Saying Goodbye
Originally posted on May 4, 2007 at http://web.mac.com/sarahfarris/iWeb/
Something I’ve noticed in my travels throughout New Zealand are the war memorials. Every town I’ve visited, even places not big enough for a grocery store, has a tall, solum, well-kept war memorial.
One side of the column - noticeably more aged than the rest of the inscriptions - would say “The Great War,” and list the names of men fallen or list the number of men fallen from the area. The other side would have similar inscriptions for World War II.
I realized that even in these small communities, they made monuments before the grim possibility of a second World War was imagined. They remembered immediately their fallen men.
New Zealand has had a population increase and now has four million people. And even now three-fourths of the nation’s population live in the top two-thirds of the North Island. That means there are one-million people spread out between the entire South Island and the bottom third of the North Island. Within these areas there are two large cities and a few smaller ones where a large percentage of those one million people live. The rest of this land is sparsely inhabited - long stretches of nearly people-less land.
When we were in Invercargall, the largest city in the southernmost part of the South Island, we saw a memorial driving through the city in search of lunch. And as we passed, me driving and my dad reading the memorial’s inscription, we were stunned. We fell silent. In this area of Southland - still barely populated - they lost 7,000 men in World War II. 7,000. That would have been significant portion of their population. It would be significant even now.
And so it came as no surprise to me that when we celebrated Anzac Day, the New Zealand equivalent of Memorial Day, last week, it was a solum day. Not a day for bar-b-q’s, but a day of church services and remembrance. A time to remember and remember properly.
This season of remembering and saying goodbye took place at the same time another goodbye was forced upon me and people dear to me. One of the professors at Focus on the Family Institute, Sheryl DeWitt, lost a war with cancer. She was young and strong, but the enemy was swiftly moving. Cunning. The time between diagnosis to heaven was quick.
Focus Institute was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I say that as no exaggeration. We arrived - 88 students from around the country - and left as a family tightly knit and forever bonded. Our first class was with Sheryl. She taught parenting, which was a family psychology course. And the night before, we read books about parents and in class we had to talk about wounds. And the first day nearly three-fourths of class, guys and girls alike, were in tears.
One our required texts for the class was the children’s book, You are Special by Max Lucado. She read the book and then, standing at the front of the class, teary eyed, said, “as a psychologist, God has put me in a place to care for people, many who have deep hurts, to rebuild them and to love on them.” Her tears flowed and she said, “And those people are you.”
And that was Sheryl DeWitt. And when she was gone, students traveled from all over the world to say goodbye to a woman who loved them until they truly understood they were loved. She was a mirror - reflecting God’s love on to others - and always pointing back to the Father.
I couldn’t attend the memorial service for obvious reasons. But I was blessed that one of the people at the institute, Lindy, took pictures and posted them online. And here at a Starbucks in New Zealand I’ve watched them and shed some tears, and headphones plugged in, slow music playing, I’ve had my own memorial service. Seeing pictures of people at the memorial service who I know and love grieving, hugging and saying goodbye, it felt real for the first time. I’ve said goodbye properly.
Sheryl is the second in the Focus on the Family Institute family to be sitting with Jesus. The other was killed on the mission field in a car accident. Still sitting in Starbucks, I’m thinking about both of them. Both young and passionate. I’ve just watched an elderly woman, hunched over, reliant on a cane, make it past the tables and overstuffed chairs to the restroom. Following a few minutes behind was an equally feeble man pushing a walker. When the woman emerged, he was waiting with her walker. And they walked together out the door. And I’ve sat here and asked God why Sheryl won’t get that? Why won’t she grow old with her husband? Why won’t she get to see her three young children grow up?
Why must we say goodbye?
Those are tough questions and the only answer that suffices is, “I am.” God says of himself, “I am.” He’s enough. He has a plan. His ways are not our ways. And we see only in part right now, but someday we will see fully.
But when Lazarus died, that’s not what Jesus talked about. He didn’t give a sermon or point to scripture. He cried with his friends. And, raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus showed just how in control He is.
I can’t philosophize much deeper than that. I don’t have many answers, nor do I want to think away sadness. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. Instead, I’m writing this: my own memorial to Sheryl, written by a grateful person. I’m saying goodbye properly.
The lessons Sheryl taught, the love she shared, the Truth she reflected and the investments she made into people went beyond a job. It was a calling, and because of her calling, Focus Institute alumni - spread across the world and totaling 2,300 now - are equipped to be better parents.
I’m stunned thinking about that. 2,300 people equipped to be better parents. Sheryl’s legacy will last for generations. And it was all because she loved until we believed it. Thank you, Sheryl.
** PS - If you want more info about Focus on the Family Institute, the website is www.focusinstitute.org.
