Choosing to SEE

by Mary Beth Chapman

  Mary Beth Chapman

  This is something I wish I wasn’t doing. And I really don’t have a whole lot to say, because so many beautiful people standing with us and behind us have already said everything. But I just wanted to tell you a couple of things about Maria so you will remember her the way we do.

  Probably no less than ten times a day Maria would say, “I love it when my whole family is together!” And obviously, it’s hard schedule-wise for us all to be together. So on those occasions when we were, she would just love it when we would do the group hug and “kiss the monkey,” and Maria was always the monkey. And she loved, loved, loved to be naked.

  I don’t know if this is appropriate, but I’m going to say it anyway because I’ll regret it if I don’t. Besides my husband, Maria loved my boobs. Any way she could get her hand down my shirt, she would. I don’t know why, maybe it was just the physical closeness and touch.

  Anyway, I have lots of last memories, but one sticks out in my mind, and this is going to be another one that will make Steven blush. Then I’m going to sit down and let him say all the spiritual stuff. I always let him kind of sweep up my mess.

  Some of you know that with young children, it’s hard to find time to be alone in an intimate way. One morning it was early and Steven and I were together, and Maria came walking into our room.

  She was always the first one up, and I’m sorry that I ever complained about it now, but she woke up talking a hundred miles a minute and she went to bed talking a hundred miles a minute.

  And so she came busting into our bedroom early one morning while Steven and I were connecting – I’m sorry y’all, it’s okay, Maria would want us to laugh even though maybe this is grief and I’m really going to regret this tomorrow when it all comes crashing down. Anyway, she comes crashing into our room while we were together, and luckily there were covers over us . . . but she just stopped and looked at us with her little eyes as big as they could get and said, “What are ya’ll all like (putting her little hands all crinkled together) smushed together for?”

  She was so full of a million questions, and that’s one of the last questions I ever heard her ask me!

  Every time I got to ask her a question I’d say, “Maria, do you know how much Mommy loves you?” She’d always answer, “To infinity . . . and beyond!”

  And she was right.

  Steven Curtis Chapman

  Well, obviously I’m married to a very amazing, incredible, and uh, unpredictable wife! And I’ve just been blown away at watching God reveal Himself through her.

  You guys, help us live differently because of this! We don’t know what “normal” is or will ever be, but we don’t want to go back to it, because time is short. We’ve looked into eternity . . . we’re doing it today. This is the kind of thing we need to spend our time doing, just seeing and celebrating the glory of God where it shows up, in the pain and the joy He gives us in this life.

  You know, I think Maria would say to us today, “Taste and SEE that the Lord is good.” Maria loved tasty things. She loved to eat. And she would say, “See, just SEE the glory of God today!”

  If you’ve never seen it, if you’ve been afraid to see it or too proud to see it or whatever, just see the goodness of God in the midst of this. We can’t see it all right now. Like Caleb said, it’s a huge painting, it’s too big to perceive all at once and we have to keep backing up to see it. But allow Him to remove the fear of death from your heart, reveal and show His love to you so you can know, really know Him!

  Thank you all for coming.

  “God Is God”

  Words and music by

  Steven Curtis Chapman

  And the pain falls like a curtain

  On the things I once called certain

  And I have to say the words I fear the most

  I just don’t know

  God is God and I am not

  I can only see a part of the picture He’s painting

  God is God and I am man

  So I’ll never understand it all

  For only God is God

  28

  Goodbye . . .

  Why have I waited for so long To be singing you this song I thought that time was all I had I have so much left to say But time has faded now

  Caleb Chapman

  Then the Lord said to him, “Take off the sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”

  Acts 7:33

  After the service, we got into a long, white limousine that was waiting to take us to the cemetery. Another limo followed, full of extended family and close friends. Then there were hundreds of cars behind that.

  The silence is the noise I still hear inside my head. Not a word was spoken. Shock. It was so hard to believe that we were actually riding in a funeral procession following a hearse that carried the shell of our sweet Maria. Shouldn’t she be riding in the car with us? Shouldn’t she be hanging from the ceiling, making us all laugh and worry about her safety at the same time?

  We were facing what we knew was going to be one of the most difficult moments of this whole nightmare. Surely we would wake up before we had to do it, before we had to put Maria’s body into the ground.

  As we got closer to the cemetery, my heart was beating faster and faster. I wanted to jump out of the car and run as far away as I could.

  Then, even though I was anxious, it seemed as though everything stopped and went into super slow motion. I looked around the car that carried the people most important to me. Will, with the pink blanket around his neck, clinging to his girlfriend Ruthy. Emily holding tightly to Tanner’s hand. Caleb and Julia holding on to each other for dear life. And right in the middle of it all were Shaoey and Stevey Joy. Too young to completely understand, they kept our minds from going completely crazy.

  I held Steven’s hand. And after taking a long look at my surviving children, I blankly stared out the window the rest of the way to the beautiful but awful place where Maria’s shell would be planted to wait for the new body that Jesus would bring her one day.

  We drove past many of our friends gathering to celebrate the graduation of their high school seniors from Franklin Classical School. In fact, some of our closest friends, Geoff and Jan Moore, who were at the memorial service for Maria, were now watching their son graduate instead of being able to come to the burial service.

  It seemed so strange . . . one family celebrating the ending of a chapter of life called high school and the beginning of a new chapter of hopes and dreams called adulthood . . . and at the very same moment our family was grieving the reality that our earthly hopes and dreams for one of our children had suddenly and tragically come to an end and that the future of our family had been forever changed.

  We arrived at Williamson Memorial Gardens and walked to the spot we had selected just two days earlier as the place where Maria – and eventually Steven and I, the sooner the better as far as I was concerned – would be buried.

  I smelled fresh dirt and grass as we took our green, velvet-covered family seats. There were beautiful flowers, plants, and fresh-cut roses for people to hold so that they could throw them on the casket when it was time to say goodbye.

  Many of our friends gathered around and our pastor, Scotty Smith, began to speak. He talked about this day being a day of planting . . . planting a seed that was the body of Maria. He read from 1 Corinthians 15:

  What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.

  1 Corinthians 15:42–44

  Scotty talked about what it meant to plant a seed and wait . . . that until a seed falls to the ground and dies, it can’t come to life. But because of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead and His promise of our coming resurrection, and because the gospel is true, this seed of Maria’s body that we were planting was going to be raised imperishable.

  He talked about the pro
mised spring that is coming when all things will be made new. He reminded us of those hopeful words of Revelation 21 and the coming day when God will wipe every tear from our eyes.

  Somehow we were able to grasp that. Not fully . . . not even close to fully. But just enough that we were able to throw beautiful roses on the casket, believing that the story of Maria’s life was far from over . . . that there was in fact a spring when we really will see her again . . . more alive than ever.

  These are the truths that got us through that unbearable day and have kept us breathing in the days since, even when we don’t want to anymore. We know – even when we can’t feel it – that that ultimate spring really is coming.

  After everyone else had left the graveside, I told Steven to go on to the limousine with the others and that Will and I were going to sit for a while.

  I put my arm around Will’s shoulders and hugged him hard. “There are no words for this,” I said. “It’s as hard as hard gets. But I promise you one thing right here by your sister’s grave: it’s going to be a long, long journey that won’t end until we get to heaven, but it’s going to be okay.”

  He leaned his head against mine, the pink baby blanket around his neck, and sobbed. I told him that I loved him, that I didn’t blame him, that this was a horrible accident, and that we were not only going to get through it, but that God was going to give each of us a different kind of story to steward well.

  I hugged him like when he was a little boy, and I got a pretty sweet hug back. I knew the Holy Spirit had given us those sweet, private minutes together. We agreed to not let this tear us apart. We held hands and walked back to the white limousine.

  The next day, in the very same sanctuary where we had held Maria’s memorial service, Caleb’s class had their graduation ceremony. It was beautiful and surreal all at once.

  Caleb had gone to Christ Presbyterian Academy from kindergarten through eleventh grade. I had homeschooled him his senior year so he could play guitar on the road with his dad. His classmates really wanted him to be a part of the ceremony. They always have a musical guest, so the class voted that Caleb would perform for their ceremony. That way he’d get to be part of it.

  Our whole family had come barefoot to Maria’s service. It was our way of honoring her and proclaiming that we were on holy ground. God was surely in the place where we honored Maria Sue Chunxi Chapman. We didn’t know until they walked in, but Caleb’s entire senior class came barefoot to honor our family, to honor Maria, and to pay deep respect to their beloved classmate, Caleb.

  Before the accident, Caleb had been working on two songs that he would sing at his commencement. One was “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story; the other was a song that he was writing called “So Long.”

  Caleb’s song was only half done when Maria’s tragedy struck us . . . and yet somehow, in the busy and grief-filled days between Wednesday night and Sunday morning, he finished writing his song. I couldn’t believe he still wanted to sing for his classmates.

  But Caleb felt strongly about fulfilling his commitment, and somehow God gave him the grace and presence of mind to sing at his graduation. I watched my son and was filled with such a mixture of pride and wonder and grace. God was giving him what he needed, even in these early days after the tragedy, to be a faithful steward of Maria’s story.

  Steven and I sat and listened to our son sing, tears running down our faces.

  “So Long”

  Words and music by

  Caleb Chapman

  Why have I waited for so long

  To be singing you this song

  I thought that time was all I had

  I have so much left to say

  But time has faded now

  So take care, so long, goodbye

  And if our paths don’t cross in this Life

  In heaven it will be

  Where there’s no pain, no death, just Life

  Oh the day that that will be

  So take care, so long, goodbye

  29

  The New Normal

  I am waiting for the rescue

  That I know is sure to come

  ’Cause You are faithful, yes, You are faithful

  And I’ve dropped anchor in Your promises and I am holding on

  ’Cause You are faithful, God, You are faithful

  You are faithful, You are faithful

  When You give and when You take away

  Even then still Your name is faithful

  You are faithful

  And with everything inside of me

  I am choosing to believe

  You are faithful

  “Faithful”

  Words and music by Steven Curtis Chapman

  Hope waits but does not sit. It strains with eager anticipation

  to see what may be coming on the horizon. Hope does

  not pacify; it does not make us docile and mediocre. Instead,

  it draws us to greater risk and perseverance.

  Dan Allender

  Karen and Reggie had been planning to visit their daughter in Ireland but had delayed their travel plans because of the accident. After Maria’s memorial service, though, Steven and I insisted that our friends go ahead on their long-planned trip.

  We stayed at the Andersons’ a few days after that, but then the day came . . . we knew we had to return home and face one of our scariest scenarios.

  When we had been home the day after the accident to pick up some clothes and Steven found Maria’s artwork, we felt like God had given us a huge gift. We had chosen to see it as a message; it was time to put one foot in front of the other and return to the place that held seventeen years of memories, good and bad.

  In short, it was time to begin our “new normal” – whatever that was.

  But it was still awful. Part of me wanted to have friends clean out the whole house, then hire movers to pack it all up and have the Chapmans start over somewhere else. It seemed inconceivable to go back and live in the place where Maria had died. How could I walk on the driveway every day where my daughter had taken her last breath?

  As we approached our house, the morning was gray. We turned into our neighborhood. Then, as our tires hit gravel on the unpaved surface of our cul-de-sac, the skies opened up and started pouring rain . . . as if Jesus was weeping with us while we came back to this place.

  We went first to our barn, which is up a hill not far past the house. Friends and family were there, and they had brought tons of food. The little girls played with friends. The rest of us watched the children, none of us saying what we were thinking: someone was missing. We made small talk, and then it was time to go to our house.

  We drove down from the barn and up our driveway. There was a baby magnolia tree near the girls’ playground. We never paid much attention to it, and it had never bloomed before. But as we rounded the corner, we saw that little tree, so near to the place where Maria’s earthly life had ended, and there was a huge, fragrant, blooming flower on it. Just one.

  We could almost hear her laughing from heaven, “SEE?” Counselors had told us that there were some things, in terms of our grief, that we would just have to push through. Our back door was one of them.

  We had lots of bags and had to make many trips from the car to the house and back again. It was amazing . . . somehow, God gave us the grace to go in and out of the back door, over and over. We put our bags down inside and tried to do normal things, even though the quiet was so loud without Maria giggling and running and bouncing around everywhere. We got some laundry started and put our stuff away. We were mostly focused on Shaoey and Stevey Joy, trying to make things as normal for them as we could . . . as if that were possible.

  As we survived, breath by breath, moment by little moment, we began to have other feelings besides the terrible flashbacks of Maria’s loss. Of course those awful memories were part of this place. But if we left our home and started fresh somewhere else, we would also leave behind so many wonderful memories.

 
Our house was not just the place where Maria had died. It was also the place where Maria had giggled and washed dishes and swam naked in the pool, nothing on but a smile and some swim goggles! It was the place where our boys had learned to ride their bikes without training wheels, eventually advancing to four-wheelers. This was where the boys had that painting party in the basement – with oil-based paints – with Grandma and Grandpa in charge. This was where Steven, while warming little Emily up for a softball game, batted the ball that whacked her right in the nose.

  This was the house where Emily got her first puppy at Christmas . . . where the kids had caught Old Gus, the granddaddy catfish, in the pond . . . where Tanner asked permission for Emily’s hand in marriage while kneeling on one knee in front of Steven.

  This physical place, with its flowers and pond and monkey bars and bedrooms and blankets and warm kitchen and family room fireplace, had been a taste of heaven for the Chapman family. It was the site of squeals of laughter, rich music, sweet prayer, great fellowship with friends and family, Super Bowl and March Madness parties.

  “I love it when my whole family is together!” Maria often proclaimed with great gusto. Maria was now in heaven, and though we felt her absence so acutely we sometimes couldn’t breathe, we still knew the reality that we would see her again.

  In these long, strange days of our new normal, though, I had to choose to believe that. It didn’t come naturally.

  One day I went to my favorite retail therapy store, T.J. Maxx. I bought a rounded white pitcher with a simple handle and accents of white flowers. We put it into a big Ziploc bag and sealed it shut. We then gathered as a family out on the driveway, right where Maria had run into the arms of Jesus.

  Our plan was to take that pitcher, hurl it into the concrete, and then take the broken pieces and glue them back together. The jug would be an Ebenezer – a physical reminder – of God’s spiritual work in our lives. Our idea was that the mended pitcher would leak water, our reminder that in our brokenness and eventual healing we would leak out the comfort to others that we ourselves had been given. The idea had come from 2 Corinthians 1:3–4: