A Little Life That is Fleeting

My first encounter with death happened when I was ten years old. My sister, Danielle, had received a sea frog as a gift on her birthday. Christened “Junior,” this diminutive, slimy pet was ensconced on the top of our bookshelf soon after his arrival. There he paddled around his plastic aquarium with his little webbed feet to his heart’s content.
Only two inches in length, this squirrely pet soon wriggled his way into my heart. Being the recluse that I was, I spent many long hours each day propped up on my bed with a book. My bed happened to be on the top bunk, the bottom of which was occupied by Danielle, or Dani. From this perch I had an excellent view of our amphibian friend.
I would resurface form the world of sword-wielding mice and menacing dungeons that occupied the pages of my books, to find two beady little eyes staring at me. His legs, never still, flapped behind him as he nosed the plastic barrier that separated his watery world from mine. My ten-year-old heart felt somewhat sorry for him, always cold, always wet, and eternally bound to the confines of his aquarium.
I talked to him. If he could not experience my world, I would at least let him catch a glimpse of what my world looked like. And as I talked, my little reclusive heart began to open up. Out poured the stories I never told anyone, the excitement I found in the imaginary worlds I had created. And all the while Junior sat quietly blinking his beady black eyes back at me and endlessly treading water.
Upon receiving Junior, Dani was given specific instructions for how to feed him and change his water. We were all warned not to touch him overly much, for it would traumatize him and he could possibly die. Heedless of this warning, we removed the lid of his aquarium at least once a day to reach in and stroke his bumpy back. It felt weird, and he would squirm away when we did.
We thought nothing of it, for we did it out of idle curiosity. A few days later we noticed that he was eating less and less. Then one morning I hopped up into my bed and looked over at his aquarium. He was floating on his back, his smooth, white belly exposed. I knew then that he had died. I yanked the lid off of the aquarium and poked his lifeless body in disbelief. No, I thought, he can’t just die.
I poked him again. He remained limp. With a heavy heard I went to tell Dani and our Mom the sad news. We “buried” Junior that afternoon. A subdued group gathered around the toilet as mom flushed our little pet down. Later, in the stillness of our vacant bedroom, I shed a few tears for my little friend. For days afterwards I would mount my bed and look over at the place where my tiny companion once resided. A twinge of loss passed through my heart each time. Even with such a small loss I caught a glimpse of what death truly was like for those left behind. It is alien to the living and so terrifying. We do not understand it; we only understand that it is wrong. I felt the wrongness of death as a child. It would be several years before I understood the beauty that lay on the other side of death, the beauty of the Gospel.

We're all strangers here
So it's all right if you can't
Stop the tears you cry.
'Cause some day we'll touch 
The face of our God 
And the sorrow will disappear.
Until then, we're strangers here. 

Tenth Avenue North "Strangers"

Money is not Everything

Yesterday my boss gave all of us tickets for some lottery. Apparently the winner took home 400 million dollars. Immediately the chatter began as my coworkers speculated how much interest that would bring in, the new houses they could buy, the nice cars they would have at their disposal. For myself, I joined in only to say, "I really don't want all of that money."
Immediately my coworkers turned to me with questions: "Why not?" "Imagine what you could with all of that money - you could study in school forever!" "You could donate it, or could give it to your parents. Don't you want to see them established comfortably for the rest of their lives?"
As if, somehow, money fixes all of the problems, makes life easier, gives the greatest aid to people.

And I realized just how dependent our culture is on the dollar. We think it will take our pain away, eradicate our problems, solve social injustice. Why do you think the government signs so many checks?
We've become used to relying on money.

I don't think money fixes everything. I don't think money fixes anything. One could argue that it pays your bills and buys you food and clothing and shelter. I would say, yes, but only through God's provision first. God is the one who provides the means for your needs. You have money, but you have it because God has provided you with a job.

I don't think money fixes social injustices. We have money floating around all over the place today, but not one cent has truly fixed injustice. Because the root of social injustices is man's own heart, the dollar will never cure social injustices. It might help to alleviate them, but in the end it does very little to address the issue. If anything, money creates greater social injustice, because where money is man's greed follows close behind.
No, Jesus fixes social injustices when He changes the hearts of men.
I want to help people, but I don't want to help them by simply giving them wads of cash. I want to give them the Gospel, a hug, a listening ear, food when they have very little, and love when they have experienced none. I want to give them Jesus first. Cash comes second every time.
Sure, money would fix the schooling issue, but the whole point of why I'm paying for school and working full-time to do it is because it is something I want, and feel called, to do. I love scraping by, discovering how God provides for those needs, becoming creative with what I have, denying myself so that later I can better serve others. All of this money does not enable me to do - God does.

That is why I don't want to win the lottery. Not today, not ever. I like having little, because when I have little I see the wealth that God has given me. He has given me a family, good friends, a good job, a wonderful church, everything I need and then a little more. Most importantly, He has given me Christ. And that is the greatest wealth of all - a wealth that, in all honesty, money will never ever be able buy.

What is "easy"?

I sit and stare at the blank page in front of me. I could fill this page with words, ideas, emotions. I begin to type.
Hit the backspace button.
Begin to type again.
Hit the backspace once more.
It is an endless cycle. Words escape me in the face of what I am about to write.

A few weeks ago I began a course on English from my correspondence college. As a final project, they assigned us to write an essay on something that has greatly influenced our lives. When I first skimmed through this course, several months ago, I thought it a slightly cheesy assignment. I don't like writing about the deep things revolving around myself. No, I want to write about the deep things revolving around the universe, around the Bible, around God and His Word. I guess I've always thought myself too small in the face of all the beautiful, wonderful things around me, and the wonder of the Creator who made them.

I came crawling back to this English course a month after Ben died. Determined to establish some sort of routine after my life fell to pieces, I began the work with a zeal. And I came back to the final assignment.
Something that greatly influenced my life.
Death influences our lives. It pulls pieces out of our lives - big, colorful, wonderful pieces. We stumble around, trying to fill up the holes left. Somehow, we never quite succeed in filling them in. We continue to live with these gaping wounds in our lives. Eventually the ragged edges aren't quite so tender, the holes not quite so obvious.
Yes, death is so very influential.

But, though it seems the obvious choice, I am not going to write about Ben's death. Not because I am unable to, but because I have found something far, far more influential, something that has completely changed my life.
And it isn't Ben's death.
It is his life.
Ben's death ripped a hole in the fabric of my heart, but that is because his life was woven into that fabric. His death shattered my world, but that was because his life was an integral part of that world. His death dealt a blow to my faith, but that is because his life affirmed my faith in so many ways.
No, Ben's life was far more influential than his death.

Ben's life didn't end when the gun fired two months ago. His life continues, not merely through memories or through his family, but through the solid hope and faith that he had in Jesus Christ. Because of his faith in Christ, Ben lives on in glory. Our lives are changed as we face our loss. His life is changed as he stands before his Savior, perfected in glory.
And in this his life is by far more influential than his death.

In Retrospect

Death is not glamorous. It is the bruised and bloodied face on the concrete floor. It is the greasy, work-worn hands that suddenly cease their work. It is the moment frozen in time when everything is as it should be, but when nothing ever will be the same again.
They say it gets better with time. If they mean that your life becomes busy again, that you're distracted from the ragged tear that ended your previous existence, then they're giving you a cheap alternative to actual healing.
Because you lay down at night in the dark, and you feel the ache. You sit in your dingy car, and you wish for just one more wise-crack. You are hugged by so many people through the course of the week, but at the end of it you're longing for that one particular hug that no one else can give.
You realize how much you talked him up, and you find out about how he talked you up, and you wish he were here so you could do it just one more time without that awful reminder.

He is gone.

Those three words are enough to break down the most stoic personality, to rip apart the most organized life, to bring the most joyful heart to tears. You want him here because he is supposed to be here. Your family was built with him in the middle of it. Your life was built with him as a part of it. Your way of thinking and speaking is so easily constructed around the assumption that he is.

"And he was no more, for God took him."

His face wasn't the only one bloodied and bruised on that day. Death is not glamorous. It is the crown of thorns pressed into the skull. It is the bloody lashes of a whip. It is nails in the wrists and ankles. It is the cry of our King before He breathed His last.

"Father, into your hands I commit my Spirit."

Death is not beautiful. It is not natural. It is not easy, and we should not make it so. We should not say paltry things like, "it gets better", or "time heals all." Those are empty words, and they will not bring him back. Time is not going to fill in the Ben-shaped gaps in my life. Time can't replace his hugs, his laughter, his sarcasm, his love. Time can only distract me from seeing the gap and feeling the hurt. I need something more.

I need a Savior.

I won't see the triumph in Ben's death until I see the triumph in Jesus Christ's. I won't see the glory waiting for him on the other side until I see the glorified, resurrected Christ. I won't find comfort until I find the One who faced death alongside of Ben, so that Ben might, in his death, live.

A vibrant part of my life was taken when that gun went off on that wintery night. I have learned, as the long nights turned into weeks, and the long weeks turned into months, that I can live with him absent.
I have learned that to follow after my Savior means I must count these beautiful, precious people He has placed in my life as nothing.
Not that I do not love them, or that I do not invest time in them. Rather, that I lay them at the feet of an all-knowing, all-powerful Savior and say, "I love You more."
Just as I laid Ben down.

Death is not glamorous. It is the abrupt end to laughter, to love, to life. But with it comes a reminder of renewed laughter, of continued love, of greater life in death's wake.

We lost our brother, and we clung to the hope of heaven. We lost his love, and we turned to the love of Jesus. We lost his laughter, and our tears mingled with our Savior's. We lost his life, and we looked to the promise of the life to come.

The White Hare

I heard her in the valley,

I heard her in the dead of night.

The warning of a white hare

Her eyes burning bright. 

The night was dark, a thick fog rolling over the fields. On this damp evening a solitary figure made his way across the wet grass toward the beacon of warm light in the distance. The White Dragon, a pub of decent repute, was the favorite place of many a working man in that town. There one would find warm food, a blazing fire, and a fairly good pint. All of the news that went around came through that pub, as did all of the gossip.
For the man walking across the fields, the light was a welcome sight and he quickened his pace. He could hear faintly the noisy laughter and singing that billowed from the open windows and doors. As he drew near, he spotted something making its way across the path. It was a hare, pure white in color and beautiful to behold.

 

Careful you don`t catch her

Or give her right of way.

For she will look upon you,

Steal your soul away

Never had he seen one so pure in color. Thinking to bring its fur home as a nice present for his ailing mother, the lad followed the creature. It trotted down the road past the inn. Forgetting for the moment ale and warmth, the man turned aside and followed after. The fog curled across the road, making it difficult for him to make out the creature. He continued doggedly onward, stooping and quickening his pace to keep within sight of the hair. 

For the white hare is calling,

Dancing in the night.

She'll be out `til the morning light.

He realized soon that they had left the road and were crossing the open fields once more. Still he followed after the hare, for he could not give up such a prize so easily. He comforted himself by reminding himself of the warmth and praise with which he would be received upon bringing such a beautiful fur home.

Out upon the heather

A shadow came onto me.

Her hair was hanging over,

Her face I could not see.

She ran behind the rocks,

I heard the hounds cry,

The image of a woman

With her head held up high.

The hare suddenly turned and dodged behind a rock. The man pursued it around the rock, only to discover that the hare was there no longer. In its place stood a young woman, her back turned to him. He stopped, momentarily confused. 

For the white hare is calling,

Dancing in the night.

She'll be out `til the morning

With eyes burning bright.

The white hare is calling you.

She turned, her bright eyes piercing his very soul. And he felt his soul melt away, disappear, as he met her gaze. 

 

If you go hunting,

Calling out your prey,

If you see a fair maid,

With her hair ash and grey,

Careful you don`t catch her,

Give her right of way,

For she will look upon you,

Steal your soul away.

Lyrics by Seth Lakeman

"You've Got More People To Talk To"

It is on snowy days like yesterday and today that I miss Ben the most. Yesterday afternoon I laid down for a small nap (cold weather makes bed and blanket very appealing). I do not know how long I lay there, but I began to dream. It was one of those dreams in which you are still aware of reality. You can still feel the bed and pillow beneath you, but still you are in dream state. My mind wandered the corridors between waking and sleeping with ease. And then I saw him. We were suddenly outside. Twisted, leafless trees surrounded us and the snow that fell that morning blanketed the ground. I looked at him. He was laughing. I felt safe and happy, and for anything I wanted to stay there in that unknown place with him. I heard his voice - I do not remember what he said, but it made me laugh. Then he had to go. He turned and followed a snow-covered path away from me. I wanted to follow after him because I missed his laugh. I wanted him to give me a hug, so he couldn't leave yet. I began to follow him and he turned around:
"No Ruth, you can't come yet. You've got more people to talk to."
I couldn't go with him. He had talked to everyone he needed to. He had had all of the conversations he needed to have. I hadn't yet, so I had to wait. I didn't want to wait. I wanted to go with him because he was so happy, and I was so happy with him in that place.
I woke up instead and felt the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. But I still have people I need to talk to.

Tearing and Binding

Why is it so much easier for us to imagine joy than loss? We conjure up images in our minds of something wonderful or exciting that will happen, how it will unfold, and what we will feel when this wonderful thing happens. When we try to imagine losing someone, losing a limb, losing ability, we cannot fathom how it will unfold or how we will feel. We try, but always our imaginations cannot quite comprehend what might happen.
Is it because our natures are inherently joyful, that God created us to feel and experience and love joy? Is it because loss is a perversion of the created order? We were not meant to feel the loss of a person, or a limb, or our abilities. We can fall headfirst into joy because it is a part of our nature, but we cannot with loss because loss is a tearing apart of what is good and right.

The Beautiful Things

Where do beautiful things go?
The daisy droops, to the ground falls
The lilies begin to grow
When the ground thaws
But the wintery wind blows
And their life ends.

Where do these beautiful things hide
When from our sight they go
When the fragile beauty has died
Where does it rest?

We see beautiful people lay down
And never return to life.
Their bodies are put in the ground
And we see them no more.
Where do they rest their head now?
Where do their souls hide
When these beautiful people have died?

Where do the beautiful thoughts fall
When they have come to an end?
When they have penetrated the minds of all,
When we their voices an ear have lent
And to the deaf they call?

The flower hides in the ground and after
To bud anew comes forth.
We see with great joy and laughter
As their delicate heads crown the earth
And beauty fills the earth once more.

The soul resides in the safe arms of the Maker
Until he is raised once more.
 And we realize quite long after
That death is but the opening of a door
To all that is most precious, beautiful and sweet
When we see the face of our Lord.

The idea makes its way from our heads and settles
Close in our affectionate hearts.
A good idea the mind gnaws, the heart nettles
Until we own the idea on our part
As not an idea but a belief.

These places are where the beautiful things lie
When from our sight they go.
The beauty does not truly die
When they are finally brought to rest.

Flowers

Once there lived a girl. This particular girl had a name, but no one seemed to know what it was. When she was small her father left her to go to a far country. He would, he promised, come for her when it was the right time. He left her to care for his vast flower garden. In this particular garden bloomed a variety of flowers. There were daisies, lilies, roses, tulips, and orchids of every color. The girl’s favorites were the orchids, but she cared for and loved all of them. When her father left her in charge he told her that at certain times he would need flowers sent to him. On such an occasion, she must let them go without remorse or fear. When she came to him, he promised, the flowers he took would be there with them. 

He left on his journey, but the girl took great heart and continued to care for the flowers. She loved each of them, for each had a name and each thrived when she spoke their name. There was a particular flamboyant tiger lily. He grew in great abundance, and filled the girl and the flowers about him with great joy. His leaves were thick and green, his flowers brilliant. The girl loved to sit and watch him grow and bloom. She would sit under the stretching shade of his leaves and gaze into his fiery blossoms and take heart. 

One day an order came from her father requesting the presence of this tiger lily. With a heavy heart the girl watched as her beautiful, fiery friend was taken from her. She did not protest, she did not try to stop her father, but she silently ached with loss as she looked at the bare earth where her friend once blossomed so beautifully. She longed for the shade again, for his shining flowers that filled her with such joy and laughter. 

The girl waits for her father still. She waits, as he calls his flowers home, for him to call her too. One day, she knows, he will call her, and when he does she will go to him again. There will be much joy one that day as she reunites with her father and with her flowers that she loved so much. Until that day, she will wait patiently for him to bring her home.

Reflections

"When will my reflection show who I am inside?" 
My sister, Dani, and I recently watched Mulan. There are Disney movies, and then there are Disney movies. This particular movie has a very interesting message, for it is all about a girl who is willing to do anything to save her family and find out who she really is as a person. She spends most of the time messing things up and causing a general mess. However, in the end, she realizes that she truly is a wonderful person doing exactly what she is doing, messes included. It is a very cute, fun movie.



Partway through the movie, in a musical montage, she asks, "when will my reflection show who I am inside?" She questions her identity as a daughter, as a girl, as fulfilling her place in society. I couldn't help but take this question and mull it over myself and wonder if I could ask the same question.
First, I reasoned, who we are inside is not all that amazing. In fact, were I to show who I really was inside, those around me would be horrified. Do I really want my reflection to show who I am inside? No, I really don't, because who I am inside is very dark.
How can this girl, seeing all of the mistakes she commits, still wish for the world to see what is inside of her? I would not want this to happen. Ever.
But if what is inside of me not my own, then would I want it to come out?
Here lies the deeper meaning, for my reflection shows who I am right now, outside. But if what is truly inside of me reveals itself, the work of Christ in my heart would be laid bare.

Do I really cringe at the thought?

No, I fear that the work would not be what comes out. I fear that my work would come out, and that is not a good work. But if the work that is Christ's in me is truly there, it will eclipse my own pathetic, outward works. And thus I sing, "when will my reflection show who I am inside?" as I wait for the work of Him in me to be fully revealed.