The Day Death Lost Its Grip

About a year into the pandemic, my morning was interrupted by a tragedy in my neighborhood. My elderly neighbor was pacing on my porch, debating whether or not she should ring my doorbell. I pushed myself away from my work desk and greeted her outside. This was definitely unusual behavior. She told me that several people had called to say there were police cars at her adult son’s house a mile up the road, but her car wasn’t working. She didn’t even have to ask; I locked the front door, and we got into my truck to see what was going on. She tried multiple times to call her son, but to no avail.

As we got closer, I felt a sinking in my gut when I saw a myriad of police and emergency vehicles with lights strobing against the A-frame house. I weaved between the flashing blue lights and walked with her to the front door. Just as we were about to cross the threshold, a police officer barred the way and guided us back into the yard. After she explained she was the homeowner’s mother, the officer’s countenance softened. “Ma’am, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your son overdosed and is no longer with us.”

I stood shoulder to shoulder with that grieving mother, my neighbor, as the officer informed her of her son’s tragic death. She melted—as any of us would. It was heartbreaking to watch. Her grief was palpable as she wailed and cried in the dirt driveway. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, but I knew I was there for a reason. Words seemed empty, so I simply stood beside her and put my arm around her frail shoulders.

That moment made me think deeply about death, about life, and most importantly, about faith. When the world crumbles around us, where do we put our hope? Some people turn to religion, community, or even drugs to cope with life’s trials. In that moment, I leaned into my faith and prayed silently for her. I didn’t have to say a word, but she knew I was there both physically and spiritually. I held her as she cried and prayed that God would either give me the right words or, at the very least, grant her some peace. After the initial shock faded, she shifted gears and went into detective mode. She told me to head home, saying she’d catch a ride with one of her son’s roommates as she began sorting through the tragedy.

On the surface, you might see a heavily tattooed, foul-mouthed heathen—coping mechanisms for my soul-crushing abandonment and anxiety issues. I’m working on it. What you may not see, unless we’ve spoken in person, is that I’m a person of faith. Not faith in the random, but in Jesus, the resurrected Son of God. I wrestle with more doubt than you’d think. I’m skeptical when people say, “God told me this,” and I’ve seen religion used to manipulate others. Yet I still believe. My faith may look different from yours, but it’s there at the core. I’m not interested in debating apologetics or theology. What I believe is that we are all loved, and that Jesus offers us a grace I can’t fully comprehend. I’m thankful to be measured by His standard—not politics or shaky church doctrines made by men.

Why does God allow tragedy? That’s a fair question. But maybe a better question is: why do we align ourselves with ideologies, teams, and nations that cheer the death of our “enemies,” then blame God for tragedy? Perhaps the greater tragedy is that we fail to see the good in the “whosoevers” Jesus died for. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in preaching and quoting scripture that we miss the point of what Jesus actually taught. It’s fairly simple: love God and love your neighbor as yourself. If we do those two things, the rest will fall into place. It’s hard to love when we’re constantly battling one another intellectually or theologically. My favorite quote from Saint Francis of Assisi says, “Preach the gospel at all times, and if necessary, use words.”

Why am I saying all of this? That jarring reality reminded me that death doesn’t have to have the final word. Our lives aren’t reduced to what we did or didn’t do. Our shortcomings don’t have to weigh us down, because the beauty of the Gospel is that if we truly believe verses like John 3:16—so often quoted from pulpits—we know God came for all of us.

What I’m saying is this: no matter what you’re struggling with, no matter what you’ve done or are doing, there is hope—and most importantly, grace. If nobody has told you today: you are loved, and you are worth it. Stop beating yourself up, and don’t let death have the last word.

“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55)

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Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker currently living in Bethania, North Carolina with his wife Jess and their house full of animals. He split his time growing up between chasing wildlife and screaming on stages in hardcore bands you’ve never heard of. He has been published by Dead Reckoning Collective, The Havok Journal, Reptiles Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, and many others. He filmed and directed a documentary called “Hammer Down” about his 2005 deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in with Alpha Battery 5-113^th of the NC Army National Guard. You can find his books, collected works, and social media accounts at www.stanlakecreates.com

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.