Blessed are They Who Mourn (Matthew 5:4, Luke 6:21)
He stood at the tombstone, reading the epitaph, the dates of birth and death chiseled into the stone. The deceased held a secure place in his heart. He could still feel her embrace and if he dwelled on her breath stealing grip, emotion threatened to engulf him.
He wouldn’t cry. He’d done enough of that. His paper thin heart ached, but tears accomplished nothing. He didn’t believe the pain of loss was going to fade anytime soon.
Blessed are they who mourn.
He was mourning now. He didn’t feel blessed.
“I remember how soft her hands were when she would touch my face,” the young girl to his right said. “Even when she was sick and her final days were near. Her hands were still soft.”
He didn’t respond to her or even acknowledge she had spoken. Instead, he thought of those last days in silence. The knife in his heart twisted.
Blessed are they who mourn.
How could this sadness be a blessing? The old lady whose flesh and bone was in the earth had cradled her Bible to her chest, even in those last days. She was meek and humble. She loved her Lord. Still God chose to allow cancer to ravage His servant.
She was blest. But was he?
He fought back a tear. The young girl to his right noticed. The last appearance he wanted to show was weakness.
“It’s okay, you know,” the young girl said. “To cry I mean. It’s okay to be sad. I mean we shouldn’t be. We should be happy. Heaven, if you believe in Heaven, is a wonderful place. Those who know Jesus will experience intense joy and a deep… satisfying love.”
“She knew Jesus,” he said in response.
“She did. She loved Him deeply. She tried her best to follow His word. There were times of failure, we all have them, but she knew about grace. She knew, that because of the cross she was saved. Because of the cross she would cast her eyes upon the face of Jesus.”
He bent down and dusted off the stone marking the grave.
“She had no family,” he said.
“There were a few people at her service,” the girl replied, “mostly people from her church.”
“Is that how you knew her?” He asked.
The girl nodded. “I used to get her coffee ready in the community center after Sunday services. Sometimes we would share a bagel. I can never eat a whole one and neither could she.”
“Does it make sense?” He asked the vague question.
“What?” She responded, turning toward him with a puzzled expression.
“That we are mourning… and somehow that makes us blessed.”
She smiled. He thought the curling of her lips made her quite attractive. “We mourn our loss, do we not? The dead in Christ are in paradise. We should be happy for them, especially if we are certain they are with Jesus. The act of mourning is for our loss… and we will miss her. Still, I have a joy in my soul knowing that there is no more pain for her to experience.”
“Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted,” he stated.
“And we are comforted, if we truly believe. We are comforted by the presence of each other and we are comforted by the promise of the life coming after this death.”
“And you only knew her from church?”
She nodded. “What about you, where did you know her from?”
“I bagged her groceries when I was in college. Sometimes… when I could, I would help her load them into her old green Ford. She would try to tip me. I always refused. Told her it would take from my reward in Heaven.”
She watched a single tear escape down his cheek. “That’s grace,” she whispered.
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