A man I love side-stepped death. No one expected him to come through, but he did. I would say it was by the grace of God. But he wouldn’t. He would say, “Guess my time wasn’t up.” For him, living and dying are two sides of a card. When the Great Hand flips it, you go.
This doesn’t worry him. In fact, he laughs to tell me that a guy with a clerical collar came to see him before his heart procedure. He waved the guy away. “Don’t worry; I’ve been saved,” he told him. His father was a Lutheran Pastor, after all. Church was more home than his house for all of his growing up years. He knows Jesus.
But here in his kitchen the question ‘where is God now?’ hangs in the air. Worth another look now that there’s still some living to do, and seeing that he’s been issued a reprieve. “Oh, God doesn’t bother with small stuff like me,” he says, and he means what he says. It’s not false humility; self pity is not his style. Life is hard. You get through it. God’s got bigger things to do.
The guy has got reason to believe this. He has lost a spouse to a suicide that God didn’t stop. He’s lost a livelihood that God didn’t rescue. He’s been betrayed by those he’s trusted and lost friends to diseases they didn’t deserve. A year ago he lost his son, his only son, to a sudden, preventable death. He’s not mad at God; he just figures these are small things in an unfathomably large universe. He doesn’t deserve any special favors. He’s not important enough to be important to God.
And that’s it. End of conversation.
I love this man. But I wish he knew that God loved him, not just that God would save him. That God gazes at him through the window, peers through the latticework, and calls as Lover to Beloved, “See! The winter is past; the rains are gone. The season of singing has come.” Come, hear the cooing of the doves, see the fig tree’s new fruit, smell its fragrance.
But to hear, see and smell, we have to come outside. Outside of our houses, our jobs, our families, our churches, even beyond our own lives. We have to come close enough to touch and to taste. And listen.
Can it be so? That the God of the universe would bother with one so small? Surely the call is for someone else. Someone more loveable, more in need, more desperate, more deserving. I’ll wait my turn, says this man whom I love, for my flip of the card. Then I’ll know.
But Dad, it’s you He is calling to. You’re the one He calls ‘my beautiful one’ and so am I. That small voice to be heard is the One who loves us, who calls us His beloved, and bids us arise and come.
Who would know better how it feels to lose an only Son?
Today: Spend a few moments at a window looking out. Imagine the sounds and smells, tastes and touches outside. Pray for someone who doesn’t yet know they are loved by the God who made all of this for them.
This writing was recently published in the Lenten Devotional booklet created and distributed by the Church of the Good Shepherd, UMC. It is in response to this scripture: (Song of Songs 2: 8-13) and was published under the title: No, really, I love you. Perhaps you know and love someone, too, who you hope might know the love of a personal, forgiving and loving and redeeming presence in their lives. In the Spirit of this hope, I share what God has offered me.