The thing is, we don't think Jesus is coming. Oh yes, we say that we think Jesus is coming, but we don't think Jesus is coming. We don't think we are going to die, that Jesus will return, that there will one day be a last day. We have long lost that feeling of expectancy, that we might turn a corner and run into Jesus unawares. We feel offended when death takes one that we love, as if there was ever a chance that one day it would not. We believe we are immortal and when we come face to face with our mortality, we are shell shocked and outraged.
Recently, I have the scary experience of being in the general vicinity of a tornado. It did an amazing amount of damage to the area around me, there was a terrible loss of home and lives. I was ashamed that I had been spared any suffering really, beside inconvenience. Survivors guilt, I think we call it, is real. When you see how much others have lost and you are safe and secure, it is deeply humbling. But beyond the guilt response, it was the drive out of the area that has left the deepest impression. I drove through some of the prettiest spring countryside, beautiful colors, brilliant sunshine peaking through brand new leaves. Then, I would turn a corner and there would be uprooted trees, scattered bricks, roofless homes, naked foundations, vacant wandering people, gathering up possessions. Then, another turn and the devastation was out of sight again and a darling home with a beautiful landscaped lawn moved into view. How can that be even possible? Yet, this is the way life is, only mostly we can pretend it is not.
Last week I lost a friend to death. His death was a relief as the diseased that riddled his body made breathing difficult and frightening and it was a blessing when he didn't have to draw a breath again. He was a planner extraordinaire. He continued planning while he was no longer able to talk by writing notes and asking questions. He had more drive and more energy than anyone I have ever met, and had the unique gift of allowing people to retain their dignity when he offered help. I sat during at his funeral, looking at a picture of him, his eyes sparking with life, and thought about how he had fought through heart surgery with indignant impatience knowing he had always taken care of himself. How dare his heart behave so badly?! By the time I knew he was sick this time, he had already taken months to deal with it and had come to some sort of understanding. If he was to die, he would die as prepared as he could be. He planned his funeral, he picked the music, he got his affairs in order, he no doubt left a detailed plan for his wife to follow. Somehow he made death a part of his plan for life. I can tell you that though I will miss him dreadfully, and I am sure that the hole he leaves behind will never be filled in quite the same way, I am confident that he is happy and content today. He is at work in the eternal kingdom, getting the lay of the land, and figuring out what needs to be done. I hope he met my dad, and they talked about me. They would like each other, I am sure.
One day one of the predictors will get it right, Jesus is coming back, you know. I can't help but wonder if I lived with this reality as a part of my daily plan, as my friend Wendell lived with his death as a part of his, that my life would run on deeply different lines. Would I really sweat the small stuff that keeps me tossing and turning these days...I think not.
I am thinking it's time to pack a bag. I wish we would all get ready!
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