Scout had to stop drinking coffee. No sooner had she managed to pour herself a cup in the morning that she found herself kneeling on the tiles of her bathroom floor, where only the comfort of cool porcelain soothed the bouts of nausea, physical and emotional. Her brain felt foggy but she was sure that was #8. Another thing she couldn’t do because of him, sweet Whit. If anyone knew she couldn’t actually function without coffee, it was him.

But nothing really surprised her anymore. There were a lot of things Scout found herself giving up after Whit had passed away. Everything either made her sick or gloomy. No sitting on park benches. No pocket-sized paperbacks. No skipping stones. No crosswords. No listening to old Latin ballads. No yellow rain boots. And absolutely no chocolates. Even the sight of one made her want to curl up under her covers. Whit. Whit. Whit. Everything was about Whit.

******

Scout watched the redhead in stilettos click her pen. It was the third time she had done this. The woman stared and Scout stared back.

“Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Jensen.”

Scout didn’t say a word. She had known Dr. Mallon all her life and still, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to her. Not about this. Scout’s eyes shifted to the clock on the wall. She swore she could hear the ticking … and she was definitely counting down the minutes. Only 5 more.

“Who was Whit to you?” Dr. Mallon asked.

Scout glared at Dr. Mallon. She really wasn’t ready. She didn’t think she would ever be ready. Tick tick, tick tick, tick tick. All she could think of was Whit’s antique pocket watch.

“My grandfather.”

“And?”

“He was my grandfather. That’s it,” Scout said, crossing her arms.

“Think about it,” said Dr. Mallon.

But Scout didn’t want to think about it. Why did she have to think about it when all she did was think about it?

“I can’t.”

At the end of the session, Dr. Mallon gave Scout a small, leather-bound journal and a set of questions that she had to answer in order to overcome her grief and “find herself again.” Scout found it nonsensical.

“It’ll help.”

Scout knew it wouldn’t.

“Just try it.”

Scout wouldn’t dare.

Whit was…Whit. Scout was closer to him than she was to anyone else. Whit understood her and she had followed him around wherever he went, ever since she was in little overalls. So when he died, Scout wasn’t sure where to go now that there was no one ahead to lead her.

******

When Scout first moved into Whit’s house to finish her thesis, she had hoped being in a space remnant of his presence would inspire her, fill her with hope. But all she could feel was a puzzlement of sorrow. The house was old— musty and creaky. It was way too big for one person and Scout resented Whit for leaving it behind to torment her. Every room in the house smelled of him, making her nauseous. Even stepping outside, there was no escape. Just a glimpse of the stoned path made her hands clammy. Scout had nowhere to go to escape her pain, to escape Whit and everything that came with him. Crouching down on the carpet of her childhood room, Scout clasped her hands together, trying to lean on the one thing she knew, despite all she felt, could never fail her.

“Look, I- I don’t know how to speak to you right now,” Scout said, twisting the fabric of her pants. “I’m sad. And I’m angry. Confused and hurt. I want to move forward but I don’t know how. Every waking moment, I struggle with what I’m thinking, with how I should be feeling, with how I should be acting. I don’t know how to deal with this and I don’t know how to bring it to you. I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t know how. So I come on bended knees, begging for you to help me. Please, God, I am so lost.”

******

Whit had been sick. And he didn’t tell Scout. She used to call him every other day, and not once did he bother to mention it. She was angry, at him, at her sister, at everyone who knew and neglected to tell her. “We didn’t want you to worry” “You were in school!” “He didn’t want to disturb your peace.” They were vain excuses. She was worse now than she would’ve been if someone had just told her. Scout stared at the marble headstone absently. Everyone else had left hours ago and yet, there she was, all alone, wearing an ugly black dress with mascara smudges around her eyes. She felt rather silly.

“I could have seen you. I could have taken care of you,” Scout cried. “I could have said goodbye.”

Looking up at the bright, blue sky, Scout tried to blink away the tears that made her grandfather’s grave look like the unreality she felt. Whitaker Jensen. Her best friend, gone.

Scout remembered how cold and gray the day had been when her Lucy called to give her the news. Even with the impending doom of a paper deadline, she hadn’t been able to get out of bed, There was an inexplicable pressure in her chest, an overwhelming dread that something wasn’t quite right. Scout should have known then. She should have called him. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. She had just been so busy with school….

“How could you leave me like this? What am I supposed to do without you?”

******

When Scout was little, she swore she saw colorful fishes swimming in their pond every once in a while. Ancient minnows, Whit used to call them, his eyes twinkling through his horn-rimmed glasses. Scout tried to shake the memory away. Leaning against a weeping willow, she watched the southern sun set, turning gold and painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The pond began sparkling with little lights. On evenings like this, she and Whit used to read on the porch, and Whit would pull out a broken little music box and reflect the sun’s sparkles into Scout’s unsuspecting eyes. He would laugh that raspy, deep laugh of his as she would shake her head and bat her paperback at him in amused frustration.

Scout really needed to stop thinking about Whit. The journal was useless. It made her remember beautiful things that only succeeded in further upsetting her. Still, pencil in hand, she tried to write something as the last bits of sunlight shed warmth on the wildflowers of the field. Scout hated wildflowers. She did, she did, she did. Except when she didn’t.

When her grandmother was alive, Scout used to gather them together and place them in a small vase in the kitchen. Whit would say something like “always bringing nature inside, I see,” with a big grin on his face while her grandmother would fuss and fuss at her artistic abilities. Scout used to ask why he never got rid of all the weeds that riddled their garden. With a tilt of his head, Whit would simply respond, “This is God’s garden. He plants flowers where He pleases. And masterfully too, look how beautiful your bouquet gets to be.” She liked that answer.

Scout was beginning to feel a warmness in her cheeks. She rubbed her eyes, refusing to cry. But the more she looked at the pretty wildflowers, the more she wanted to cry. Scout wrapped her arms tight around herself and waited for the sadness to pass. The stars slowly came out to dance, inviting the moon to join them as they graced the woods with light once again. And Scout, thinking of wildflowers, sat still upon the ground. She looked up into the vast unknown, masterpiece of the great divine.

“Lead me for I don’t know where to go. Guide my steps, I beg you, oh Lord.”

******

“There are things in life one cannot explain. But God is good. I am alive and well.”

“If you truly loved me, you’d bring me some chocolates”

“Have fun. This is the only life we’ve got, you know”

“Do not worry. We have an understanding, me and the Big Guy. A hundred and twenty. You’ll see”

“Of course, I knew. I always know.”

Whit was a light, a mischievous, joyful light. Scout often wondered how he was the way he was. He had a big heart. He always reached his hand out and never asked any questions, never asked for anything in return. He was always so calm. Never dwindling time away, but never rushing either. He wasn’t perfect, Scout knew that. Of course she knew that. But to her, he was almost perfect. The embodiment of God’s love in a mere man. She remembered once as a child, opening her bible to him and trying to tell him about Jesus. He never went to church so she just assumed. “I know who He is,” he had responded. Scout feared he didn’t. When Lucy called and told her what happened, Scout had squeezed her eyes shut, pushing away thoughts entertaining the contrary. “He’s in a better place,” people would say. And Scout, Scout was scared.

******

“I… I feel like there’s a constant battle inside me. I’m dealing with so many emotions that I don’t even know how to feel anymore. I tried to write it all down in the journal you gave me, believe me, I really did. But, I could never find the right words.”

There was a silence that seemed to stretch out for ages. Scout inhaled sharply. She had never really said that much to Dr. Mallon, ever. The older woman seemed unfazed, characteristically clicking her pen.

“Go on.”

Scout looked down at her hands, anxiously chewing her lip. What more was there to say?

“I know grief is hard. I know mourning takes time. I’m just…I’m not handling it well.”

Dr. Mallon sighed, removing her glasses and carefully folding them.

“Ms. Jensen, listen to me and listen carefully. You’re right. Grief is complicated and mourning is not something to be done overnight. So I ask you again to please be patient with yourself. There is no need to rush this process. But, you must not allow yourself to become overwhelmed and use that as an excuse to remain stuck. You must use a strength that is not your own to push through this. You must lean on your faith.”

“I’m trying! I just—”

Scout wrung her fingers through her hands, unsure of herself. She could hear her heart beating in her ears, the pounding felt ominous.

“Truly my fear lies in not knowing where he is.”

There. Scout finally acknowledged it. Her mouth had opened and the words had poured out before she could even process them.

Scout looked up to find Dr. Mallon had risen from her chair and, bearing a look Scout had never seen before, placed her hand firmly on her shoulder. Scout frowned, looking away. She could feel the growing sting in the corners of her eyes. Dr. Mallon gave the young woman a small smile, tenderly squeezing her shoulder.

“Scout. It only takes a little bit of faith.”

And with that, Scout began to weep, covering her eyes with her shaking hands.

“There, there, child.”

******

In Christ alone, my hope is found. He is my light, my strength, my song.

Scout was lying on her back, tapping her foot and humming along. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to get lost in the sound of bagpipes and violins. Smiling, Scout felt her soul rise with the words.

“That sounds Celtic.”

Scout opened an eye to find Whit standing over her with a mug in his hand. She looked at him closely, the wrinkles on his large hands, the softness of his wispy white hair, the stoic expression on his sun kissed face, the upturned curl at the corner of his lips. He looked great and mighty from where she lay.

“The band is. I’m not sure about the hymn. It’s modern, but it definitely has an Irish melody, doesn’t it?”

Whit was silent for a moment. Scout watched the vapor rise from his hot tea. His glasses were fogging up slowly. She smiled and closed her eyes again. How happy she felt.

“It’s beautiful. So beautiful.”

Scout opened her eyes again in surprise. There was a twinkling in Whit’s eyes that made her heart swell. He was crying. Scout opened her mouth for a moment and then shut it. How beautiful his tears looked, gently rolling down his brown cheeks.

*****

Scout didn’t know how, but she knew it then. Whit was in the arms of Jesus. In her heart of hearts she knew. Sitting against the willow tree, her journal grasped against her chest, Scout looked upon the twinkling pond, her grandparents’ home standing tall behind it. She knew her eyes were welling with tears, but she didn’t angrily blink them away as she usually would. Dr. Mallon’s words had changed everything. Scout opened her journal to where she had written Romans 10:9-10. She read it aloud, to the heavens above and to the wildflowers below.

“‘That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God that raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.’” The greatest of smiles grew on her lips as she felt a great weight lift from her shoulders.

With trembling fingers, Scout picked up her pencil and wrote her very first journal entry. For I once was lost, but now am found. Surely in this day, I felt the Lord speak: “Truly, I say to you, today [he] will be with me in paradise.” Even in my doubts and sorrows, what blessed assurance. We will one day meet again, dearest Whit. So come, Lord Jesus, come.