath. 

Raw, no?

Sometimes dear friend, those around you will be enjoying the parade of life and all you will have to bring to the celebration are dead things: purposes, plans and promises.  At such times, life can become unbearable and when you feel that God has let you down or lead you astray it can be very difficult to muster the strength to pray again.  At such times, when faith and friends fail there is one thing left to do.

You have to bring out your dead.

One cannot bring out your dead and take them anywhere however, that isn’t wise.  Not many deal in the death and ashes of the human soul.  Certain people do not want to have anything to do with your pain because they are too busy feeling good and don’t want their attention diverted to suffering.  If you can relate to this sad circumstance can I suggest you let such friendships go; don’t try to hold on to them, such relationships cannot go the distance.  You need to have been broken to walk with those who suffer, smile and wave if friends pull away.  You can add their names to your stretcher and piles of broken things as you muster the courage to try again.  

Conversely, you might be surprised who shows up to walk alongside you for a spell while you are grieving.  People can be so very lovely sometimes. 
In truth though, human help is not enough to recover from loss, you need a Redeemer for that task.  Not just any god will fill the bill on this either.  You need one “who, [was] despised and rejected— a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief (Isaiah 53:3).” At first, it might feel weird bringing your stretcher and body bag out into the light but don’t let that stop you. Granted it seems an odd thing to bring the ruler of the universe but "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Ps 34:18) He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds (Ps 147:3)." 

If your faith is bruised, broken or altogether smashed to pieces may I remind you that words aren’t necessary?  It is enough just to show up and sit in silence with him for a spell.  Or maybe, like me, you have so many words they get caught in a jumble as they try escape your throat and all you can do it sob and choke out a “why?”  Entirely acceptable: as is frustration, anger and hopelessness.  Lately my offerings to the Lord have been measured in piles of soggy Kleenex. 

If this note finds you in a difficult season, I am truly sorry for your loss.  If you are a person of faith who feels like it has been irreparably damaged, may I remind you who oversees your walk?  "He is the author, finisher and perfecter of your faith (Heb 12:2)."  He will not leave you alone; the pull of the crowds has no effect on him.  He will wait with you in gentle silence until you can find the words, or not, to look up again. 

You might not get to march in the parade my friend, but there is a job for you in search and rescue.  The world is sadly lacking those who are able to comfort broken hearts.  If you allow your brokenness to shape you and find the grace to stand again, you will be able to pull the stretcher of those you rescue from despair.  You will wrap them in comfort, give them a cup of compassion and heaven will cheer you on as they recover.

There won't be a body bag on your stretcher either.

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren