Remembering Peter

“Mom. I’m afraid of the dark. Oh, and I need to tell you something. I’m afraid of dying. Why does it have to happen?”

These were the words spoken to me tonight by my seven year-old son. I was lying next to my daughter, helping her fall asleep when he burst through the door to share his fears. I told him that I understood, that I’m afraid, too. I told him, though, that there is a psalm that brings me comfort in dark and scary times.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; 

whom then shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life;

of whom shall I be afraid?

Did Luke know? Did he know that of all days, this was the day he confessed his fear to me? On this day last year, my friend Peter died. Only 35 years old. So much more to offer the church and the world. Damn cancer.

The psalm I choose as a kind of theme for these Lenten writings, Psalm 51, is a renewal psalm; we will be made clean, given a right spirit. When we think of newness, I wonder if we too quickly conclude that newness equals goodness: a new house, a new friend, a new life. But sometimes newness just plain sucks.

When I went back to Luke’s room to tuck him in, I told him what today was. I told him that my friend died last year on this day and that I miss him. He asked his name. I said, “Peter.” Then I said, “Do you remember last week when we visited Libby, Cici, and Ike at their house in Harrisburg?  Peter was their Dad. I’m sure they are afraid, too, but they are also surrounded by people that love them and give them lots of hugs.”

My heart aches for them and for Katie, for Peter’s family and friends. As the wise preacher said plainly at his funeral, “This ought not be.” And yet it is. We are here in the newness of each day, trying to trust the promise of God showing up in the breaking of the bread, opening our eyes to the Risen Light in our midst, at our bedsides, in our fears.

Rest in Peace, dear friend.