Walk in the Woods

Nik Curfman 1/5/21 Nik Curfman 1/5/21

Journal: #167 Grief is Real

Jesus cried when Larazus died, then he asked for a miracle. So will I. And should the Lord come to collect Mike, I will turn my attention to my roommate. It’s an honor to be his friend, to walk with him through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

The text message came during a flurry of work related activity, between my attempt to fix a website problem and messages our senior developer. "He’s not responding to the medication, and the doctors want to take him off life support to let him pass.”

I’ve spent the last two weeks praying for a friend’s dad, and now we are at the edge of the end. He will pass on into eternity, or God will intervene in a way only He can. Our human ability has reached its limit.

My roommate and I are not as close as we could be. Our relationship was strained a bit last year, but improved through the fall of 2020. Still, I’ve been to his parent’s home in Texas, and eaten at their table. I’ve talked to Mike via FaceTime and know his voice. My roommate’s father is not just another person to me. And this moment sucks.

It sucks balls. It sucks because Mike is in the hospital right now, by himself (due to COVID complications.). It sucks because when my roommate went home for Christmas, this situation was not on the table. This sucks because all I have is prayer, and it feels inadequate as a motherf*cker. And it really sucks because if just fucking sucks.

And yet, in this season of my life, I know prayer is the most valuable weapon in my bag. There’s nothing greater a child can do than raise their voice to the Father. What this comes down to is the trust I have in Jesus.

As in glorious as this moment is, laden with snot and tears, at least my roommate got to see his dad one last time. At least he go to be there when he went into the hospital. Had it happened a month earlier or later, my roommate would’ve been in California. At least he’s there to steady his mother and sister, and surrounded by family.

I’ve often thought about how we see cancer as a plague, but it’s not. Cancer and heart problems are the indicator something is wrong. And thanks to modern medicine we are given a timeline. At least we know a loved one is on the clock, rather than be surprised. It’s a silver lining I will not mention to my roommate any time soon, but no less true.

This moment, this space between life and death, is hard part of life. Certainty one way or the other is what I want. I want Mike to be healed or die quickly. The finality is the thing most desirable. But this middle ground? This is where we hope against logic and demand the miraculous. Through steady tears, I will not relent or stop asking for the Lord to touch Mike.

Like this blog? Share it with people you love.

Nik Curfman 8/25/20 Nik Curfman 8/25/20

A: Three Years, Old

I was three years-old. I did what three year-olds do on a quiet Thursday afternoon, sat on my bedroom floor and pushed matchbox cars through the beige carpet. I enjoyed the mostly empty house and the unsupervised alone time.

The peace was shattered when the phone rang. It rang just once, and I heard the muffled voice of my father answer. Unaware of the life changing moment about to unravel, I continued to be a three years-old.

I’ll never forget the light through my bedroom window that day. It was early evening soft. The kind when the sun hangs low in the sky and shadows are long. I’ll never forget my room. It was clean, or as clean as a room will be when shared by two brothers. Beds made. Clothes hung neatly in the closest. Life seemed to be in order.

Two ticks later, my father exploded into my room. Tears flowed down his red face, snot dribbled from his nose, and streaks of saliva connected his lips as he weeped. Forever frozen in time is my father, my broken, grieving father, and the words he whispered as he scooped me up from the floor, “Uncle Todd is dead.”

Instantly, matchbox cars were unimportant. Being three years-old was irrelevant. My immediate mission, my new calling, was to console my father. More than that, to heal him. But how?

It was the first time I felt old and hopeless. I was done being a three years-old.

I desperately long to go back to April 19th, 1984. I want warn that boy, to tell him awful shit is going to happen in life. He’s not called to be a super hero. Be a kid Nik! Be content to play on the floor, to take pleasure in simple moments! Your dad never intended to transfer his grief to you. He never asked you to carry his sorrow.

Thirty-six years later, I still want to fix it. I want my uncle to live and my father to have his brother. What a creative miracle it would be.

Today, I closed my eyes, and I saw him. That three year-old. I smiled at him, and he waved me closer. I walked closer and he held up his arms. As I picked him up he whispered, “awful shit is going to happen. Your calling is not to fix humanity. Be childlike. Be content to make messes on the floor. Find joy where ever you are. Our Father never intended any grief to transfer to you. He never asked you to carry anyone’s sorrow.

It’s time. Let go.”