a memoire
I remember being so delightfully surprised when I saw your smiling face in the mall that September afternoon. It had been three years since I last saw you, and there you were. In the same city, in the same mall, as me; walking up to a cinnamon bun shop, with a smile on your face, and a ready hug to give.
Three years earlier. Summer school. We had connected almost instantly. What was our common ground? Music. Loving it, talking about it, creating it, sharing it, practically breathing it. When I began to hear bits of your story, my heart filled with compassion and a strong sisterly love for you. And in the three years that followed, despite never seeing you, that compassion and love never faded. Although we rarely exchanged more than a few messages over Facebook, I had a deep burden for you that made a permanent home in my heart.
You were wearing your classic grey skinny jeans and plaid shirt that cool rainy day in September. But you had changed. Not only were you taller, and a bit skinnier, but you seemed distant. I suppose I couldn’t expect you to feel close when you had not seen me for over three years.
Two of my favourite memories from the summer we met.
You told me of a heartache in your life. And I remember I started singing this song to you. And I gave you a hug. And we just held each other in a comforting embrace. You always gave such warm hugs, and it was my privilege to comfort you in your heartache at that time…
I remember rehearsing at the production site. It was the scene where Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. And you were one of the mourners, cloaked in black, singing “Atta metim, michai a Adonai…” I was backstage, listening to the live singing, the sensational music. The sound of people exclaiming as the scene unfolded. What a powerful scene to re-enact, to be a part of, to be absorbed in. And then you came backstage afterward, and you had tears resting on your cheeks. How deeply that scene affected you. I think you cried nearly every time you performed it. Telling the story of how Jesus healed…how He still heals…
Fast forward.
April 27, 2016, I was sitting at my desk studying for an aural skills exam that was only an hour away. You had done those first year music courses a whole semester ahead of me at G-Mac. You were one of the most brilliant musicians I knew.
I just happened to pause to check my Instagram feed, as I often did. What a shockingly fateful, yet arbitrary, decision that was. There, J had posted a picture of you. In the caption were included the words, “I will miss you, you brave, beautiful soul”.
The tears came uncontrollably. I jumped to Facebook, to your page, flooded with posts of heartbreak, consolation, condolences, photographs, memories…and my heart was simultaneously flooded with grief and unbelief.
I do not know how I held it together through that exam. The grace of God, I guess. No, not guess; I know.
It has been just over a year. And for weeks already this post has been simmering in my heart, surfacing in my mind, haunting my thoughts at work as I push metal carts around on autopilot. Sometimes I still cannot believe that you are no longer here in the same reality as all of us who miss you.
And I have thought, { w h a t i f } I could have one last conversation with you? If I had known, only a few days earlier, that very soon you would pass away from this life into the next, what would I have done? What would I have said?
I would have asked you how you were doing. How you were really doing.
I would have tried to tell you — in whatever broken senseless words might surface on my lips — that you were loved. Oh, you were so dearly devastatingly loved. By your family, by friends, by me, and most importantly, by Jesus.
T, that is my biggest regret. If I had a chance to tell you one thing more, to utter merely a few words of encouragement and love to your hurting heart, it would have been this:
Jesus loves you, T, and He will never leave you. Ever.
I would have wanted to pour the gospel into your soul like a clear cool waterfall onto parched, thirsty ground. I would have wanted to remind you of the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead; how the Creator of the universe, the all-knowing God who is I AM — who came down from all His glory to be a Man and to live among men. That He lived and felt and experienced human life. Why? So that He could relate to you. He loved you as if you were the only person in the whole universe. And He died for you. And He made a way for you to live in eternal joy with Him. The way He wept for Lazarus — even when He knew that Lazarus would live again — I believe He wept for the sorrow, confusion, loss and pain that you experienced. He loved you, T.
I know that you knew that once upon a time. I know that you believed it. I do not know what you believed at the end of your life, because I never asked.
My consolation now is this: to the day of your passing, God knew everything about you. He knew your pain, your struggle, your despair. He knew the very moment in which your heart would beat its last and you would breathe your final breath. His love for you was fierce and perfect and complete to the end.
Despite all of the confusion you experienced, and despite all the mistakes that the people around you made, His sovereign care for you never ceased. He was constant in your life.
My heart and prayers go out to your family, who I know are still daily mourning for you and missing your beautiful self in their lives. I know only the smallest taste of their grief, because I still think of and miss you often.
* * * * *
I pray that his passing, as tragic and heart-breaking as it was, will cause people who knew him to run to Jesus and find comfort, peace, and healing in His arms. Because in all of our failures to help, encourage, love, and be there for those who come and go in our lives, God’s grace through Jesus Christ sufficiently covers our flaws.
His love is perfect when our’s falls short.
In loving memory of Timothy Henderson.
October 12, 1995 – April 26, 2015
songs of stippled stardust 