When my brother called me on a Saturday around two o'clock, sobbing indecipherable words, I knew something was seriously wrong. When I finally understood him, it was more than seriously wrong.
"The house is on fire Hannah, and Dad is still in there. I don't think he made it. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
All at once I couldn't breathe. I couldn't comprehend.
You see, Dad was the fix it man, a real life McGyver. He knew how to do so many random things and how to deal with every situation. Surely he would have found a way out of the house. He would be the last person to get stuck in that inferno. The absolute last.
When I could pick myself off the floor of my kitchen, I told my husband that we had to pack up and drive home right now. I took my entire closet because my mom's and sister-in-law's had turned to ash with the house. My husband took his whole closet for my brother. We half-hazardly stuffed it into the car, called a friend to come and watch our pets, and just started driving. But somewhere deep down, I still was waiting for the call that my Dad was just in the woods doing tree work or that he had gotten out of the house somehow and was being rushed to the hospital. But the only call that came was from my Mom.
"He's gone. He's home in heaven."
And even after that, I think we all still clung to a little sliver of hope that somehow he made it out, until 9pm when the Fire Investigator came out and told us they had found him in the rubble.
The only thing left in my head was "Why?"
Why our house? Why did the fire start? Why did the house go up so fast? Why was Dad even in the house when five minutes before he had been working outside? Why was he in the only room that absolutely no one would be able to get to him in? Why him?
I am yet to receive an answer for any of those questions. And almost everyday I still ask them. The 'why's haunt me. They follow me around like a terrible stench that I can't escape. And the only relief I have found is at the foot of the cross where every day, every moment, I have to lay down my questions at the feet of a Savior who knows both suffering and redemption; both sorrow and joy; both the beginning and the end; both this life and the next.
Here on earth, I will never know why my Dad was called home at 52. I will never know why him. But someday I will know. Romans 8:28 says, "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those that are called according to his purposes". My Dad loved God and had dedicated his life to God's purposes. And I believe that even this, even this terrible end, will be redeemed for the greatest good, the Kingdom of Heaven.
And in this I take comfort, "...Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. Yet which shall I choose I cannot tell. I am hard pressed between the two. My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better." (Phil 1:20b-23).
My Dad led a fruitful life here, but also one that was familiar with pain and loss and injustice. He is somewhere far far better now- home with Christ, where all sorrow and sighing has fled away and everlasting joy is upon him (Isaiah 35:10). He has run a good race, he has won the prize. And I believe that when my own purposes are done here in this broken world that God will also call me heavenward to something that is so vastly better than this.
If you have found yourself in the labyrinth of "why"s, I want to encourage you that there is yet hope. What we see dimly from our ant-sized worldly perspective, God can see clearly from his heavenly perspective. This too shall be redeemed dear one. This too shall be made new on the shores of eternity.