I felt out of sorts. I would put on different colored socks, roll the garbage cans to the curb on the wrong day, misplace the car keys, sometimes confuse the red and green lights of a traffic signal, be tempted to drink too much, sleep fitfully. People were patient with me. I would show up for work, do daily obligations participate in conversations as well as social engagements. Yet, frequently I looked off into space as if trying to figure out the words of a song on a radio in another room.

Distracted or preoccupied could describe this state of mind. Yet, there was more going on because I cannot say precisely what actually distracted or preoccupied me. Only years later did I realize the reason for the struggle: it was absence. I was trying to acclimate to my Father's absence. I sensed his absence. Well this is strange. How does one sense someone who is no longer here? Is it like touching the impression on a blanket left by your dog or cat after it jumps down off the bed? You can feel the leftover warmth. You might even catch a glimpse of the pet scooting away or trotting down the hall.

So, the crazy thing in this aspect of grief is that you are not just missing the person's presence; that is terrible, raw and some days, an agony. It can make us become angry at the person for dying; even angry at God for letting them die or just be so pathetically bereft we are ashamed at our capacity for sadness. It seems so bottomless- even pointless; a well of spoiled water. What I am reaching for here is not just missing the person's presence but trying to get accustomed to their absence. This eludes easy description. Yet it is important to try to put into words because grief is integral to life. God wants us to learn to soldier on as did many of our grandfathers in the muddy, bloody trenches of World War I.

As Christians, we are well- acquainted with the ebb and flow of presence and absence. I mean this in terms of our sense of God. There are days and seasons when life is enchanted and enchanting and we experience grace undergirding us nearly every moment. We know it keenly with a bright confidence and even a facile gratitude implied by the cliché, "It's all good." Sometimes we desire to burst forth with "Alleluias" or at least liberating laughter at the ironies of life. Perhaps we are mystified by people who complain too much. Also, there are days and seasons when God seems absent. Like the pop song sang, "He took the last train to the Coast...the Day...the Music died." If we are really in terrible desolation, this whole project of faith and church may seem like a socially acceptable sham. We might feel it is a polite way to tiptoe around the landmines of dread scattered along our path. We might even detect a tone of disdain in the back of our throats. Did we swallow a poisonous toad?

I remember years ago a woman looked at me and screwed up her face like a sour grape unworthy of the wine press. She spit out the words, "The Holy Spirit? What's all this talk about the Holy Spirit?" It sounded as she was referring to Charles Manson; it chilled me. She was nursing a terrible rage against God and turning it into a monster. This was obvious to me and others. She appeared blind to it. I pray she let God love her, break her heart like a breadstick and save her.

Back to this problem of the departed loved one's absence. It is never easy to accept that we have to keep living without him or her. We can still smell them in a sweater or coat; look at hundreds of photographs; read their notes, emails or letters; debate whether or not to throw away their hairbrush. We mutter to anyone who will listen, "It all comes down to this?" The many traces of their presence can some days give solace; other days, they gnaw at our loneliness. This is all linked to their presence.

But, to accept the person's absence takes a form of trust. Remember the name "Jesus" means "God saves" or even "Safe in God." The next step is to commend the person to Jesus, to the safety of God and trust he or she really is secure, dare we say, most secure with him. This seems impossible because it actually is impossible. To do this we are trusting the person, whom we no longer see, to Someone, Jesus, ostensibly, we have never fully seen in this life. We might pray, "Lord, if it were not tough enough, now you want me to trust the departed to the Invisible? Yeah right."

From an earthy point of view, it makes no sense. This commending of the loved one to Lord Jesus only makes sense from the view of eternity. See, what is happening is this: you are considering the person is not simply gone but somewhere else. Them being absent means they are away. Like when you stop by someone's house and they are not home. The house is there; they are not. You leave a note or drop off the tool or book you borrowed. You trust your friend will find it by the back door. You just leave it there even though they are not home. They are away, you trust they will return.

Try to imagine the experience of the disciples between the dead body of Jesus being placed in the tomb at dusk on Good Friday and when they saw the Risen Lord on Easter Day and the subsequent several weeks. Imagine visiting the tomb on Holy Saturday. Maybe you see the thick stone door; it seems to mock you with a haughty scowl like the spirit of death. Maybe you see the soldiers keeping guard as they nip at wine and play dice. Maybe you see a covey of sparrows perched on several branches of a nearby tree. The amiable, mottled birds are still and quiet. They do not flit or sing, fret or fly away: they wait.

Their waiting signifies the absolute gone-ness of Jesus as in the way animals go quiet during a solar eclipse. Yet, it also says something else because they are not singing for joy, for sorrow, or for the sake of anything-even though God made them to sing. They are just not singing; they are waiting. And their waiting is three parts resignation, one part anticipation. The resignation to the absence of Jesus is obvious. The expectation is not so obvious. Yet, it is uncomfortable and on the verge of being annoying. Like a friend who blurts out the punch line of your joke before you or a waiter who clears your plate before you finish your entree.

You want to tell the birds, "Would you just sing something." So you do. You cry, "Would you just sing something." They look at you but do not flinch or fly away. They stay put because they are waiting. Something else is coming. The birds are waiting and are content to wait on your behalf. So, if you are not ready or able, strong or eager enough to wait; they will wait for you. And, you will see them fly with radiant joy when the times comes.

Fr. Brewster Hastings is the rector of Saint Anne's Church in Abington, PA