What Kind of Sorrow?

Larry Lee Palmer. March 25, 1950 - June 16, 2004

I miss my dad. He was taken way too early at the age of fifty four. I often wish I would have spent more time with him at the end. I wish he could have still been here to meet my wife; he would have loved my wife. I wish he could have been here to see his granddaughter; he would have really loved her, and she would have loved him. But we don't always get what we wish for, do we?

So, why do I tell you this? Is it so I can write a nice little piece about being content and thankful for what we have? No, I tell you this about my dad because something I heard in church a couple of weeks ago made me think about him. Or rather, about the week that he passed away.

To be perfectly honest, I don't remember exactly what the sermon was about. I kind of zoned out after I heard these verses from II Corinthians. They're from chapter 7, verses 8-10:

"Even if I caused you sorrow by my letter, I do not regret it. Though I did regret it-I see that my letter hurt you, but only for a little while-yet now I am happy, not because you were made sorry, but because your sorrow led to repentance. For you became sorrowful as God intended and so were not harmed in any way by us. Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death."

The passage continues on through verse 16 if you want to get the full context, but this is the gist of what I wanted to share. I suppose what struck me the most about this was the concept of there being a distinction in our sorrow. Godly sorrow and worldly sorrow. And as I started to think on that, my mind was taken to the weekend of my dad's calling hours and funeral.

My dad passed away sometime shortly after eight o'clock in the evening on Wednesday June 16, 2004. He had been battling an inoperable brain tumor for about a year, so his passing was not sudden. We had time to prepare (as much as you can prepare for a loved one's passing that is). I remember that night so vividly. I had been playing at church and was leaving to go see my dad right after the service. I made it about halfway there when I got the call that he had passed away. Shortly after my arrival, the house was nearly filled. My step-mom, my sisters, my dad's brother and sister, a multitude of family friends, all were there to offer support and pay their respects. There were many tears shed, but also more than a few smiles.

Fast forward a couple of days to the calling hours. I've been to a few of these in my day, but always to offer sympathies, never to receive them. It was kind of surreal, just standing up in the front by my dad's casket while throngs of people passed by offering their condolences, a handshake or hug, and maybe some brief memory they had of my dad. And when I say throngs, I'm not exaggerating. Countless people filed through that night. Whether it was his playing for the church softball team, his four mission trips to Ukraine, the years spent as a youth leader and Sunday School teacher, his time as a CASA volunteer, or the countless hours spent on various church finance committees and mission boards, it was clear that he had come in contact with and had touched many, many lives. But back to those smiles I mentioned a minute ago.

My dad was a born-again Christian. He had been since he was in his thirties and I was in my early teens. I tell you this because it is at the heart of what makes this weekend stick out for me after all these years. You see, I had expected his calling hours to be a difficult time to get through. I wasn't sure how I would be able to manage talking to all of those people while keeping some sort of composure. But as person after person filed by, it became more and more clear that this was more of a celebration of his life than a mourning of his passing. And for all of the lip service we often give to people being in a "better place", it was clear that everyone passing by knew that my dad truly was in a far better place and that it was only a matter of time until we were all reunited. Sure, there were still tears. But the overall feeling was one of joy. Joy that he had finally been eased of his pain and taken home. Joy for all of the lives he had touched. And joy that we would one day, very soon, all see each other again. Godly sorrow.

Now, let me take you forward a couple more days. As cruel fate would have it, I received a call from my mom on Sunday, the day before my dad's funeral. My cousin Brandon (second cousin actually) had been in a car accident and had been killed. Honestly, I didn't spend a lot of time with that side of the family and probably hadn't seen Brandon since he was waist high on me. But, I made arrangements to take an extra day off work and attend his calling hours on Tuesday.

Almost as soon as I arrived I could feel a difference. The whole room seemed darker; the people more solemn. I don't know how to describe it really. There was such a sense of despair in the room, like a dark cloud just hovering overhead. The family was almost inconsolable, and people just didn't know what to say. I'm sure some of it had to do with the suddenness of his departure. Whereas my dad passed slowly over the course of a year, Brandon's life was gone in an instant. Not to mention, Brandon was only 18. He still had so much of a future in front of him. Most importantly though, Brandon (at least to my knowledge) did not have a relationship with God, and I believe that was the overriding difference. There wasn't that solid assurance that he was truly in a better place. Sure, some people said it, but you didn't get the sense that they really believed it. Lip service. Worldly sorrow.

As I left the funeral home that day, it struck me right away that I had no idea how people without a relationship with Christ can possibly handle death. Those two experiences were so polar opposite of each other. We have to remember that God never a promised us a life without trials, pain, hardship or sorrow. Whether it's losing a father to a brain tumor, or losing a cousin to a sudden car accident, sorrow will most definitely be a part of our lives. The question is what kind of sorrow will it be? Godly sorrow or worldly sorrow? Will it be sorrow that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, or sorrow that brings death? There is a difference and we are all free to choose.

As for my "wish list" from before. I still wish I would have spent more time with my dad, but I know that in a short while I'll have an eternity to spend with him. I still wish he could have met my wife. But I know that he is smiling down on us, even as I write this, and couldn't be happier for me. And I still really wish he could have known my daughter, and she him. But who knows, maybe he got to hold her and play with her even before we did. Godly sorrow.