Death and I have become friends through the years. Not friends in the sense that we enjoy spending time together. Oh, sure, she flirts with me from time to time on a personal level. But in everyday life, we keep things professional and just work together.
I have never liked her in our personal dealings. In fact, some days I cannot stand her at all. Her timing is terrible. She is as arrogant as a gambling hustler on a golf course, and she always wants us to think that she has the upper hand. She thinks she gets the last word.
We let her think that. We have learned better than to try to outtalk a narcissist.
But knowing her as personally as I do has given me special insight into her weaknesses, her little insecurities.
We met when I was twelve. I will refrain from going into all the details, but it was a rude meeting. I thought she was being unfair, and to be sure, I was right. She rarely plays by the rules. She cheats. Does not play fair.
But it was not long before I started doing this whole preacher thing and found myself standing at a pulpit in front of a casket when I was 22 years old. An old, precious Christian woman named Hattie died not long before I moved to a little West Texas cotton farming town. I had never preached a funeral before, and thanks be to God for the grace of an easy first funeral for a wet-behind-the-ears mouthpiece. I had no idea what I was doing. In fact, over the course of 17 years of theological education, in that ridiculously long span of training, I received one hour on how to preach weddings and funerals. One measly hour.
So I stood there at that giant pulpit and talked about Hattie, her faith, her gentle spirit, and how she loved God and God loved her. We all said "Amen" and then made our way down the wood-paneled hallway that began just to the right and front of the auditorium. We made our way to the open room next to the kitchen where women with white hair finished stirring corn and green beans, turning the knobs on the Crock-Pots into the "Off" position, carrying all the food out to the sturdy tables set over red-gingham tablecloths.
Hattie's brother, a crusty farmer with a sweet disposition stood there with me in the hallway at the end of the line for the food. He had his sister's smile. He clutched the right lapel of his corduroy jacket, reached for the inside pocket, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, palmed it into my hand as he shook it, and said, "You did a good job, preacher boy."
Decades of ministry have placed me in similar settings. Holy moments. Bedsides of men who knew they were nearing death and wanted to talk about it. Phone calls asking if I might drop by the house. Prayers. Tears. Blessings of family.
Stories about that time when he was not paying attention and rode the riding lawnmower right into the pool in the backyard. Remember that? We never let him live that one down for the rest of his life.
Remember when she forgot to put tuna in the tuna casserole and we thought it was the blandest thing we ever ate?
Yeah, he got bit on the thumb by a monkey.
She told us just days before she died that she went skydiving, but never had the nerve to tell us because she was afraid we would all be mad.
Do you remember that time when he was responsible for the Palm Sunday worship service?
Death? Oh, you still have some sting. But you have no victory.
My role so often at times like these is to say things out loud about God; meanwhile Death tries to interrupt, to talk over us, to shout louder. She is persistent. I will give her that.
But I also believe that God is unfolding a new creation that is leading us all together down a road to something better, something more complete.
Not only is this new creation a place of no more sorrow, no more pain, and no more tears, but it is a place where feckless Death will no longer be welcome, no longer have a place, a voice.
My guess is that she will be quickly forgotten.
We will then walk a little farther down the road and see things we do not today have the mind to comprehend. We cannot see these things just yet. We cannot fathom them. But I believe in faith that they will be more than we can ask or imagine.
Some people try their best to believe it will be nothing. Dead and gone. I cannot help believing that it will be more than good. Somehow in the presence of God.
And my life today is better for it.
We will laugh. We will no longer see through a glass darkly.
Maybe everything will make sense; maybe it won't.
Maybe we will understand; maybe we won't.
Maybe we will watch Death shrink into a speck in the corner of the rearview mirror until she fades completely. Yes, that one I believe.
And she will not be missed.
