HOPE: It Only Takes a Minute

Read: I Thessalonians 4:13-18

By Addie Rising

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope." I Thessalonians 4:13

When you’re seven years old, a minute is an eon and an hour is an eternity … which makes sense since a seven year old only has about 32,000 hours for reference. I, on, the other hand … well, I might break my calculator. Let’s just say it’s a few thousand more. But these minutes, as a parent, can elicit all kinds of emotion: joy, anger, amusement, grief and, more often than not, hope.
Each morning during the school year, once the rush to get out the door is finished and we’re confined to the car for the five-minute ride to school, my seven-year-old son, Joseph, has my undivided attention. Our discussions vary widely from the mundane – “did you brush your teeth?” -- to borderline-philosophical – “so if clean my room better than my sisters, am I a better person?” – to complete silliness – “Knock, knock …”.

And then sometimes I get, “I miss Papa Alan.”

When you’re seven, you speak of lost loved ones – especially ones you have never met – the same way you would speak of a family member who lives far away that you’ve never met or have met, but you can’t quite recall the meeting. You’ve missed the loss and grief aspects of death, but the missing and the longing aspects are still there. Joseph will talk about how he misses his Uncle Andy (who lives in California) or his Papa Alan (my father-in-law, who passed away years before Joseph was born). The reference is the same. My response, however, is not. “Hopefully, we’ll get to see Uncle Andy soon.” Because, this can still happen. As for Papa Alan, well, Joseph will never meet him. Joseph will never know Papa Alan the same way my husband knew him or the way I knew him. But I’m still hopeful. Hopeful that we can teach Joseph about his Papa Alan through stories and pictures to help fill that void that he feels, a void we all feel this time of year.

So our morning five-minute commute to school has expired and as we say our goodbyes and I watch Joseph skip into the school hallway, I smile. I head to work filled with hope and am grateful I have another 30 eons in the car to think about my family -- past, present, near and far.

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