But when the pastor turned his attention away from eulogistic reflections and attempted to speak words of comfort, he lost his footing. I genuinely believe that he wanted to provide some consolation to those of us grieving. I have no doubt that his desire was to speak to us words to soothe our grief and assuage our sadness. In that moment of significant loss, he tried to speak of profound things that would last and had the power to alleviate our grief. But instead of comforting us with the eternal word of God, he spoke that day of things that sounded profound but were less than transcendent. He said, “your grandmother will have eternal life in your memories.” He offered as comfort the words, “your grandmother will live on and remain with you in your hearts.” He spoke these things with genuine concern and conviction. At first, they seemed to have weight and truth, but they proved to be less than helpful on reflection. Memories are sweet, but there are many things about my grandmother I never knew, and there are many things about her I have already forgotten. Keeping her “in my heart” seems, at first, to be a sweet sentiment but, on reflection, holds no lasting weight. Rather than encourage, these words cheapen the biblical truth and gospel hope. These words deny the power of the eternal God, who is able to keep His promises of bodily resurrection and eternal life, to those who have died in faith and instead places the hope of eternity in the frail and fleeting heart of man. His words were nice-sounding, but they were powerless.

There is a crack in my parents' front door. The door is not in disrepair, and to most observers, there is no visible sign that the door's integrity is compromised. At night the severity and even the presence of the crack are impossible to determine. But when the sun shines, the light that presses through the crack bears an undeniable testimony.

I recently spent a few days at my parents' home. It was not a visit of pleasure but one of heartache. Close family friends had lost a son and a grandson, and I returned home to be with this family. My heart was broken. The heaviness of grief was felt with every breath. The fatigue of sadness rested on my shoulders like cumbersome over-stuffed luggage. Everything within me wanted to do something to make it better, assuage my friends' pain, and heal the brokenness. But there was nothing that could be done. All I could do was remember the wisdom of Solomon that there is an appointed time for everything, and this was a time to weep and mourn. And so, we did.

They were newlyweds returning from their honeymoon. As the 21-year-old Granger Kent and his new bride traveled toward home, surely their thoughts were on their future and the excitement of establishing a home and building a family. Seated not far from the newlyweds were two men, both engaged, and traveling to meet their brides and celebrate their weddings. 154 years ago, these and many more were gathered on a train traveling from Cleveland to Buffalo, New York.

The New York Express departed Cleveland in the early hours of December 18, 1867. As it made its way toward its destination it struggled to keep up with the appointed schedule, and by the time it reached Angola, NY, it was running nearly three hours late. The train engineers had no hope of arriving on time, but they were doing all they could to minimize the severity of their tardiness.

Other than the frustration of anticipated schedules being missed the trip was mundane. These were the days when passenger trains were the primary way of travel. It is likely that every passenger on the train that day had taken many similar trips and gave little thought to the significance of this trip. As they passed through Angola, they knew they were getting close to their destination and likely began to turn their thoughts to what they would do when they arrived. Angola was not a planned stop, so the train passed by the little wooded depot at a steady speed. The telegraph operator in the station noted her passing and surely waved at the engineers as they passed.