april 2008 newsletter...
Dear Friends,
In sharp contrast to the light and green of spring-ing Atlanta, April brought darkness and weight to my family, but we do not mourn like those who have no hope. I am driven to devote myself more fully to hearing God’s voice calling me from death into life, from time into eternity. The events of the last two weeks resurrected my longing to share this resurrection life we find in Christ.
One of my earliest memories involves lying on a Raggedy Ann mattress in our Delhi home. Light from the hallway shone into the dark room through the cracked-open door. As she patted my back in rhythm, my mother sang the same soft lullaby, over and over: Amy, Amy, through the sunshine calling; Amy, Amy, calling loud and clear. Amy, Amy, this is Mommy calling; Amy quickly runs to answer, “I am here.” More than the fragments of color and light and sound, I remember the delight in hearing my name and thinking, “That’s me. She’s calling me. She wants me.” (I also remember feeling jealous a couple years later, when I heard her singing the same song for my younger brother and sister). An imagined scene even appears—to this day—when I hear her song: bright sunshine, abundant flowers, and me running through the grass towards my mother’s voice.
Last Tuesday night, I found myself in the alien position of standing beside the hospice bed of Sultan, a young man I didn’t know very well. He had been struggling for 14 years against a degenerative nerve disorder. I had come because my brother married his sister and they both suffered alongside Sultan. I stood on one side of the bed, watching my brother gently ensuring that Sultan was comfortable. At first, I couldn’t see past the details, like how Sultan’s mouth hung open under the oxygen mask. My own mouth dried out in response. His limbs, too, had shrunk just since Christmas. I watched his chest struggling up and down with no discernible rhythm. The whole scene disturbed me, with the specter of death pervading the room and our hearts.
I only talked to Sultan a few times. I knew he liked Star Wars and at least entertained the possibility of a prison chaplaincy as a career. I knew he had strong competitive and stubborn streaks. My brother and his wife have told me of Sultan’s fortitude in the face of suffering. Neither of them can remember a time when Sultan complained about his deteriorating nervous system. He had mad, glad, and bad days, yes, but no whining days. Job became his favorite book. I’m sorry I didn’t know him better. As a fan of personal space, I felt awkward touching him—I didn’t know whether I had a right. I managed a few feeble pats on his arm before half-withdrawing my hand. Strange, how it’s possible to worry about being presumptuous or invasive even in the stark face of death.
Later, my brother stepped out of the room to call a nurse and I waited beside Sultan. I wondered what thoughts, if any, penetrated his morphine-induced fog. He moaned then, in pain. Overwhelmingly, it was as if tumblers fell into place, unlocking my eyes to really see Sultan. I could almost hear Jesus singing my mother’s old lullaby, the Shepherd calling his sheep to come home. I imagined Sultan’s delight in thinking, “That’s me. He’s calling me. He wants me.” I began patting his arm, stroking his forehead, singing every hymn I could think of about Jesus our Shepherd calling us into his presence, about the peace we have in him. I don’t know what Sultan could hear, but I wanted to be part of sending him on, of giving glory to God because He helps us see past death into eternity. I imagined Sultan moving away from pain and toward the sound of God’s voice. I imagined his excitement in knowing he was finally conquering death and suffering, and that led to a genuine eagerness on his behalf.
Three days later, Sultan’s family laid his body to rest in a sunshiny meadow carpeted with wildflowers. In the middle of the meadow stands a twenty-foot high cross, a resurrection cross, that looks like a sunburst. I had seen the cross the night before and thought, “We do not mourn like those who have no hope.” It’s so true. My brother read the story of Lazarus at Sultan’s funeral. So much grief comes in parting from loved ones, and Jesus never minimizes the grief of Lazarus’ sisters. He moves through the shadow of death with them. Then Jesus says to Martha, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” He proceeds to call Lazarus out of the grave into life. This is the glory of our God: to bring life from death. And the point of our lives must be to share this glory. I love the image of Jesus singing to us, calling us progressively closer to Himself. Zephaniah speaks of this: “The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” That’s what Sultan experiences now, and I’m experiencing a new commitment to seeing the crowd around him swell with even more voices when we enter eternity. I can’t think of another worthwhile way to spend life.
Your fellow pilgrim
Amy
