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Death and loss are inevitable realities in every person’s life. Because of their drastic
effect on the individual, it is worth reflecting on the nature and impact of the different losses
throughout life. This paper will reflect upon three specific losses in childhood, adolescence, and
adulthood. Each loss was unique and painful, but it also changed me in positive ways. Pain
cannot be reduced to needless suffering; if we look closely enough, we can discern more of the
divine portrait.
Childhood
My mother grew up in a fractured home, but her mom was always a big part of her life.
While I never had a relationship with my mom’s dad, we had a classic and beautiful relationship
with my mom’s mom. Her name was Betty Bouck; we called her Grandma Bouck. At some point
before I was born, Grandma Bouck became a Christian. She loved us, spoiled us, and made being
around her a special treat. We would visit her twice a year, and she visited us once per year
(Christmas time). Before she became a Christian, she was a regular smoker. Cancer ultimately
took her life. It was a slow process; she needed significant help at home. Being young, I was
unaware of some of the tension my mother felt as she believed her mom’s husband was not
helpful. My mom drove across several States to be with her for the last few weeks of her life. We
got to see her one last time a couple of weeks before she passed. She was severely sick and bed-
bound.
Her funeral was a mix of sad emotions punctuated by some moments of relief in that (1)
she was no longer suffering and (2) that we had confidence she was with Jesus. It is strange to
reflect upon losing my Grandma Bouck at such a young age. Half of my younger siblings never
got to meet her. I was undoubtedly sad at the moment, but small waves of sadness have been felt
over the years as I realized there was so much more life ahead for our family that she would not
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be a part of. Perhaps when you’re young, you believe your whole life is being lived at that time.
But I grew up, married, and became a father; she wasn’t there. She would have loved to meet my
wife, and she would have loved her. She never held or kissed her great-grandchildren, which
would have been incredible. My wife’s grandparents are still alive and active at 90 and 91. I
don’t get jealous, but I do get sad thinking I never had anything close to the longevity of my
relationship with my grandparents.
Only as I type this summary and reflect on that experience do I realize how it has affected
my perspective. Grief can be intense and momentary, but it can also return in unexpected ways.
It’s as if all the ways missing someone could be realized must be realized on a continuum. At
nine years old, I could not imagine what it would be like to not have my mom’s parents in my
life as a teenager and an adult; only after I progressed in those life stages and had those
significant life moments did the grief rise to the surface. When my mother lost her significant
sister years ago, she told me that sometimes we (me and my siblings) might see her crying in the
middle of the day. I understand that well now. Those moments that recall the memory of, or the
longing for, someone loved have a way of squeezing the heart again.
Adolescence
Most of the loss I have experienced is identifiable in my childhood or adulthood.
However, there is one unique form of loss I experienced in my later teen years. I met my wife
when I was seventeen in my senior year of high school. My wife has three brothers; two are
about my age, and one is much younger. I turned eighteen, and my wife and I fell in love. She
said, “You will love my brothers!” I had not met them yet because they were both in jail, serving
10-12 months.
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I first met her older brother, Chris. I grew up in a conservative Baptist Church and
graduated from a Christian school; I was caught off guard by the bandana-wearing, just-released
brother of my wife. In summary, God radically changed Chris’s life. Chris attended Bible
College with me and is now a full-time trained counselor at our Church in North Carolina.
Shortly after I met Chris, I met my wife’s younger brother, Jonathan.
At thirty-five years old, Jonathan has spent more time in juvenile detention, jail, and
prison than he has spent free. We built a relationship before he received his last lengthy sentence.
I got him a job where I worked, and he attended Church and family gatherings. Then, he
committed a crime that got him locked up for eleven years. This was the first form of loss related
to Jonathan. I missed him and dreaded what he must be dealing with in prison, but I was also
upset that he was living a life that was hurting others, family included. It is a terrible mix of
emotions to see a loved one deal with addiction and crime. It causes such pain and strife within
the family. For ten years, every family gathering was one person short. Jonathan wrote letters,
but they often ended with asking for money. We had little money to spare as high school teachers
but sent him money every quarter. We (my wife and I) wanted a real relationship with Jonathan -
not one dependent on commissary funds. We did not lose Jonathan in death, but we lost him in
our lives.
The story of the loss of Jonathan is ongoing. He got us out of prison last year. He got a
job and was involved with his family for several months; surprisingly, things looked promising.
Then things began falling apart. He never repented of his sin and remained hostile towards God
and religion. A lifestyle of sexual promiscuity and petty crimes followed. He had a life set up for
him: a family that loved him, housing, a job, and a car. It hurt all over again to see him run away
from it. He suffered in profound ways while he was in prison, but he is not interested in talking
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about any of it. He is free from prison but not free from vices or his sins. Whenever we ponder
on his condition, it brings a new wave of grief. It hurts to see someone reject truth and goodness
and pursue a life of self-destruction. Why didn’t God change Jonathan like He changed Chris?
How can we help Jonathan? How should we live in helplessness if we can't do anything? These
are the three main questions my wife and I have been wrestling with for years before Jonathan’s
release. And now the reality is we have no answers. We love, feed, and provide him with gas
money when he surfaces in desperation.
The loss of Jonathan has the most disturbing effect on my perspective and conviction of
loss and grief. First, it demonstrates that loss is not always momentary. The event of a loss can be
something that stretches across time; loss can have an enduring narrative. Secondly, loss seems
to have a unique pain associated with it when there is an allusion that you can do something to
prevent it. It appears there was a way for Jonathan to escape; we all have to continue to pray and
try to make that escape real to him. But he won’t have it. To cling to hope in this case is for my
wife and I to pray that the mercy of God is poured out on Jonathan, that he sees his desperation,
and God saves him. We have to trust in prayer. “All we can do is pray” is a well-intentioned but
indirect heresy. Prayer is not a last resort or a feeble effort. But honestly, it can feel that way.
Dealing with Jonathan makes us cling to the hope of prayer; we have nothing else to hold onto in
hopes of Jonathan’s redemption.
Adulthood
In my adulthood, I have experienced many forms of loss. However, there is one that
stands out in particular. In college, I made several friendships that extended well beyond
graduation. I graduated with three friends, and we have become more of a family over the last
ten years. We were at each other's weddings, involved in the same Church, and began our
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families in the community. Four years ago, one of these friends, Thomas, and his wife, Alyssa,
became pregnant with their first child. She was six months pregnant when, in the middle of the
night, she went into early labor. By morning, her baby, Enoch, was born. He lived for a few
minutes outside of the womb. As soon as we found out about the early labor, we were all praying
incessantly that Enoch and Alyssa would be OK. When we found out that Enoch did not survive,
it was crushing.
We went to the hospital to be with them. I was unaware that the hospital had well-
established processes for babies lost in delivery. We were able to hold Enoch’s lifeless body, talk
about how his tiny features, and cry with Thomas and Alyssa. It was overwhelming. We were all
Bible degree graduates and involved in ministry, but there were no words at that moment. We
were just with them.
In the weeks to follow, our Church held a memorial service. Our friend group (“framily”)
had our private memorial for Enoch a week later. We planted a tree in their backyard, read
Scripture, prayed, and comforted Thomas and Alyssa. This loss left an incredible impression on
our whole group. Upon reflection, I see it as when I came face to face with theodicy. I had
engaged in many apologetic discussions/debates about pain and suffering. Still, I never realized
the personal and emotional weight that comes with real-world pain and suffering, like losing
your child. Alyssa was not the same after losing her son. My wife and I also had a sense of
insecurity and gratitude. It forced us to develop our views and convictions towards our children.
Of course, we behaved and thought along the lines of “these are our children.” But as our
friends lost their baby, we had to reconcile a realistic theological perspective if we were going to
be able to handle the grief, realize any hope, and maintain trust in God. Essentially, we had first
to confess that children are not ours. We, as parents, are stewards for a time. Secondly, we had to
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believe that idea. It is easy to forget as we find ourselves investing and relishing in the young
lives of our children. But Enoch’s short life has served as a cairn of the reality that all of us,
especially our beloved children, belong to God. If I allow that reality to sink in, it elevates my
view of God’s sovereignty and makes me desire to trust that he has a divine redemptive plan. A
plan in which all this suffering will not be comparable to what will be revealed.
Conclusion
I have never intentionally reflected on the various losses in my life like this assignment
required. It was powerful. I realized that hurt, loss, and grief are almost always experienced in
unique ways. It is easy to focus on the unique pain, but it has also proven to be a valuable
exercise in discerning the redemptive perspective offered in the experience. I will not presume to
know the mind of God in allowing suffering, for how could a dog presume to know the benefit of
a veterinary visit? But I can see how each loss positively influenced me.
Losing my grandma taught me that loss can be experienced in new ways throughout one’s
life. This forces me to keep my eyes on the horizon of redemption when every tear will be wiped
away. The unique and ongoing loss of Jonathan has forced me and my family to depend on and
invest fully in prayer. We have learned that while every attempt to minister to someone is worth
making, God still changes hearts. Losing Enoch rocked our community. With a measure of joy,
we trust he is in the presence of God. And how I view my family (wife and three children) has
been altered permanently. They are not mine but put into my life by a good and loving God who
will call us home at his pleasure.
