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
Mandy, this reflection is reverent and heartfelt. My eyes filled with tears as I read. Yes, Jesus is our hope and we will All join your Dad .. before we know it! Hold on dear ones.
ReplyDeleteLove to the Family,
Susie Ream
Thank you so much! Can't wait for that day to come! :)
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