My last post, 'Introspection,' spawned a chain-reaction array of concerned responses. People began to wonder, unspoken concerns, mind you, about whether I could be depressed. Down in the dumps. In a funk. Blue. An acquaintance even sent an unsolicited Facebook link about hope. I really didn't pay it much thought until this weekend.
Our small-group meeting ran a little long this week, and I withheld an earnest prayer request, later sharing it with only a select few: "I've been rather fatalistic recently. I think it scares people. I'm not sure what exactly to ask for in the way of prayers about this."
My friend reminded me of Paul's perspective on this very topic in Philippians 1:23-24: I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body.
While I tucked that thought away, I wondered if I was truly fulfilling my earthly purpose in the meantime. Was I really taking advantage of opportunity? Sure, I'd become bold about my faith in the workplace, and I'd seen more than one close friend/coworker come to Christ. But honestly, I must have work yet to do, or I'd have already departed.
It became clearer to me this morning, as I eagerly arose to join a corral of unknown fellow runners for a group run in the cold dawn hours. I had reluctantly RSVP-ed 'yes', dreading the thought of running with others (trying to talk and run simultaneously), and giving up my personal solace. I made small talk with several members of the group, but after the 3-mile mark, somehow synced into a rhythm with another young mom. We quickly dissected down through superficial layers of conversation and landed on a meaty discussion about the children we'd lost. She was a mother of three, but her middle child lived only a few hours due to a fatal heart condition. Having suffered a stillbirth four years ago, I could relate. We connected instantly in a way I still cannot with many of my closest friends. It is reminiscent of a scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix: the quirky Luna Lovegood to Harry, speaking of the Thestrals (mythical creatures who can only be seen by those who've seen death), "You're not going mad. I can see them, too. You are just as sane as I am." (Luna remains one of the more complex, and one of my favorite, characters in the HP series. Harry and Luna share a certain pain, and it ties them together in a strange and sorrowful, yet wonderful way.)
My runner-friend and I each shared some momentary sorrow, recounting memories that we likely palpate in our minds on a daily basis. Interestingly, the conversation turned to Heaven, and the longing to be there. I don't know many people who honestly long to depart this world. In fact, the template for most prayer requests is steeped in preservation of this life as we know it: "help me be comfortable, heal me, keep me here, grant me..." Even intercessory prayer follows this blueprint: "help so-and-so be comfortable, prosperous, healthy, etc, etc." One such request was lifted at our small group last week, asking for healing and thanking God for His divine superintendence: saving a life from a seemingly inescapable accident. Perhaps I sound callous, but this victim is a known Christian who has served well. I should think that maybe it would have been better to go. I guess I should not speak for the saved one.
To make a long story short, this young mother-runner I providentially met this morning shares my perspective of Heaven and Earth. We've loosened our grip on this world. To depart tomorrow would be acceptable to either of us. But for now, we will run and give what we have to offer.
A sweet song has spoken to me over the past many months. It says:
Heaven is the face of a little girl with dark brown eyes that disappear when she smiles.
Heaven is the place where she calls my name.
God, I know, it’s all of this and so much more,
But God, You know, that this is what I’m aching for.
God, you know, I just can’t see beyond the door.
Herein lies my fatalism.
I hope for something better; something perfect, something eternal.
This hope is so very well-described in lyrics to yet another song, quickly becoming a favorite:
What a beautiful sight for the worn and weary eye
The glimmering light in the corner of a broken sky
Hope, sweet hope, like a star burning bright
When the sun goes down and the fears begin to fly
Hold on tight this city’s about to break;
In the middle of the night lying there wide awake.
Hope sweet hope how much more can she take?
Being our strength when our hearts are out of faith--
Hope's not giving up.
What is my hope? Six little words. My soul longs for, nay, craves the words of my Savior: "Well done good and faithful servant." More than just a divine pat on the behind following a great play, it is the ultimate endorsement and sign of approval from the source of everything that is good and right and just and beautiful. Even better than the thumbs up your Dad shoots at you from the stands as you cross the stage and receive your diploma. Even more than a best friend acknowledging that you were right and your adversary was wrong. Pearly gates? Pain relief? Reunion with lost loved ones? They all pale in comparison with the hope of those six simple words from the Master to his servant. Now that's something to hope for.
But I am realizing that, while I await my departure, I shall take opportunity to share that hope. Meanwhile, I will continue to pray that Thy kingdom come.
