A few months back one of my favorite authors, Eugene Peterson, died. He is most widely known for his transliteration of the Hebrew and Greek Scriptures into our present-day vernacular. It’s called The Message.  It is a beautiful work.

But it is only a small slice of his writings.  He has written many other books, some of my favorites being Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, Reversed Thunder, and Practice Resurrection.  But he wasn’t just a scholar and writer: he started and offered spiritual direction to a community of faith for decades.

A classic overachiever.  And a hero of mine.

And he died.  I now live in a world without Eugene Peterson.

This struck me the other day when I heard a song by Wham!.  (Yeah, I bet you didn’t see that coming.) George Michael was a phenomenal singer and quite the song writer.  And as I was listening to the song, it occurred to me that he is gone, too.  I live in a world without George Michael.

I started listing the names of those artists gone: John Candy, Fred Rodgers, Dolores O’Riordan, Jim Henson.  And others who had shaped me: Robert Capon, Eugene Peterson, Dallas Willard, Mike Yaconelli.

And then, of course, those who shaped me by their presence with me: Jennifer Foster, Ruth and C.W. Lee, Lucille Fullmer, Wayne North, Denny Brizendine.

They’ve died.  I live in a world without them.  

I can hardly believe it.

You have your list.  You would point out to me that my list is woefully incomplete.  Where’s Mother Teresa?  How about Martin Luther King, Jr?  How could I fail to mention James Cone, Michael Jackson, Rachel Held Evans, Billy Graham?

Good points.

What a world of loss. So many beautiful people, who gave such beautiful gifts.

The ancient Hebrews had a practice that I find largely missing from the world nowadays.  It was the practice of lament.  The lament was a way of naming a loss, a disappointment, a grief, a suffering…without knowing how to fix it.  In fact, the lament was the naming of a loss without even trying to fix it, solve it, explain it.

All you had to do was name it.

This, perhaps, is the one thing I hear the most from those who have lost loved ones.  After the cards have come in, and the flowers have been delivered, the meals prepared and brought by, the services begun and ended…after all of that…when the flowers have wilted, the left overs eaten, the cards thrown away or stored…suddenly their loved one’s name is no longer spoken.

“Why is everyone afraid to say their name around me?”

“Has everybody moved on?  Why does everybody have to move on?”

Sometimes all those that have lost a loved one want to hear is the name.  This is what the lament does for us.  It allows us to remember those that have touched us, that have left us, whose lives still echo around and within us.

And somehow, in saying the name, there is a healing that happens.  We are retouched by the grief…and also by the smile, the words, the art, the talents, that moment, their touch that is also attached to that grief.

As Jon Foreman has said, “Every lament is a love song.”

And so, perhaps, we shouldn’t be seeking closure.  In fact, I’m wondering if closure isn’t just a bit—or a lot—overrated.

I invite you to say their name today.  To feel the loss.  To remember the gift that is him or her, to receive both of these immeasurable things at the same time.  To leave their door open.

Eugene Peterson’s son, Lief, shared this at his father’s funeral, “For 50 years you steal into my room at night and whispered softly to my sleeping head. It’s the same message over and over: ‘God loves you. He’s on your side. He’s coming after you. He’s relentless.’”

With grief, I will say his name, “Eugene Peterson”.  And with his son I will gratefully remember his message.

Whose name do you need to remember—and speak—today?