Sometimes the hardest part of letting go, is letting go.
When something dies, it must fully die. There can't be any hope, any will for it to come back. There can be no bargaining, no more hope for it to come back, in any form. When Jesus let Lazarus die, it was a complete death. He wasn't just severely ill, or on life support, or comatose. He was dead. And when Jesus came to him, He wept.
Everyone was waiting, feeling the death with Him. Those that were family and friends of Lazarus had no idea what would happen. They knew Jesus could have saved him from illness, but not the clutches of death. It was too late. It was too far. He was too gone. The pain was too great and too much had happened. Nothing is more final than death.
Hope hurts too much in those death moments. How can you hope for resurrection from something so final, so complete, so... dead? You don't. We don't crawl in the casket at funerals and we don't jump in the ground at the burial and curl up hoping it will bring back to life who or what has died. Even Martha says "If you had been here my brother would not have died. Even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give you." Jesus replies "Your brother shall rise again." Thinking she understand what He is saying she replies "I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day."
There was no hope. She couldn't comprehend that He would do it now. That something could be so resurrected. She didn't want to. That would be too painful. Hope in death is so painful. Acceptance, was the only key to success. She had the faith to know Jesus was real, to know He was the Savior and His will and requests were right, but that was as far as she could go. It's as though she was saying "Just because You didn't show up right then, in the way I wanted You to, I still trust You. I still know You are good and real and supreme. Whatever You will, I will accept."
Acceptance of his death made the miracle even more real. All of those around Jesus had known the death, seen it, felt it, accepted it. There was no changing, manipulating, arguing through it. It was what it was, and the Lord was still good. Maybe there was no understanding, no figuring out why Jesus didn't come when He could have to save their brother and friend.
But she was no longer asking why, she was moving on. They had buried Lazarus and let it go.
Then, as if there was a torturous moment, a teaser of hope that probably felt like mockery, Jesus calls for Lazarus to rise. We have no idea how long it was before He stood up and called Lazarus to come out. We don't know if it was an hour, or two, or even half a day. We don't know what happened, or what was going on around Jesus, or any of the details, that would seem so insignificant, until we experience death ourselves. Then those minutes, those hours, those days seem to crawl by, as we hope that the next one brings more relief. That something, somewhere comes in and rescues us from the truth of the circumstance.
For Lazarus, redemption looked like the fixing of the circumstance. A setting right of that earthly version of what was happening. It was a 180 degree turn from what was happening. There was joy instead of mourning, laughter instead of tears, beauty from ashes. From acceptance of death, to marveling at the wonder of what Jesus could do. It became a miracle that became proof that became a foretelling. It had larger ripples in a pond that had more than just the rescuing of pain for Lazarus' family in mind. It has been read and reread and told and retold to tell of the greatness of God. It changed the world.
We are not all so lucky though. There can be no substitute for acceptance. No tricking myself into believing that "maybe, if things were different, if it was done this way." No hope for a different outcome. Death is death, in any form. Anything short of acceptance is cheating my way out of God's will. It's circumventing the process and what is to be. A bigger plan is at work, for more people than just me. Lazarus' death wasn't just about him, and the death in my life is never just about me. I don't know what God could be doing in anyone else's life and trying to predict it is just as futile. It may not be about me, and I may never get to know what it was about.
No one knows what the story is before it unfolds. Something dies and we say "It shouldn't be this way..." then, if or when resurrection comes, its not a miracle, its just righting a wrong. It's a heavenly manipulation. It's pointing the finger to try and make my plan the right one, when the only right one, is probably the one I didn't think of.
Acceptance, now that's different. Realizing that even if something were to come back, it still wouldn't be right, because there is a path that has to be complete, a death that needs to be death, a release that needs to be released, that becomes trust. That becomes love of the Father. That becomes faith. Faith not in circumstance, or blessings, or good things or what we want, but faith in a larger picture. It becomes faith in a bigger God, in a better God. It becomes hope in Him, rather than what He gives.
That process is never easy though. Planning the funeral can sometimes look like putting one foot in front of the other and starting over. Finding a new job, moving to a new city, starting new dreams and new desires. Reforming the view of the world with the new complexity of the death. Starting to see yourself through the lens of a changed color, not the way you expected. Not the way you had hoped.
That's the trust though. The trust is when every moment of pain comes, when the fear of starting new, when the anger at what has occurred tries to barge in, turning to the Lord and saying "Even now... even now I know what You ask for will be given to You. I know You are good. I know I can trust You, even when this pain feels so unfair. Even when I feel like it should have been different, I know... I KNOW You are good. I know you are bigger, better and a Healer. I know You bring light and not death, and even in this, there is life. I trust You."
At that point, whatever the next day brings, it has come from a place of trust. There is no alone, there is no hopelessness. There is no need for explanation, or justifications, or blame or anger. It's His. It's always been His, because it was never about me.
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