I could have written about the stillness of early morning, when the birds haven’t even woken up and it’s just me, my cup of coffee, and the quiet. I could have written about a state of mind, the idea of serenity, the way we talk about “being still” as a way to listen to ourselves.
I actually wrote most of a post about “still” as it applies to my toddler daughter, functionally incapable of even grasping the concept.
I tried a few different ways to be funny. I’m better at funny – it comes more easily to me to write with a dry humor, putting myself at a little bit of a distance from my subject.
None of it seemed to work.
Instead, I’ve decided to write about tenacity and the “still, small voice” after the fire. It’s not about motherhood exactly, I guess, except that I’m only a mother as much as I’m a daughter, too.
We get so many things wrong about grief, sometimes. In our rush to have something comforting to say to someone who has just been dealt a terrible blow (whether it’s a natural disaster destroying their home, losing a loved one, being diagnosed, or anything else so abruptly life-changing), we rely on a platitude I truly hate – the idea that something that happened was “God’s plan.”
When my father died very suddenly in September, I heard every variation there is on his death being all just a part of the greater plan.
It was always said in hushed, sympathetic tones, by those who truly meant well and simply didn’t know what else to say. I know that there are those for whom it’s a comfort to believe in a God who directs and ordains even the death of an Illinois farmer on a beautiful harvest-weather day. Even if it’s the kind of death that means I hugged my father goodbye after he was here to see me in August and then will never hug him on this side of heaven again.
While I appreciated every single person who really just wanted to give us whatever they could to help, while I was grateful for every show of support we were given… I cannot accept their conclusions.
God is not in the death of my father. God did not direct its details or somehow plan out the kind of wrenching pain that followed.
I think of “still” and I think… we are still here. God is still the voice that tells us we can and we must keep on moving, life does not wait, and the world has not ended.
God is not in the earth giving way, or the earthquake that tumbles rocks into the sea, but the handhold we use to climb back up the cliff.
God is not in the loss, but the still, small voice that reminds us that life is not over. God is not my grief. God is in the way my daughter reminds me every moment that joy is still here, it did not leave with him.
That he didn’t really leave at all.
The still voice of God says, your father is not gone.
He’s here, still, and so are you. So is she.
So am I.
Just listen.
I’m Katie. I’m married with a very young daughter and my mother claims I am proof that God has a sense of humor. Born in Illinois and brought up in cornfields, I traded my beloved flatlands in for the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in South Carolina. I’m an armchair historian and a terrible backseat driver. —–
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Erika Shirk 
I’m glad you chose to write this, because I see God in it. I read the last few paragraphs over and over, and pictured Jesus telling a confused Mary Magdalene that he was “here, still.”
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I definitely think the “funny” version – that I really did have nearly entirely written – just didn’t work. “Still”, I think, just really needed to be thoughtful and reflective. I don’t always write this seriously, but the moment called for it, I think.
And yeah, I had a similar thought as well – I can always sort of hear the amused voice I picture from Him, just saying, “I’m still here.”
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More often than not, we “need” to write a certain way for ourselves. It usually resonates with others, too.
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You know, God hates death as much as we do. Yet Jesus suffered an awful death to take our place. Because of that we can know that your father and mine are still with us. They are so much more alive and one day we will meet them again. Thank you for sharing your heart, Katie! Blessings to you!
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Thanks, Gayl! You always have such wise words to add. And you’re right, we DO need to meet up sometime – we’re so close to one another!
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God is still the voice that tells us we can and we must keep on moving, life does not wait, and the world has not ended. I love this picture of God the encouraging. I believe you are right Katie… God is not in the death of your father. He is in the redemption of it.
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“God the encouraging” – yes, that is the God I have to, that I MUST see.
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I lost my mom suddenly a year ago in September and I (to this day) HATE hearing someone tell me it was in his plan. I really love how you worded it in this blog. Thank you for sharing.
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Oh, I hate it, too. We had (a well-meaning) someone tell us “God just needed a farmer” and it was really all we could do not to reply, “Don’t you think maybe we needed that farmer more?” But you just have to remind yourself that all of it is said with nothing but the best intentions, and thank them for the comfort they wish they could bring you, even if how they go about it isn’t quite what you need to hear.
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I love your take on the word “still.” So beautiful. I really loved this line: “God is not in the earth giving way, or the earthquake that tumbles rocks into the sea, but the handhold we use to climb back up the cliff.” The story of Elijah waiting to hear the quiet voice of the Lord in 1 King 19 came to mind as I read this (we named our son Elijah, so I love that story). Thanks so much for your vulnerability in sharing about your father’s death and for your beautiful words.
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