There is the fear of
losing the familiar and loved one, and yet the joy of knowing that for those
who have gone to be with the Lord, there is an incredible environment waiting
for them where Jesus Himself is and where loved ones who have preceded us wait
for us. Our comfort is to know that
those we love so very much are seeing our Lord’s face. Though they are out of our arms, they are
into His.
Dear Friends,
Paul knew what it was
to suffer the “loss of all things.”
Several hundred years after the Babylonian captivity, a new church in
Corinth was encountering grave difficulties.
Christians were being persecuted, hunted down like animals, and
killed. Some of the men, women, and children
would have been Paul’s own converts. Yet
Paul knew they were with Christ, which was “far better.”
Sitting by my dying
mother’s bedside, I realized she would soon be released into life—real life,
eternal life. As I sat there, I picked
up my New Testament and went to my internal “waiting room.” As I listened to my mother’s labored
breathing, I reread in John’s Gospel the story of Jesus standing outside the
tomb of Lazarus. He shouted,
“Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus came—bound up in the grave cloth,
his face muffled in a head swath. Jesus
told [those watching], “Unwrap him and let him go!” (John 11:43-44, TBL)
As I read these
words, I looked up. My mother’s face was
still. I was suddenly searingly aware
that her labored breathing had stopped.
I looked down at my Bible, huge tears of grief splashing onto its pages.
Through my tears I read again that great
shout of the Lord’s: “Lazarus, come out!”—and then I saw in my mind’s eye what
had just happened. I saw, in my
terrifying “now.” My mother had “come
out” as Jesus had called her name, and in my mind’s eye I saw that one she’d
given me birth, who had been bound hand and foot with the grave clothes of cancer. Jesus was telling those who stood around her
tomb—the angels themselves—to “unwrap her and let her go”!
“And she that was
dead came forth,” I murmured, my eye following the story in John 11. A great flood of joy began to immerse me in
its warm waves of praise. The nurse came
into the room. “She’s home. No more might, no more pain, no more tears,
no more dying!” I said simply. The nurse
cried. And so I sang her my song born
out of my grief and overwhelming loss. A
song of comfort and of joy. The words of
my song were: “Absent from the body, present with the Lord.”
The tomb can be a
place of both fear and comfort for the believer. There is the fear of losing the familiar and
loved one, and yet the joy of knowing that for those who have gone to be with
the Lord, there is an incredible environment waiting for them where Jesus Himself
is and where loved ones who have preceded us wait for us. Our comfort is to know that those we love so
very much are seeing our Lord’s face.
Though they are out of our arms, they are into His. The Christian has this song to sing!
Blessings,
Jill Briscoe
Executive Editor
Just Between Us Magazine
That is absolutely how I felt a year ago when my mom passed after suffering long and hard with Alzheimer's. People spoke about the sadness I must feel, but all I could say was, "My mom is in Heaven. Her mind is crystal clear and she is dancing for joy with Jesus! How can I be sad?" I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me. May our dear Lord continue to comfort you. Amen.
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