I could hear him mumbling as I closed my computer for the night. I had just finished binge watching Lost and it was very late. You know how “just one” episode turns into four, and then it’s technically morning. Oops. I had been living with my grandparents for several months and occasionally I would hear this same mumbling late at night. Being so very late on this particular night, I decided to figure out exactly what was happening. Every other time I would just put my ear to the bedroom door, strain to hear, and manage to figure out everyone was okay without getting wrapped up in a late night conversation about so-and-so at church doing this-or-that… or was it this? No, it was that. This night I tiptoed out into the hallway (still a bit determined to avoid the this-or-that conversation), and stood quietly in the dark bathroom with a clear view to Oompa’s chair in the living room. His head was leaned back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open and just barely moving. His hand was resting on his Bible, as I had seen it so very many times in my life. The mumbling became clear and I slipped back into my room and under my covers knowing what I had witnessed would never ever leave my memory. As Oompa struggled to sleep through the aches and pains his body was enduring, he was reciting Scripture. I listened for it after that night, and never heard a verse repeated.

Processing death is such a strange and unnatural thing. To never see someone again. It’s a mystery to me how humans have learned to cope with death, but I know it’s a mercy from God. That even though death was not part of his perfect plan for our world, even though our sin is what created the grave’s silence, he still gives us the ability to cope. As each day passes, the heart heals a little bit more from the wound the separation creates. With Oompa and people like him, the wound exists because they were part of us. He was so much more than family to me. That I’ll never hear him say, “Hey, gal,” or see his floppy handed wave as we drive away, or feel his tight hold on my hand as he prays over me breaks my heart. Over and over. The wound and tears exist. But just behind that initial pain is a stillness and strength. He knew God. He knew Jesus. His belief was rock solid, his faith manifested constantly. He is at peace.

One of my least favorite activities in all of life is having a car serviced. I know hardly anything about cars, so I assume I’m being swindled. It stinks of fuel and sweat. There are never any fun magazines to peruse. Strange people sit with you waiting for their own cars. It’s all around uncomfortable. When I took Oompa and Grangran in their station wagon to get their car serviced at Walmart, I was counting it all joy. Literally. Making sure God knew this was a sacrifice of monumental proportions. As I wallowed in my “joy” in the smelly waiting room, a young woman came and sat with us. She was my age and clearly enjoyed a party. I was hoping we would all sit in mutual silence thinking our own thoughts, but she talked. And as soon as she started talking, I cringed. She was sad and broken and quite foul mouthed. She proceeded to tell my grandparents all about how she was being mistreated at work because she slept with her boss and… some other details equally alarming. I just remember thinking, “Why, why are you telling two nice, old people all this horrible stuff??” We sat with that girl for three hours waiting for our cars and all I saw was Oompa loving her. He patiently listened, encouraged, comforted, and sprinkled truths about his God in all of his responses. I know that girl walked away loved and not judged. I know she continued talking to my grandparents about the sordid details of her life because they were being Christ to her. And I suspect the long wait had more to do with God’s plan for that encounter and less to do with Walmart’s incompetency. And I am confident that Oompa didn’t want to hear all of that stuff, but did want that girl to know who died for her.

Oompa impacted my life in ways seen and unseen. He established a family of faith that trickled down to all of his grandchildren and great grandchildren. I’m selfishly sad and flailing in the face of the separation. Soon I’ll get past this stage and move into true joy knowing that he is sitting right with the God-man he knew so, so well in this life. The God-man who sat with him those nights as he recited Scripture. The God-man who reached out and touched a broken girl’s life with Oompa’s love in a dirty Walmart. The God-man who was able to use Oompa’s vessel in ways I only hope he can use mine. I know there is nowhere else Oompa would rather be right now than walking with Christ and I rejoice in that. But I still selfishly would rather have him here with us for just one more this-and-that conversation about so-and-so, one more prayer, one more garage-shaking burp, one more anything. And as I wait for God’s merciful time to heal the separation wound, I’ll remember every little thing I can.

Oompa and Oreo. It’s little wonder they got along so well.

Oompa and Grangran

Oompa with Ray when we were home in 2013.

Just being together.

In Dallas when Brian and I graduated together.

Our wedding which Oompa helped officiate.