Yesterday was the anniversary.
It wasn’t the anniversary of the day I married my wife; nor was it the anniversary of the day I gave my life to Christ; and it certainly wasn’t the anniversary of the day I graduated from high school or college. All those would be wonderful anniversaries worthy of great festivities and celebrations.
No, yesterday was the anniversary of one of my best friends’ death. My dear friend, Vinnie Hovland, shot himself on November 24th, Thanksgiving, last year. Yesterday, to remember him, and because it seemed the appropriate thing to do, some friends and I visited his grave.
I’m not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t the feeling of normalcy and contentment that I experienced standing next to Vinnie’s grave. It’s hard to describe, but I didn’t miss him any more than at any other point in my life. And after giving it some thought, I think I know why that is…
I miss Vinnie most in the places I knew him. I miss him in the places I remember being with him. So I miss him in my old apartment, because he was there every Tuesday for small group. And I miss him at Red Lotus, the Chinese restaurant down the street from where I lived, because we met there once for accountability (and had one of the best meals of my life). I miss him most when I lead worship, because I remember looking out into the congregation and seeing him raising his arms in undignified and unencumbered praise. He worshipped like there was no one in the world to watch him except Jesus, and he loved Jesus so much that he didn’t care if he looked like a crazy person.
But I didn’t miss him at his graveside, and I think that’s because I never knew him there – more than that, Vinnie was never there at all. Sure, his name is carved on a rock, along with a verse he liked, and people drop off flowers (I’m not sure Vinnie was a big flower man, but it’s nice for the family), but he’s not there. And yeah, some bits of his body are there, buried under the ground (though the grave doesn’t seem big enough for Vinnie; he was 6’4” and not a small man), but Vinnie isn’t in those bits of his body any more than I am.
Vinnie was a long way away before they ever put his body under the ground at Washington Park Cemetery. And while we stood around his name-carved rock and smoke his favorite brand of cigars, talking about how we remembered him, Vinnie was busy doing the thing he was best at on this earth; he was standing before the throne of Almighty God, praising him for his marvelous grace and glorious mercy – likely dancing an undignified jig with all of his glorified 6’4” spiritual body. I know that before long, I’ll be dancing with him.
Until then, I hope to worship like he does now.
It wasn’t the anniversary of the day I married my wife; nor was it the anniversary of the day I gave my life to Christ; and it certainly wasn’t the anniversary of the day I graduated from high school or college. All those would be wonderful anniversaries worthy of great festivities and celebrations.
No, yesterday was the anniversary of one of my best friends’ death. My dear friend, Vinnie Hovland, shot himself on November 24th, Thanksgiving, last year. Yesterday, to remember him, and because it seemed the appropriate thing to do, some friends and I visited his grave.
I’m not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t the feeling of normalcy and contentment that I experienced standing next to Vinnie’s grave. It’s hard to describe, but I didn’t miss him any more than at any other point in my life. And after giving it some thought, I think I know why that is…
I miss Vinnie most in the places I knew him. I miss him in the places I remember being with him. So I miss him in my old apartment, because he was there every Tuesday for small group. And I miss him at Red Lotus, the Chinese restaurant down the street from where I lived, because we met there once for accountability (and had one of the best meals of my life). I miss him most when I lead worship, because I remember looking out into the congregation and seeing him raising his arms in undignified and unencumbered praise. He worshipped like there was no one in the world to watch him except Jesus, and he loved Jesus so much that he didn’t care if he looked like a crazy person.
But I didn’t miss him at his graveside, and I think that’s because I never knew him there – more than that, Vinnie was never there at all. Sure, his name is carved on a rock, along with a verse he liked, and people drop off flowers (I’m not sure Vinnie was a big flower man, but it’s nice for the family), but he’s not there. And yeah, some bits of his body are there, buried under the ground (though the grave doesn’t seem big enough for Vinnie; he was 6’4” and not a small man), but Vinnie isn’t in those bits of his body any more than I am.
Vinnie was a long way away before they ever put his body under the ground at Washington Park Cemetery. And while we stood around his name-carved rock and smoke his favorite brand of cigars, talking about how we remembered him, Vinnie was busy doing the thing he was best at on this earth; he was standing before the throne of Almighty God, praising him for his marvelous grace and glorious mercy – likely dancing an undignified jig with all of his glorified 6’4” spiritual body. I know that before long, I’ll be dancing with him.
Until then, I hope to worship like he does now.
posted by Joe P. @ 9:08 PM
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