A Holy Day
Growing up Catholic, December 8 was one of those Holy Days on which all the practicing faithful were required to attend Mass. Its been about 30 years since I left those beliefs and became Reformed. As I was reflecting this morning, I realized that this day has once again become a "holy" day for me. The word holy has its roots in something being set apart, normally for some religious purpose. This day is holy to our family, not because of any belief about Mary, the Mother of God, but because it is the day our beloved Andy departed this veil of tears for "that big house up above." Today is the twelfth anniversary of that most painful day. Dianne and I were talking about it as we drove back from St. Louis recently. I told her I have an almost photographic memory of all the events of the day (something very remarkable for me). This day is one of less than a handful of days that have radically transformed my life. Just as the birth of Christ marks the division of world history, December 8, 1996 divides my life. I had experienced loss before but nothing like the real, physical pain that settled in my chest for days. I had faith before, but realized on that day it had been much more head knowledge than a complete loving and trusting relationship with my heavenly Father. I believed in heaven before but now I live every day with one spiritual foot firmly planted there. But for all this transformation and the maturing it has wrought in my life, I still miss Andy so much and long to see him face to face.