passing it on . . .

On Mondays, I've been driving up the mountain to spend a few hours with a friend who is dying. His wife has to work and feels better is there's someone in the house with K. So I hang out for a bit, make a pot of soup and chat when he feels like talking. I head back down the mountain shortly before his hospice worker is scheduled to arrive.

My friend--and his family--have thanked me profusely for this small service. But what they don't know is that I'm truly the one who is blessed. The opportunity to serve this family in this way will soon be lost and I consider it a privilege to be part of their journey.

As I puttered about in the kitchen on Monday, trying not to make too much noise and wake K. from his nap, I thought about the season when Greg and I were on the receiving end of such help.

And I remembered the remorseful words from a woman who declined the opportunity to serve us . . .

After our accident in 1984, Greg and I were in wheelchairs and hospital beds (set up in our bedroom) for four months. He'd sustained two broken legs and a fractured ankle, while I had fractured my left femur, broken my right lower leg and pretty much detached my knee cap. Greg's family took turns staying with us for the first month, but our church family stepped up took on our full care when his folks finally left.

Because of the extent of our injuries--and the fact that our two surviving children were only 3 and 6 months at the time--we needed 24 hour care for several months. I don't know who was in charge of getting all the "shifts" filled, but it must have been quite an ordeal. (Sitting with my friend on the mountain is a walk in the park compared to caring for two emotionally and physically broken adults, two small children, a cat and a very large dog).

I can't remember the multitude of ways we were blessed during that time, but I am forever grateful. Greg and I saw the Body of Christ at its very best as His love was poured out on us through our church family. Someone converted the youth van into a handicap-accessible vehicle so we could be more easily transported to our doctor's appointments around town. Wheelchair ramps were built at our front door and food mysteriously appeared in our fridge and pantry on a daily basis. People came and cleaned our house, paid our bills and walked our dog. One elderly woman drove us to the polls one fall day so we could vote.

Not everyone responded to the opportunity to minister to our family during that chaotic time. I know this because I ran into a very sad woman at a Ladies' Tea I spoke at several years after our accident. She approached me after I spoke with tears in her eyes and asked me to forgive her.

"For what?" I asked, truly puzzled. I barely knew the woman and could not imagine how she might have offended me.

"For not serving your family when I had the chance," she replied, wiping away tears. She then explained how she'd been approached to take the "night shift" with us early on in our convalesence. Several factors figured into her refusal--her busy schedule, her unease with grief and her own selfishness.

Years later, however, the Lord convicted her that she'd missed a rare opportunity to serve--and to be greatly blessed. By that time, we'd moved out of the area, but this woman had been trying to track us down ever since . . . so she could ask for our forgiveness!

I hadn't known any of this, of course, and had no problem forgiving her. But I've never forgotten how grieved she was over the lost opportunity to serve. I hope she's been able to forgive herself.

All this to say that I am the one who benefits most from my Monday visits on the mountain. I am richly blessed in the present and will have no regrets when my friend finally sheds his eartly tent.

And I'm grateful for this opportunity to pass on some of the comfort I've received along the way:

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of al comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have recieved from God." 2 Cor. 1:2-4

better worlds to come

It was 23 years ago, about a year-and-a-half after our accident, that I got my first real glimpse of heaven . . .

It was a dreary winter day, typical for Sacramento, fog-shrouded and bone-aching cold. I'd snuggled down into my favorite rocking chair to nurse Candyce and read my Bible during the few moments of quiet while the older girls napped.

My Bible was still opened to 2 Corinthians, where I'd left off in my reading. I tried to dive into chapter four, but my heart just wasn't in it that day. I'd been struggling with depression, probably a mixture of post-partum depression and plain old grief, and I ached for some comfort that even the squirming little bundle in my arms could not provide.

I missed Jonah desperately . . . I missed the smell of his soft, tanned skin when he'd run in from the backyard on a summer afternoon. I missed his sweet lilting voice (Jonah always spoke in third person: "Jonah want a drink!") and his gorgeous blue eyes that always seemed to look far beyond me--kind of like he knew this world was not his real home.

(In fact, I wrote a song for him when he was still very young, that was strangely prophetic about his short time on earth. Part of the chorus went:

"The world can be a cruel place, when you hear a diff'rent drum--

But Jonah, there are better worlds to come.")

The year-and-a-half since our accident had brought a lot of healing--and a new baby--into our lives, but today I just ached. Body, soul and spirit. And while I didn't really feel motivated to dig into the Word that day, I knew that it was the only true source of comfort I'd find.

My brain felt foggy as I slogged through the first part of the chapter. When I got to verse 18, however, the fog lifted and the light of truth broke in. As the words penetrated my mind and settled into my heart, the Lord gave me a brief foretaste of heaven.:

" . . . we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporary; but the things which are not seen are eternal. "

I didn't actually see heaven, like the folks who've died and are heading toward the light, but God opened the eyes of my heart. As if the veil that separates heaven and earth had been temporarily rent, I could "see" Jonah, the light of eternity glistening on his golden hair as he grinned at me, and I knew that he was more real--more alive--than the baby I held in my arms! In that moment, the Father assured me that even though I'd never hold Jonah in my arms again on this planet, I would enjoy him forever in heaven.

And that changed everything for me . . .

The things that are not seen are eternal! This world is just a shadow of what's to come--Heaven is our real home, and such a glorious homecoming awaits! To this day, I can't sing songs about heaven without weeping. Not from sadness or heartache (although that used to be the case), but from good, old-fashioned homesickness.

Not sure what prompted me to write about this subject, but the promise of better worlds to come comforts me as much today as it did then.

And I pray it will comfort you.

For now, we see through a glass dimly, but then, we shall see Him face to face . . .