When A Friend Dies

I got a call this morning and I’m still not quite sure how to process it. A longtime member of our congregation died today. And I know that’s part of this. I know that’s the job, I know I’ve done this more times than I can count, but today just hit different, and I’ve been sitting with that all day trying to figure out what to do with it.

The honest answer is I don’t really know what to do with it. So I’m writing.

What nobody tells you when you step into pastoral ministry is that if you stay in one place long enough, the categories start to collapse. There’s supposed to be this line between the people you serve and the people you love. And early on, I could hold that line. You’re trained to hold it. Professional distance, healthy boundaries, pastoral care to the people you’re called to serve. All of it makes sense on paper. But then years go by. And then more years. And the person sitting across from you at the church potluck isn’t just a member anymore. They’re someone who knows your kids’ names and asks about them. Someone who’s watched you go through your own hard seasons and never made you feel like you had to perform being okay. Someone you’ve laughed with and prayed with and just done life with, in all the ordinary, unremarkable ways that actually make up a real relationship.

And then one day you get the call, and you realize you’re not just losing a member. You’re losing a friend. And those are not the same thing. Not even close.

I’ll do the funeral. I’ll stand at the front of that room and I’ll say the words, and I mean every single one of them. The resurrection is real. Jesus is who he says he is. Death does not get the last word. I believe that with everything I have. But I also know that belief doesn’t make the grief smaller. I used to think it was supposed to. Not anymore.

When Jesus got to the tomb of his friend Lazarus, knowing full well what he was about to do, knowing he was about to call that man back to life. He still wept. He stood there in the middle of all of it and just wept. Not because he’d lost hope. Because grief is the weight of love, and you don’t get to skip it just because you know how the story ends.

There’s something uniquely hard about being the pastor in a moment like this that I don’t talk about very often. When the loss is personal, when I’m grieving too, I still have to be the one holding the room. I still have to have the words. I still have to be steady for a family who is falling apart, for a congregation that is looking to me to help them make sense of something that doesn’t make easy sense. And I’ll do that, because I love these people and that’s what you do when you love people. But it’s heavy in a way that’s hard to describe. There’s nobody standing at the front of the room for me. I carry it. I do the work. And I go home.

I’ve been here long enough now that this isn’t the first time I’ve felt this specific kind of grief, and it definitely won’t be the last. And if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me today that wishes I’d kept more distance over the years. Just for a second. Just long enough to not feel this. But that thought doesn’t last very long, because I know what it would have cost. Ministry that keeps everyone at arm’s length so the losses don’t hit so hard isn’t really ministry. It’s maintenance. And I didn’t sign up for maintenance. I signed up to actually be with people, and being with people means this is going to hurt sometimes. It means today is going to hurt.

So today it hurts. I’m not going to sugar coat that one in the least. I’m just letting the pain have its way. And tomorrow I’ll get up and do what needs to be done, because that’s what love does. It shows up even when showing up is the hardest thing. It keeps its word. It says the true things out loud even when the words catch a little on the way out.

Life works best with Jesus. Even today. Especially today. Even when best still feels like a lot to hold.