Doug's Home

We are in Atlanta for a few days, and June Irvine so lovingly and graciously opened her home to us. When we were planning this trip, her home seemed the obvious choice - she has the space and we wanted to spend time with her.

As we walked into the house last night, both Josh and I quickly faced an emotional intensity that we weren't expecting.

Just a few short months ago, my hands rested on their siding as fifty of us gathered to pray for Doug's healing, eyes full of tears and atmosphere full of Presence. As I walked out to our car yesterday, I had a vivid flashback of June coming out her back door to update that group of intercessors, leading us all through our suffering while bearing her own.
I honestly spent very little time in this home while Doug was alive, yet every room beckons the memory of him.
The room where we would find our kids playing when we came to pick them up after a long adoption meeting.
The world's most complicated and (apparently) awesome TV - Doug's biggest contribution to the landscape of the house.
The table where we gathered after the funeral, eating sandwiches and tearing up with every story.

And the chair.

June has oh-so-beautifully redone much of their home, with peaceful earthy tones and thoughtful accents. So, in keeping with her new decor, much of the furniture is new.

But the office (where our kids are sleeping) has a chair that is not new ... it is one of the chairs where Doug spent most of his last days, where his body held off the cancer for as long as it could.

I don't want to sit in that chair. I know this is so irrational, but it feels like there must be something left of him, some Dougness that shouldn't be wasted on me. Again, this is going to make me sound crazy, but I want to just plop Jericho right in the middle of that chair and leave him. Doug never got to hold Jericho; it saddens me that Doug's intangibles, his goodness and graciousness and ferocity, were never made tangible through an embrace. I, quite literally, want Doug to rub off on my boy.

That evening when we gathered around to pray, I prayed all the things you are supposed to pray.
The theologically correct things, like "If it is your will, Lord, heal Doug for your glory." But the weeping came when I prayed the real things, like "Spare him for June. Spare him for his girls. Spare him for his grandbabies. Spare him for Josh. Spare him for my babies."

But perhaps facing the emotional intensity of this home is exactly what we, and most specifically Josh, need. To look our loss in eyes, to decidedly grieve again, to attend to the scars.

I wish soul-healing was more like scrape-healing. If I trip and scrape my knee, I can put a bandaid on it and passively trust my body to do the rest. Pray for me, Josh and all those still reeling from Doug's passing, that we would tirelessly and intentionally do the difficult work of healing.