Why Did I Weep?

Yesterday, I spent almost the entire 90 minutes of Kirk Thornburg’s funeral weeping. It was embarrassing, really. Not a few polite tears. Weeping. (The unattractive need for vast amounts of tissues accompanying my red-faced, mascara-washed-out-eyes didn’t help things.)

In reflecting on why I wept, I realized a few things:

– Kirk was the polar opposite of me in so many ways. The memorials before the sermon described him as “kind, content, always even tempered”; “easy to be around”; “patient”; “not easily agitated or annoyed”; one who “never demanded to be the center of attention and never drew the spotlight.” Yeah. Seriously. Could you have a less apt description of ME? That was Kirk. He was the kind of person I wanted to be like and I hope I am growing to be like (even with all of my social anxiety!). Kirk was gentle. Steady. Kind. Oh, how I long to be gentle, steady, and kind.

– At the lowest time of my life; when almost everyone around me was running AWAY from me, avoiding me, not wanting to talk with me or spend time with me or be around me (I really was a pariah—despised, rejected, cast out) … Kirk would talk to me. Look me in the eye. Not run in the opposite direction, but give me his trademark sideways hug, shake my hand with genuine warmth, share his life with me and invite me to share my life with him. I don’t think I realized it until his memorial service, but in reflecting on his mercy to me ten years ago (when I desperately needed just a little mercy from someone, anyone!), I saw very clearly how God ministered his grace to me through Kirk in a profoundly important way. Maybe it was because Kirk understood what it was like to be in that lowest caste of societal relationships. Maybe it was simply the Holy Spirit ministering through him. I assume it was a combination—it was as though Kirk was saying to me, “I’m not afraid of your failures and brokenness, Tara. I know failure and brokenness too. I’m not going to run in the opposite direction. I just want to be your friend.” What a great and godly young man he was.

– The first time I ever heard Kirk’s name, it was when his mother prayed for him during staff prayer times at Peacemaker Ministries. I have to admit—when I heard her pray for her son who was in jail and had addiction problems, I remember thinking, “How could this story EVER have a good ending?” I was so faithless. But his mother was faithful. Full of faith. Always believing. Always hoping. Always loving. Never giving up. Praying and trusting and praying and trusting some more. I learned a lot about motherhood and covenantal love and prayer simply by being around Sharon. I want to be a mother who prays like Sharon and believes like Sharon. But this was one of the things that kept me weeping yesterday; probably THE thing … Sharon. His mother. Suffering so greatly. Believing on the Lord so greatly. But what a loss! What a heartache. I almost couldn’t bear it. I would picture her at women’s Bible study, so faithfully encouraging us all to trust in the Lord for he is good—knowing she would be there again, encouraging us all to trust in the Lord for he is good. And my heart just split open with sadness. A good sadness (the fruit of love); but a grieving, crushing, painful sadness nonetheless.

– I couldn’t bear to look at Kirk’s sister, cousins, and friends. Nor could I bear to look at their parents. These are people with long, long relationships. Deep friendship. They have raised children together and now those children are having children and they are burying children—and it was just all too painful. I’ve never had long friendships. I moved almost every year of my childhood. To relate to lifetimes together in one corporate body? One community? It is such a good thing to love over decades. But to love for decades is to be crushed when suffering comes. To love is to risk and it is right to grieve. We should grieve—with hope (biblical hope, which is assurance!), but grieve nonetheless. And grieve we did. Hundreds of us—missing Kirk, missing other loved ones, contemplating future losses, bearing each other’s burdens. And in the years and decades to come? For the long-haul, we will be with Sharon. We will. After the casseroles have stopped and the cards slow down, we will persevere with our beloved sister and friend. And we will miss Kirk terribly.

– Kirk was content with his lot, but he dreamed big dreams and had hopes of being a chef, a husband, and a father one day. Just as I have prayed for other single friends, I prayed for Kirk regularly—for a godly spouse who would delight in him and enjoy him. For a great fit for him professionally where his gifts would be used. And God answered my prayers by giving Kirk, not a fulfilling job in this life; not a wife and children to love, but the fulfillment of his interests and passions; the love that those earthly relationships reflect dimly. Every creative, interesting, loving part of Kirk is happy now; happier than any of us can ever imagine. It’s true! And I’m happy for him; truly happy. But it was a sad thing to reflect on too. And I cried.

I could go on and on, but the bottomline is this—Melodee M. is actually the one who helped me to understand this …

I cried because I hadn’t yet cried. And I needed to cry. And I’ll cry in the future with dear Sharon, I am sure.

It is good to grieve—for that means we have loved and been loved. And it is good to grieve corporately—for we are one body and when one part hurts, we all hurt.

Kirk A. Thornburg
July 2, 1980 – December 5, 2010

Beloved son and dear brother in Christ. You are missed.