It's midnight-o-six at the end of such a week. I should be asleep, but now something inside is scratching to get out. Sixteen hours ago one of the kindest men I have ever known got to see God. And the day before, I played the violin for the last time for the man who perhaps appreciated it most, our irrepressible friend Steve.
"No man ever saw God and lived. And yet, I shall not live till I see God; and when I have seen him, I shall never die."
--John Donne
This I know. I can't begrudge my dear grandfather the sight of His Savior, Whom I could hope to nothing sweeter than to see, even tonight! But as I said here, nothing can quite prepare one to see a man's widow and five daughters shoveling dirt onto his coffin, or your father (who didn't always even get along with him) to surrender to an agony of unashamed weeping...nor to watch your brother carry out your grandfather wrapped like a mummy in a sheet. I closed his eyes with my own hands first, a final touch to his dear face which was so beloved to me. They were empty by then. Every time I thought I was done crying, I cried again.
Is it even grief? When you're soso happy that HE'S happy at last? That he can see, hear, taste, chew, walk, run? That his skin is clean, his ankles not swollen, and his mind clear again?
That he is now like Jesus?
"For when He appears we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is". Actually, that's not really sad.
Somehow it seemed like I recuperated too fast. Is it even OK to at first be nearly ill, so I can't walk up the stairs without breathing hard, like I might just faint at any moment, I was so happy-sad -- and by evening to be enjoying a light-hearted meal with the family, and a kiss from my beloved?
"I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven".
We can't stay grown-ups.
"No man ever saw God and lived. And yet, I shall not live till I see God; and when I have seen him, I shall never die."
--John Donne
This I know. I can't begrudge my dear grandfather the sight of His Savior, Whom I could hope to nothing sweeter than to see, even tonight! But as I said here, nothing can quite prepare one to see a man's widow and five daughters shoveling dirt onto his coffin, or your father (who didn't always even get along with him) to surrender to an agony of unashamed weeping...nor to watch your brother carry out your grandfather wrapped like a mummy in a sheet. I closed his eyes with my own hands first, a final touch to his dear face which was so beloved to me. They were empty by then. Every time I thought I was done crying, I cried again.
Is it even grief? When you're soso happy that HE'S happy at last? That he can see, hear, taste, chew, walk, run? That his skin is clean, his ankles not swollen, and his mind clear again?
That he is now like Jesus?
"For when He appears we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is". Actually, that's not really sad.
Somehow it seemed like I recuperated too fast. Is it even OK to at first be nearly ill, so I can't walk up the stairs without breathing hard, like I might just faint at any moment, I was so happy-sad -- and by evening to be enjoying a light-hearted meal with the family, and a kiss from my beloved?
"I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven".
We can't stay grown-ups.
