To Hunter, a Story of Divine Composition

Topics: loss of a loved one, chronic illness, grief

When Hunter died, there were a lot of firsts we had to go through. Seeing him, making funeral arrangements, going to his house, picking out picture board photos, deciding on every detail that would best honor his life in the wake of his death.

When our family gathered at my brother and sister-in-law’s house the day after Hunter died, we immediately decided on a few details. Cremation. Visitation. Memorial service. Tyler would give the eulogy. Marylynn would sing. Brett would handle transportation and family communication.

I wanted to do something, but I couldn’t vocalize what that looked like. I didn’t want to talk at the memorial, I’m a mediocre singer, and the last thing I could do was drive anywhere. 

Oh, and Bladdy was at her very worst. The surgery I was supposed to have the day Hunter died (it’s a whole…thing) was rescheduled for a week after he died. 

After my standard bladder surgeries I am put on pain meds. The big ones. The ones that dull your emotions and pique your desire for a good nap. Needless to say, I was not at my best, strongest, or most profound. I was a walking, talking, human disaster. La de da de da.

But I wanted to do something; I had to do something. So high as a kite, I took my bladder, my post-op pain, my narcotics and did what normal people do: visit with pastors, plan memorial services, talk to caterers, and sit in grief. Then I opened a Google doc and word-vomited all over the page. High thoughts, but grief-specific. Emotionally laden, but with a hint of space cadet. 

Nobody needs to see the first draft. It isn’t good. I compared heaven to a movie screen. I compared it to a camera lens. I compared it to a hug. I switched tenses, switched voices, switched audiences, and altogether made a weeping mess of the English language.

After two days of edits, I walked into the lunchroom at PMF—a table for four now only home to three. I told my parents I wrote something for Hunter’s memorial service. It was kind of a poem. Kind of rambly. Kind of spiritual. Kind of cathartic. Apocalyptic waxing meets theological nonsense. I handed my mom and Mark a copy on canary yellow printer paper, the kind we use for order entry.

I have to be honest, I assumed Mark would be like, “Um, no, Willie Nelson, this isn’t funeral appropriate.” But he didn’t say that. He agreed it’s the words that should be expressed. It’s filled with grief, sadness, raw emotion, and possibly, even a touch of hope.

To date, Hunter’s memorial poem is the most meaningful thing I have ever written. I have had several people tell me they have saved it. Hung it. Memorized it. Prayed it. I was told by a PMF customer who was a non-practicing Christian that it reignited his faith. I was told by a family friend that it’s framed in their office. I was told by people I don’t even know that it brought them to their knees.

I am not bragging, trust me. Because as much as it feels good to have people tell you that your words meant something to them, I know the truth: I was off my rocker the day I wrote that. Mental agility and cohesive thoughts were few and far between considering the post-op medications. I was not at my best.

But on September 1st, 2019, stuck between the floor and the crazy place, I had a chit-chat with Jesus. It went something like this...

I need words. Good ones. Ones that do him justice. Ones that move mountains and give you glory. Jesus, my mind is stupid, my heart hurts, and my body is a mess. My sentiments are wrong, my writing is shitty, my energy is minimal, my grief is overwhelming. Lord, I lay my mind, my spirit, and my life in your hands. Your kingdom come. Your will be done. Find the words. Make them right. Say what needs to be said. 

Are they my words? Yes, it is a Tricia Original. 

Are they my words? Not really. I could barely spell my own name that day.

In confirmation class at First Cov we were taught that the Bible is the divinely inspired word of God. I am not for one second comparing my ramblings to the magnificent grandeur of Luke 2, but I am saying that the dirty little secret behind Hunter’s memorial poem is that I don’t remember writing it. I remember typing. I remember editing. I remember crying. I remember the yellow copy paper. But if you’re asking me how I came up with, “My tears are translated. My heart is seen. My love is felt.” I cannot give you an answer beyond, “It just…came out.”

I prayed to Jesus that I wouldn’t totally botch it. I prayed that the words I wrote would be the words Jesus wanted me to write. I prayed that I wouldn’t look back with clear eyes and a clear mind and think, “WTF did I just do?!”

Fortunately, four years later, it still stands the test of time. I’m still proud of it. I still feel it. I still can hardly read it without crying. But if I could add one caveat to it, it would be this: it wasn’t born in a moment of profound effort. I didn’t spar with a dictionary or go head-to-head with a thesaurus. I didn’t scour the internet for inspiration. I didn’t even open a Bible. Instead, I prayed and wrote what was on my heart. 

And when I look back on the celestial shore of those dark days—the hospital visits, the pharmacy visits, the funeral home visits, the picture pages and restless nights, the fog and haze, stupor and exhaustion—I see now what I couldn’t explain back then. The mark of that poem is not unlike another poem I heard at my cousin Jesse’s funeral almost twenty-five years ago. When I was weak, when I was burdened, when I was incapable…it was then that He carried me.

To God be the glory.

To Hunter…

One thing I was wondering is can you look down from heaven?

Can you see us? Do you know we’re still here?

Someone said, of course you don’t see us—

At least, not right now.

Our sadness is palpable and our tears are many.

Heaven is a lot of things, but grief doesn’t fit.

So you can’t see our tears. Our heartache. Our emptiness.

But my earthly mind wants you to know how much I love you;

I want you to know how much you’re missed.

And then I had a thought on one of many sleepless nights,

What if you could see my tears, but what if they weren’t sad?

Grief, after all, is just love in suffering,

So what if in heaven my suffering just felt like love?

What if the anguish was omitted, would that be heaven-approved?

What if instead of my sorrow, you could see my full heart?

What if instead of my cries, you felt a big hug?

Could Jesus intervene between us every time a tear rolls down my cheek?

And before my questions were even all asked, my God answered.

Of course!

“My grace is sufficient. My power is perfect. Your weakness is no match.”

I exhaled for the first time in days as His words washed over my soul.

My grief is my thorn and my sadness my burden,

But I do not carry it alone, nor is it all for nothing.

My tears are translated. My heart is seen. My love is felt.

With every cry, my Jesus transcends heaven and earth,

His power makes it all shiny, perfect, and heaven-approved.

And so in my pain, I will rejoice, knowing my grief feels like love to you.