Debb Hackett

Present, by Becky Ankowiak

“I’m not going to leave you bereft. I am coming to you.” John 14:18 NTE

How can the sky still be so blue?

In September, my younger sister—a talented musician and teacher—sank to the gym floor without warning. In spite of heroic efforts and almost immediate medical attention, she didn’t respond. Twenty-four hours later, a hospital doctor pronounced her departure from this world. I was bereft.

Melissa and I remained close through our early twenties. We worked together for several employers, attended the same college, and lived in the same dorm. 

Life’s gears turned. She traveled away to teach in schools halfway around the world and across the country. I married and adopted. We enjoyed rare visits but years, separation, and the demands of life exacted the usual toll on sister-friendship. In August, she moved to Brooklyn. Driving distance. I anticipated reconnection and weekend reunions. 

This summer, my husband and one of his best friends (both fabulous dads and amazing, talented makers), mapped out plans for future collaborations.

A month after moving to New York, my sister moved to heaven. 

Three days later, my husband’s incredible friend followed my sister. 

Death feels different each time. Twice, in my teens, death’s surprise invasion turned my world upside down by stealing my four year-old buddy and a high school friend. God and I had words about each of those departures, but both times my faith remained intact. For the next thirty years of my life, most deaths were understandable losses due to age or health. Not less grief. Just more expected. Survivable. 

Bereft

The departures of my sister and our friend sent me reeling. She was thirty-nine. Gone, and the sky still so blue. His sweet wife without a husband and two teenagers missing a father. How could the sky possibly be so beautiful? When I felt strong enough to raise my eyes, the vibrant color shocked and overwhelmed me. Every time. Shouldn’t it be gray? 

They left us heartbroken. Bereft. 

As I write about her death, friends share their own grief. The long wait for a kidney, the relief of a match, the triumph of a surgeon, then a catastrophic, fatal car crash. Twelve deaths in eleven months. A miscarriage. Both parents. An entire family. So many losses. Accidents. Cancer. Heart disease. Viruses, and not just the big one. So many of us left feeling lost, deserted, abandoned, deprived. Lacking a piece of ourselves almost as tangible as a missing limb.

Bereft is the word I’ve felt weaving through the last few months. Bereft cinches my time into a long string of nameless days.

But our word for today is not bereft. 

In John 14:18, Jesus promised not to leave us bereft. We may feel bereft, but he will not abandon us. In our darkest moments, we’re not alone. In our grief, we’re held. And in that promise, we find today’s word: present. 

Here’s the cool thing about the Greek word used in the phrase “I am coming to you.” In the verb ἔρχομαι I will come, the tense is present perfect indicative. That tense shows action which is happening now and will continue. In other words, he’s already here, and his promise to be with us is ongoing.

Jesus never promised life would be perfect. But he promised the exact opposite of bereft—his presence. 

And maybe that forever-blue sky is a reminder he’s always present.

“I’m not going to leave you bereft. I am coming to you.” John 14:18 NTE

About Becky…