We Miss Del: Reflections on Grief & Hope

I was dressed in black for this unexpected, grievous occasion. The motorcade snaked slowly through the city and into the church parking lot. Trembling, I emerged from the dark limo, a stark contrast to the bright white steeple against the deep blue sky. Stars and stripes were raised high, held between two red fire engines. All bore witness to an officer’s funeral. He was the wonderful husband to my sister, the daddy to my nephews and soon-to-be-born niece, a son to his parents and my own. He was a brother, a brother-in-law, a friend, and a lieutenant for the FL Fish and Wildlife Commission (FWC). He was Delmar Teagan. And he was no longer with us.

The date was April 13, 2007, just over 10 years ago. The time read a quarter past eight that Friday night on a winding road. An impaired driver in a large, heavy duty construction truck crossed those twin yellow lines and hit the FWC-issued Chevy Blazer. Our world shattered with crunching metal and squealing tires. Del was just 5 miles from home. Five miles from the arms of my sister. Five miles from the wild snuggles of their two boys.

My phone rang in a small trailer in Michigan where my husband Glendon and I shared a simple, quiet space with our happy pup. I had drifted off to dreamland. The alarm clock read 11:23 pm. In my family, good news never comes at that hour. Through tears, my dad asked if Glendon was with me. Then he choked out these unforgettable, terrible string of words, “Del was killed in a car accident tonight…”  I remember little else, save the sound of my dad crying and the sobbing of my beloved as he heard the devastating news. Heartache and nausea overwhelmed me.

In the days that followed, funeral arrangements were made. Plane tickets bought. Flowers sent. A black dress purchased. Twelve-weeks pregnant with a growing bump, I had nothing to wear. Dazed with grief, I stopped in at The GAP, hoping for a short, uneventful trip. The friendly man at the counter asked how he could help. I fought the sudden hot tears and bowed my head, embarrassed but unable to stop the wave of sadness. I didn’t want to be at The GAP. I didn’t want to need a black dress. I didn’t want Del’s absence to be our reality. Comfort came through a helpful employee who listened to me blubber, “I need a black dress for a funeral and I’m pregnant so I need one with room to grow.” Together, we found the perfect fit and a pair of glittery black flats to match. His kindness and care were balm to my raw pain.

Somber, sad, and still reeling from the awful news, Glendon and I boarded a south-bound plane days later. The warm Gulf air greeted us just before that familiar red Prius pulled up to the curb and my dad emerged. I hugged him tightly, leaving tear stains on his shirt.

An hour later, we were at my sister’s house. The house where Del did not return. He would no longer sleep in their bed, hold his wife on their couch, pull laundry from their dryer, or pour that black gold into his travel mug.

I struggled to meet her eyes at the door. What could I say? “How are you?” No. I already knew the answer. The love of her life, her best friend, the daddy to her children was gone. Sometimes muffled cries and hugs speak more than our fumbling words ever could.

That afternoon my family organized food, played with two quieter-than-usual boys, and wandered aimlessly between denial, shock, and pain. After an emotionally difficult evening at the viewing, we returned to my sister’s house. Sadness penetrated the walls of her home, stifling the air. I felt sick to my stomach.

We set up an air mattress on the living room floor. My 5 year-old nephew, Merrick, wanted to sleep with us that night. The width of the bed did not allow much space for three but we made it work. While Merrick curled up at our feet, warm and safe, I soaked my pillow with tears and wondered what would become of my sweet sister’s heart.

The morning sun brought dark dread. I wanted a solid month or year or lifetime to hide beneath a black drape, without anyone asking about my emotional status. Dressing up to publicly handle our grief requires a certain kind of strength–one that often exceeds our own. I walked into the foyer of that megachurch and fell in line with my family, ready to enter the sanctuary. The kind, well-dressed, pastor met us. I followed my sister down the aisle, hating that people were watching us. I did not want to endure the pre-packaged answers, the theology that only makes sense behind the pulpit. My eyes fell on the American flag draped over the dark brown wooden box, the lid now closed, guarded by two men in uniform. I slowly turned my head to see hundreds of FWC officers dressed in that classic light brown and hunter green uniform. They were stoic and still, respectfully listening to the words being shared about Del and God, life and death.

At the end of the service, our family lingered at the front of the church, near the casket. Though I knew the real person of Del had gone to a place beyond this cruel world, I didn’t want to leave his body alone. Not in that big sanctuary. Not in the dirt. My younger brother, Jake, joined me while Merrick sat on his shoulders. Merrick wore his own FWC uniform, complete with the hunter-green patch stitched to his right sleeve, a shiny silver badge pinned over his broken heart. He reached over to knock on the dark brown, wooden box and asked, “Daddy, can you hear me? Daddy, can you hear me? Why won’t Daddy answer me?” I looked up at my brother, both of us silently searching for some way to gently help our nephew understand the finality of his loss—our loss. I met Jake’s weary, tear-filled eyes and saw his quivering lips trying to form the right words. In grief, he choked out, “Because he’s in heaven, buddy.”

Sometimes this world is too much.

There’s too much pain. Too much loss. Too much grief.

It’s not right to bury a young dad. It’s not right to have to tell two little boys that Daddy isn’t coming home anymore. That Daddy will no longer snuggle or wrestle or read to them. It’s not right to have only pictures and stories to share with a little girl who will never know the wonderful man who helped to create her. It’s not right for a pregnant wife to have her husband so violently taken from her as she’s left to raise three littles on her own. This world is not right.

In the midst of all that is not right, I am learning that there is still beauty to behold. Sometimes beauty looks like friends showing up in the wee hours of the morning to weep with you, to let their own hearts break with yours. Sometimes beauty is baked in casseroles, arriving on your door step, ready to be served. Sometimes beauty is found in envelopes full of just enough cash to fly home for a funeral. And sometimes beauty is held in the arms of friends who tenderly care for your children so you can be more present in your own pain.

When our expectations are shattered, our dreams devastated, our loved ones taken, we can find glimmers of hope. I found this to be true when we traded camp life in the Midwest for suburban life in Florida. We have cherished memories of those 18 months with my family: laughter shared at growing babes and toddler antics, walks around the block, sidewalk chalk drawings, dinners and dance-offs, tickle fights, episodes of FRIENDS while the kids slept, beach trips, and countless other shared experiences. We are grateful for that time to know and love each other in more tangible ways.

Last week, we celebrated Resurrection Sunday. This holy occasion is such a bold reminder that beauty comes from ashes. Just like the disciples, my questions linger this side of eternity. My human understanding limits me. But the resurrection proves that life is possible after death.

We miss Del. Fiercely. Every day.

Some days we feel his absence more acutely and the waves of grief leave us battered and weary. We miss his laugh, his stories, his gentle disposition, his shared affinity for coffee, his smile, his quiet humor, his faithful presence. Because Del believed in and lived for a Savior who died and rose again, he is alive, and we’ll join him one day.

The truth of our risen Savior doesn’t diminish our pain or make us miss Del any less. Not at all. But it does offer us hope in the One who promises to never leave us or waste our pain. He doesn’t expect us to just “get over it”. He sits with us in our hurt and gives us all we need to craft a meaningful life, even when we’d rather wallow and hide. By His strength, we can move forward, knowing that our pain has purpose and that one day our tears will dry and all will be made well.

I close with these encouraging words from J.R.R. Tolkien:

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” 

Glimmers of hope mingled with grief: