The Day My Son Came Home

Near Jerusalem, over 2,000 years ago

Nothing breaks a mother’s heart like a sick child. Holding your most precious treasure in the world and watching them suffer changes you. It breaks you, leaving you fragile and vulnerable to the harsh reality of life.

I was broken when my little Eli died. My heart shattered, and I could barely keep going for the rest of my family. He was my youngest, and he was funny and cheerful no matter what life brought to our village, Bethany, or to our home. Though he was young, his faith in Yahweh rivaled the rabbi’s in our synagogue. He was my ray of sunshine, and I forgot to wear the protection of indifference as he grew. I set my heart on always having him with me.

The funeral day dawned grey and depressing, describing the state of my soul in a way that almost felt like a comfort, if it were not for the pain and hopelessness that overwhelmed every sense. We followed behind the coffin, carried by Eli’s older brothers, stopping only when another procession coming out of the city interrupted our solemn pilgrimage to the family burial cave. I lifted disinterested eyes, raw and cloudy from the pressure of my tears, to see that Roman soldiers were leading men out to crucify them. It only served to worsen my mood. If life was not stolen away by disease or accidents in this unforgiving life, it was taken by other men, cruelly and without mercy.

I did not want to live in this world anymore. I wanted to go with little Eli, to fly away to the paradise God had promised his children, that young Eli had believed in with all that he was.

After the rabbi spoke over the coffin, family members and neighbors dispersed with quiet expressions of their sympathy. I stayed behind, unwilling to allow the men to take the coffin into the cave and roll the heavy stone in place. It was so final, my testimony that he was gone forever, and nothing would ever bring him back to me. Even my other children and my husband left in search of food while I waited by his coffin.

Waited for what? I did not know the answer, but my heart would not let go, so I sat among the quiet grove of olive trees, hardly even looking up later in the afternoon when the wind picked up and a storm blew past. It became as dark as night, and still I only allowed the distraction to be an expression of my sadness. I did not wonder why.

As I sat, morose and spent of my crying, there was an unexpected sound.

It was a knocking. A fist against wood. As I searched the premises, I quickly saw that the only thing made of wood was the coffin resting in front of the cave entrance. My throat tight, I went to it, falling to my knees and reaching for a stick to pry it open as quickly as I could.

Eli sat up, blinking his eyes as if he had just rose from a refreshing nap, and not the sleep of death. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes clear. He reached for me, and I pulled him into my lap without a second thought.

“Hello, Mama,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

In the years to come, I would remember the strange event every time I looked at my son, who grew into a strong man, inside and out. In the first days, I did not know what it meant, but as I heard about the other death in Jerusalem that day – the man they called Jesus of Nazareth – and how he had returned to life the third day after; when I heard that he was the Messiah, and he had come to defeat death so that we might not fear it and we might know that we could live again – live forever, I believed. All of us believed.

A life that is not spent in terror of the grave is a peaceful existence. But to know that our true life waits for us beyond our final breath, that is the true gift. This life is only but a moment, and then we are with him.

Praise to our conquering Messiah! He defeated the power of death and sin and set us free to live – and die, only to live once again – in his beautiful name.

When Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs, and after Jesus’ resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many people. – Matthew 27:50-53

My First Day in Heaven

It’s been a month since we parted ways so unexpectedly. A month in your time. I confess, it doesn’t really seem so long in my perspective. It doesn’t seem that short either. When you are outside of time looking in, it’s hard to keep track of it. We get busy talking or praising or watching the races of our brothers and sisters that are still running and we forget to appreciate what time means to you.

I do remember what happened a month ago today. When I was still with you I wasn’t sure I would remember my life, but I recall every detail with more startling accuracy than I could describe to you if I were given the chance to try. It seems far away and almost like a dream – my life there in that world – and I know now that where I am is where we were always meant to be. I hope you will find that a comfort – that I wouldn’t want to come back even if it were possible. I’m done. I’m free! I’m complete, and I’m with Him. You know I have no regrets.

I would like to say I had some twinge of foresight that told me I was making my final statements on facebook and twitter that night before. I always expected that there would be some sign, some clue that I was taking my last trip up those stairs and into my pajamas and into bed. That as I closed my eyes and gave a sigh, leaving behind the day and succumbing to rest that a weary body must have, I had just the smallest hint of excitement at what would happen.

I never woke up. Not in the sense you might worry about. I didn’t wake up to the terrible sense of dying, of pain and discomfort. When I opened my eyes, I felt strange, but not bad. I got up, feeling almost too light for my feet. I tried to ascertain what was different, and when I stepped in front of the mirror, I wondered if I was dreaming when I saw no reflection.

“Tom.”

That’s all he said, and though I had never heard the sound of his voice before, I knew in an instant who he was. It made sense that the room was impossibly bright in the moments just before dawn. It registered why it was warm and happy and familiar and peaceful.

I can’t say that he said my name just as you read it a moment ago. I recognized the word as my name, but the sound that came from his mouth was indescribable. I understand now why John couldn’t seem to come up with a good way to explain the things he saw in Revelation. It’s a higher plane. There’s nothing like it in the cursed world that still holds you captive. If I was going to tell you what the sound of his voice it like, I would take you back to the time we stood at the top of Niagra Falls, and ask you to close your eyes and listen to the sound of that roaring, rushing, falling water pouring over the rocks and crashing down below into the river. That is a very feeble, not quite accurate way to say how the voice of Jesus sounds in your ear. At the same time, it is a hushed, unhurried, affectionate whisper.

I wasn’t sure whether to fall to my knees, whether I still had knees, or if I should start dancing around the room like an elated five-year-old at Disneyland, which is what I felt like doing. I looked for the very first time into the face of the one that had existed before time, the one that took his immensity and forced it into the body of a man just so he could pay my pardon. The one that went all the way to death and back so he could have victory over mine, and this could be a happy moment of completion and not judgment.

“Lord,” I said, my voice breathless with awe. I wanted to say something, anything, to let him know how thankful I was to finally see him face to face. But seeing that knowing smile on his face and having him reach out his hand to me, I lost all the words I wanted to grab hold of.

“Well, done.” He embraced me, and I knew sheer, pure, unadulterated joy. The feeling that we spent our whole lives trying to grasp and never quite find. That “something missing” that we always feel in the back of our minds. It was suddenly and awesomely satisfied in the moment he put his arms around me.

I was still out of words, but he had some for me. “Do you want to stay here? I know it is earlier than you planned. I know you had more you wanted to accomplish. Your death will minister to those who need to hear the gospel. Because it will be sudden and long before the time they expected, it will be hard on the ones you love. But it will make a difference for the kingdom.”

In the back of my mind, I was somewhat aware of dim activity in the room. Medics? Were they trying to restart a heart? My heart went out to my family. We hadn’t planned to say goodbye so soon. There were things left unsaid, undone. It would be painful.

But when my eyes turned back to Jesus, and I saw the host of smiling angels standing around him, and my eyes began to focus on the people around him – loved ones I hadn’t seen for years, standing around him, smiling at me, young and strong and beautiful and holy… I knew I couldn’t. I knew I would have to let them go, because this was where I belonged. I knew they would understand in the little time it would take before they would join us. I hoped they would take comfort in the hope they believed in with every breath they took, just as I had. Just as I had taught them.

“I want to be with you!”

He nodded. We lingered, for a time. You may not have known it, but we sat with you in the living room while you faced the hardest day of your life. I wanted to wipe away your tears, to tell you somehow that we were there, that Jesus was right there with you and everything was going to be okay. That the best is yet to come.

I visited, with Christ, in the days that immediately followed. The precious moments that went by, with loved ones gathered near and tears shed and memories shared, with all my grandchildren running around the funeral home, while you sat under that tent in the cold at the cemetery, and in all the cherished moments of the memorial service while you honored Christ by remembering me and my story. I was there. I’m still there, though my attention is sometimes captured by Christ, by the people I am meeting and the first-hand stories I am enjoying. We are your cloud of witnesses. We’re waiting for you. You will understand in time, that it isn’t going to be much longer when you consider eternity. We’ll be together again soon. Our relationship will be different, but it will be better. We will have the perfected love, instead of the version we struggle for in that life. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I know it, because I have eternity’s crystal-clear perspective to speak from. All the things I ever told you about heaven, and quite a few more wonderful things than I could have imagined – they will be yours one day as well. And I will be waiting to greet you. After you’re done saying hello to Jesus.

Keep the faith, my precious family. I love you still. I won’t stop. More importantly, HE won’t. We’ll be waiting with open arms when reunion day comes.  Just hold on a little longer.

Photo taken by Tom Parsons

Click for more of his photography on Flickr!

A Big Splash

I guess that’s the goal of the serious writer. To make some sort of splash to get the attention of the lifeguards (readers, editors, agents) looking out over the crowded pool. Some “writers” will take any attention they can get, resorting to gimmicks or clichés, chasing after trends or getting themselves noticed by bad behavior. It rarely does anything but annoy people. The goal of the writer that has excellence on his mind will get up on the diving board and perform some amazing, beautiful dive to try to allow people to see his talent. Even then, the pool of writers in this time is so congested and loud that you can be at your most amazing and still get lost to the noise.

I’ve been looking through some of my dad’s articles and stories. It makes me feel close to him. I’m guilty that I didn’t always take the time to read them when he shared them on facebook or twitter. There is one I had never seen before. He used the analogy of swimming to compare his writing style with mine:

Swimming has never been very high on my list of things I enjoy doing. I am content to wade along the shore while others launch out into deeper waters. At my age, I am probably not going to change.

My three daughters all enjoy swimming. I remember once on a vacation in Colorado, they preferred diving into the motel swimming pool instead of enjoying a pleasant hike in the splendor of mountains and forests. Even one day when the high temperature was fifty-something!

My daughters are all grown now, with youngsters of their own that they and their husbands take on vacation trips. One daughter in particular does share something I do love to do with me. She is a writer. She has written countless short stories and articles and eight or nine novels. She has had a few things published, but nothing big-time yet. She is looking for her “big break.”

One of the things she is constantly doing is rewriting in order to satisfy the agent. This theme doesn’t work, the agent says, that dialog doesn’t sound natural, this character is not very well developed. I expect one of these days, something my daughter writes will click with the agent, and with an editor, and my daughter will have a successful book on the market.

Me? I approach this writing thing from a different perspective. I know that traditional publishing is still the primary way to reach a large audience and to bring an author to the attention of the market place. However, I have always been more independent in my efforts to gain an audience. I don’t write to please an agent or an editor. I write to please myself.

I am very happy when others choose to read what I have written, and to whisper sweet accolades in my ears, but I will write whether that happens or not. I have a long resume of works I have authored and self-published, on the web and in print. I have received some accolades for my work, which I greatly appreciate. But I have not made the New York Times best-selling list yet. Hey, I haven’t even made the Podunk City Times best-selling list yet.

But I keep writing anyway. At this point in time, my daughter has had less success than I, because I do have a small number of copies of books I self-published out there, where she as yet has none. I will be very happy when that changes for her.

In the ocean of published authors, I am content still to wade in the shallows along the shore, while my daughter continues to look for an opportunity to dive into the deeper waters. We will have to wait and see which one of us the Lord calls to make the bigger splash.

One sentence jumps out at me every time I read this. “I will be very happy when that changes for her.”

Not if. When.

My dad wasn’t one to give praise lavishly or where it was not warranted. He told the truth, even if we would have preferred gushy, proud father talk. If we had him as a teacher and we didn’t do well on a test or assignment, he wouldn’t give us a good grade, and he’d make sure we knew he knew we could do better. If we wanted to give up on something that he thought we should stick with, he would let us know that, even though he would support us and love us, he would be disappointed that we gave up. So knowing that my dad thinks I have a glimmer of hope in this hopeless race I’m relentlessly running toward that diving board, somehow that makes it worth the rejection and being ignored and overlooked. I’ll just keep trying, because dad would want me to if he were still here to tell me.

“Don’t give up,” he whispers through time and space from where he is to where I am. “Keep writing anyway. You’re doing it for both of us now. Let me see you do your best.”

So what if the whole pool is busy looking at something else? My dad’s watching me.