The passing of Whitney Houston dominated much of the
entertainment news this past week, especially as it came on the eve of the Grammy
Awards. A remembrance of Harvey Korman on the anniversary of his birth fell
next to her obituary in the newspaper. A former co-worker’s son died. All three
had me contemplating the impact of loss.
Word of Whitney Houston’s death came as I was listening to
the posthumous release from Amy Winehouse. The connections did not escape me. I
remembered Whitney as much of the soundtrack of my college years while
Winehouse’s music provided the soundtrack for the past few years. Despite the
beauty and connections that come through the music, and as so many memories
connect to the music of the moment, I never connected to either of these two
artists behind the songs.
Perhaps it was that the messiness of their lives distracted
from the passion of the music.
Perhaps they were just too far away from reality to really
matter.
The remembrance of Harvey Korman struck a deeper chord
within me as the article on the 85th anniversary of his birth (and
four years after his death) highlighted some of the deepest belly laughs I have
ever had in my life. His roles in sketch comedy genuinely brought out the
laughter. I mourned his death in 2008 as much as I laughed at the replays of
the skits.
Perhaps it was because he seemed like a real person whose
comic escapades seemed to be an extension of his normal life.
Perhaps it was because I am too often the straight-man to my
Tim Conway friends.
Word that the son of a former co-worker had died hit most
deeply. I barely knew the young man from years ago in church and through
working with his mother. Knowing his parents, grandparents, and older brother
naturally personalized the death compounding the sadness of losing someone at
such a young age.
Perhaps it was because of the hometown connection.
Perhaps it was because I work with young people and the loss
of even one reminds me to do all I can to protect all youth.
Contrary to what might be expected, contemplation of the
different deaths and their impact did not lead to morose moping, rather they
led to a spiritual meditation that moved me into the spirit of Lent. Just as
the three deaths moved me in drastically different ways, it moved me to think
of loss and sacrifice in our lives.
Profoundly different, loss and sacrifice both fit in the
Lenten season. As I consider the sacrifice I will make in consideration of the
sacrifice God made for us at Easter, I look back to losses and what they have
meant in my life. I compare them to the sacrifices. Losses always take a
greater toll.
Sacrifice results from a choice I make.
Loss happens whether I choose it or not.
The three deaths I have been pondering all week long help
drive home the distinction. Despite the various levels of connection, there is
not at death I would choose for any of the individuals involved.
As I enter Lent, I enter questioning whether there is
anything I can sacrifice that equals the loss God must have felt when His Son
suffered crucifixion. While I will consider my sacrifice, I will, in this
season, continue to consider loss.
