Rest For A Weary Soul
Sermon
Life Everlasting
The Essential Book of Funeral Resources
Object:
For one who suffered a difficult life
Rest For A Weary Soul
Psalm 73:23-26
Sometimes death is violent and brutal -- wars, murders, auto accidents. Sometimes death comes all too soon: as in the death of a young mother, or a teen, or even a child. Sometimes death's separation is unexpected and heartbreaking. Many of us have experienced deaths like those. Sometimes though, more than anything else, death is a laying down of our burdens, a rest, for the body that was broken and filled with pain, and for the soul that suffered the many sorrows of a difficult life. Virginia's death is one such death.
I know those of you who loved her will be sad and sorrowful over losing her. No matter how expected, or how much of a blessing a certain death is, it always hurts to lose one we loved. But, there is also for us here, the encouraging knowledge that Virginia has indeed laid down some heavy burdens. She has laid down the burden of her ill health; the burden of her loneliness; the burden of her increasing anxiety about managing her future. All those burdens have been lifted today. So, this is, in many ways, a timely death. A death we can celebrate because it was a release, a liberation for poor Virginia and we are glad for her that her misery is over. Glad that she has no more worries, no more sorrow, no more mourning, nor crying, nor pain. Instead she knows newness, and God knows she needed to be made new.
We can rejoice today for Virginia because we know that the trip she made Thursday night was a trip to paradise. A trip it was time for her to take. It is a long-needed, permanent vacation in the kingdom of her Lord. It was a trip she was very much afraid to make, but one I am sure that she is now glad she has made. It was a trip we are glad she has made as well, because life is finally what it should be for her.
Virginia had a hard life. I only knew her for the last twelve years, and there wasn't a single one of those years that was a good year. Life was a constant battle for her. She fought with her weight. She battled those cigarettes that surely helped to kill her; the diabetes; the poor eyesight; the pharmacy of pills that she took; the constant battles with paying her bills and trying to get by. She was constantly trying to get some help and get a grip on her life. And then there was her son, Billy. She and he worried about each other, irritating each other, being angry with each other, and fighting with each other. I don't know if people who didn't know them well could tell this, but in spite of all the spats, they really did care for each other.
I remember seeing Billy in the hospital one time. He was in pretty bad shape and he thought maybe he wasn't going to live much longer. He said to me, "I know we fight, but I love my mom, pastor. I love her," and he began to cry. And I know Billy could be dramatic with the best of them, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was being completely sincere at that moment. I also know that while Virginia was sometimes so angry with Billy that she wanted him out of her house, she loved him, too. In fact, it seems to me that it was when Billy died six years ago, that Virginia really began to go downhill. After his death, she not only struggled with all those things we already mentioned, bills and health, but now she was also lonely. She and Billy kept one another company. When she lost him, almost everything was gone for her. She had a hard life.
Yes, you can say that she brought much of the hardship on herself. There is certainly truth in that. I used to get so frustrated with her for not taking better care of herself. I scolded her about eating right, and about those cigarettes, and more times than I can count, about budgeting her money. But I finally realized, after years of working with her, that she was doing her best. She really was. And part of the reason that she didn't do better, that she didn't stop smoking, or eat right, or make a better life, was that she honestly believed that she didn't have it in her to do better.
I was visiting her in the hospital once and she was telling me that the doctor had told her she had to stop smoking. I said, "He's right. You've got to stop."
She said to me, "But I can't do it, pastor. I really don't think I can do it."
She couldn't do it because she didn't think much of herself. I remember greeting her at the door of the church one Sunday morning. It was after services and I said to her, "You look great this morning, Virginia." Now, Virginia wasn't a beautiful woman, but that morning she had on a nice dress and had had her hair done and her make up looked nice and so I commented on it. She looked at me as if I had just told her I was going to give her a million dollars. There was the most grateful look in her eyes. A look that was like no one had ever told her that. Maybe that's not true, but it was that kind of look. A grateful look that said, "I've been so thirsty for some of that kind of encouragement. I don't get to drink from that cup very often." I was so glad I said it, but it was also a very sad moment for me. I don't usually remember conversations at the door from one minute to the next, but that one stuck with me. I don't think I will ever forget that sad look. It was, and I had never thought of Virginia this way, it was a little girl look. And for the first time, I saw Virginia as God might see her. Maybe that's what that encounter was all about; it was about me getting a glimpse of how God saw Virginia. Not as that woman who frustrated me over how she managed her life, but as a little girl who needed hugged and loved and encouraged; a sad, lonely little girl.
As I was writing this little talk about Virginia, I realized something about that encounter at the door. I realized that God let me see her that way because he wanted me to try to show her his love for her. I think maybe he wanted lots of us to do that; to love her. And I'll tell you, I didn't do it very well. Sometimes she was hard to love. Many times she needed money, or an errand run, or something fixed around the house, and instead of visiting or calling her, I avoided her. I was wrong, because Virginia was a child of God. I know, I tell people this all the time, that God fills all his children with beauty when he makes them. Lots of us cover it up or hide it. Some of us let life's circumstances bury it, but it is there in all of us. It was there in Virginia. I saw it in that moment at the church door. The little girl beauty. And I saw it a few times when I visited her at home and she didn't ask me to do anything except read the Bible to her. "Read me the Psalms," she would say. "I can barely read anymore." Or, "Would you just come down and pray for me?" she would sometimes ask on the phone.
She was a little, lost lamb of God and I feel bad that when he pointed her out to me and called me to reach out to her, to help her find her way, that I didn't work very hard at it. Maybe that's the lesson of Virginia's life for us as Christians. Maybe the lesson is that we are not to look and judge by appearances. But we are to see with the eyes of God. Virginia, seen through the eyes of this world, the eyes that look on appearances, wasn't a very attractive person. She was hard to love. But seen through God's eyes, she was a lovely, little, lost lamb who needed help to find her way. She was a child of God who had, somewhere inside her, as much beauty and loveliness as any one in this room. She never found the key that unlocked the treasure chest of who she was. And I didn't help her nearly as much as I should have, in her search for that key.
The thing we have to celebrate today is that although Virginia never really found that key in this life, she did know the one who made the key. She was a Christian. She knew her Lord, and because of that, the miseries of this life have now all been swept away for her. The sorrows and the burdens have all been lifted. For when Virginia slept early Friday morning, her Lord Jesus Christ came to her bedside, touched Virginia with the tips of his loving fingers, and she arose. He clasped her hand and led her home. And there, when they entered the glorious kingdom together, there, waiting for her was her Father, God, and around his neck a chain, from which dangled a golden key. To Virginia he gave the key and as she touched it, a transformation took place that you and I can't even imagine. Virginia, who struggled through this life; who was bent and broken in body and many times in spirit as well; who worried and fretted over so many things -- Virginia, the sad, little, lost lamb of God, was transformed into a beautiful creature of light, and grace, and glory. She lives today freed from the broken body. No more pills. No more needles. She lives today liberated from all the worries. Released from the fears and the tears. Today she smiles and laughs and enjoys life. Today she is the Virginia that God, once upon a time, made her to be. All that beauty set free. Isn't that great?
Virginia, today, is so beautiful that you and I may not recognize her when we arrive in the kingdom. But won't it be wonderful, on that someday when you go home, too, to bump into a lovely, delightful creature and have her say to us, "Hey, don't you remember me? I'm Virginia." No longer lost, no longer sad, no longer burdened. Instead, found, free, beautiful, and joyful. Forever. And I will say to her, "Virginia, you look great!" And she will know it is true. Amen.
Rest For A Weary Soul
Psalm 73:23-26
Sometimes death is violent and brutal -- wars, murders, auto accidents. Sometimes death comes all too soon: as in the death of a young mother, or a teen, or even a child. Sometimes death's separation is unexpected and heartbreaking. Many of us have experienced deaths like those. Sometimes though, more than anything else, death is a laying down of our burdens, a rest, for the body that was broken and filled with pain, and for the soul that suffered the many sorrows of a difficult life. Virginia's death is one such death.
I know those of you who loved her will be sad and sorrowful over losing her. No matter how expected, or how much of a blessing a certain death is, it always hurts to lose one we loved. But, there is also for us here, the encouraging knowledge that Virginia has indeed laid down some heavy burdens. She has laid down the burden of her ill health; the burden of her loneliness; the burden of her increasing anxiety about managing her future. All those burdens have been lifted today. So, this is, in many ways, a timely death. A death we can celebrate because it was a release, a liberation for poor Virginia and we are glad for her that her misery is over. Glad that she has no more worries, no more sorrow, no more mourning, nor crying, nor pain. Instead she knows newness, and God knows she needed to be made new.
We can rejoice today for Virginia because we know that the trip she made Thursday night was a trip to paradise. A trip it was time for her to take. It is a long-needed, permanent vacation in the kingdom of her Lord. It was a trip she was very much afraid to make, but one I am sure that she is now glad she has made. It was a trip we are glad she has made as well, because life is finally what it should be for her.
Virginia had a hard life. I only knew her for the last twelve years, and there wasn't a single one of those years that was a good year. Life was a constant battle for her. She fought with her weight. She battled those cigarettes that surely helped to kill her; the diabetes; the poor eyesight; the pharmacy of pills that she took; the constant battles with paying her bills and trying to get by. She was constantly trying to get some help and get a grip on her life. And then there was her son, Billy. She and he worried about each other, irritating each other, being angry with each other, and fighting with each other. I don't know if people who didn't know them well could tell this, but in spite of all the spats, they really did care for each other.
I remember seeing Billy in the hospital one time. He was in pretty bad shape and he thought maybe he wasn't going to live much longer. He said to me, "I know we fight, but I love my mom, pastor. I love her," and he began to cry. And I know Billy could be dramatic with the best of them, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was being completely sincere at that moment. I also know that while Virginia was sometimes so angry with Billy that she wanted him out of her house, she loved him, too. In fact, it seems to me that it was when Billy died six years ago, that Virginia really began to go downhill. After his death, she not only struggled with all those things we already mentioned, bills and health, but now she was also lonely. She and Billy kept one another company. When she lost him, almost everything was gone for her. She had a hard life.
Yes, you can say that she brought much of the hardship on herself. There is certainly truth in that. I used to get so frustrated with her for not taking better care of herself. I scolded her about eating right, and about those cigarettes, and more times than I can count, about budgeting her money. But I finally realized, after years of working with her, that she was doing her best. She really was. And part of the reason that she didn't do better, that she didn't stop smoking, or eat right, or make a better life, was that she honestly believed that she didn't have it in her to do better.
I was visiting her in the hospital once and she was telling me that the doctor had told her she had to stop smoking. I said, "He's right. You've got to stop."
She said to me, "But I can't do it, pastor. I really don't think I can do it."
She couldn't do it because she didn't think much of herself. I remember greeting her at the door of the church one Sunday morning. It was after services and I said to her, "You look great this morning, Virginia." Now, Virginia wasn't a beautiful woman, but that morning she had on a nice dress and had had her hair done and her make up looked nice and so I commented on it. She looked at me as if I had just told her I was going to give her a million dollars. There was the most grateful look in her eyes. A look that was like no one had ever told her that. Maybe that's not true, but it was that kind of look. A grateful look that said, "I've been so thirsty for some of that kind of encouragement. I don't get to drink from that cup very often." I was so glad I said it, but it was also a very sad moment for me. I don't usually remember conversations at the door from one minute to the next, but that one stuck with me. I don't think I will ever forget that sad look. It was, and I had never thought of Virginia this way, it was a little girl look. And for the first time, I saw Virginia as God might see her. Maybe that's what that encounter was all about; it was about me getting a glimpse of how God saw Virginia. Not as that woman who frustrated me over how she managed her life, but as a little girl who needed hugged and loved and encouraged; a sad, lonely little girl.
As I was writing this little talk about Virginia, I realized something about that encounter at the door. I realized that God let me see her that way because he wanted me to try to show her his love for her. I think maybe he wanted lots of us to do that; to love her. And I'll tell you, I didn't do it very well. Sometimes she was hard to love. Many times she needed money, or an errand run, or something fixed around the house, and instead of visiting or calling her, I avoided her. I was wrong, because Virginia was a child of God. I know, I tell people this all the time, that God fills all his children with beauty when he makes them. Lots of us cover it up or hide it. Some of us let life's circumstances bury it, but it is there in all of us. It was there in Virginia. I saw it in that moment at the church door. The little girl beauty. And I saw it a few times when I visited her at home and she didn't ask me to do anything except read the Bible to her. "Read me the Psalms," she would say. "I can barely read anymore." Or, "Would you just come down and pray for me?" she would sometimes ask on the phone.
She was a little, lost lamb of God and I feel bad that when he pointed her out to me and called me to reach out to her, to help her find her way, that I didn't work very hard at it. Maybe that's the lesson of Virginia's life for us as Christians. Maybe the lesson is that we are not to look and judge by appearances. But we are to see with the eyes of God. Virginia, seen through the eyes of this world, the eyes that look on appearances, wasn't a very attractive person. She was hard to love. But seen through God's eyes, she was a lovely, little, lost lamb who needed help to find her way. She was a child of God who had, somewhere inside her, as much beauty and loveliness as any one in this room. She never found the key that unlocked the treasure chest of who she was. And I didn't help her nearly as much as I should have, in her search for that key.
The thing we have to celebrate today is that although Virginia never really found that key in this life, she did know the one who made the key. She was a Christian. She knew her Lord, and because of that, the miseries of this life have now all been swept away for her. The sorrows and the burdens have all been lifted. For when Virginia slept early Friday morning, her Lord Jesus Christ came to her bedside, touched Virginia with the tips of his loving fingers, and she arose. He clasped her hand and led her home. And there, when they entered the glorious kingdom together, there, waiting for her was her Father, God, and around his neck a chain, from which dangled a golden key. To Virginia he gave the key and as she touched it, a transformation took place that you and I can't even imagine. Virginia, who struggled through this life; who was bent and broken in body and many times in spirit as well; who worried and fretted over so many things -- Virginia, the sad, little, lost lamb of God, was transformed into a beautiful creature of light, and grace, and glory. She lives today freed from the broken body. No more pills. No more needles. She lives today liberated from all the worries. Released from the fears and the tears. Today she smiles and laughs and enjoys life. Today she is the Virginia that God, once upon a time, made her to be. All that beauty set free. Isn't that great?
Virginia, today, is so beautiful that you and I may not recognize her when we arrive in the kingdom. But won't it be wonderful, on that someday when you go home, too, to bump into a lovely, delightful creature and have her say to us, "Hey, don't you remember me? I'm Virginia." No longer lost, no longer sad, no longer burdened. Instead, found, free, beautiful, and joyful. Forever. And I will say to her, "Virginia, you look great!" And she will know it is true. Amen.
