Precipice of Heaven

A precipice is defined as a “very steep rock face or cliff”.  We usually speak of a precipice as a dangerous place to be.  But yesterday I stood on a precipice and it wasn’t dangerous at all.  It was the precipice of heaven.

She was an important member of my parish family.  Sweet, warm, tender, hospitable, irresistible.  Always interested in others.  Always ready to pray.  When health issues beset her, she let me come and visit her.  We would sit together and talk gently about suffering.  About how it connects us in a special way with our Suffering Savior; in a way that somehow sanctifies the suffering.  In the hardest times, I would bring Communion to her home and we would pray; my hand on hers with her dear husband sitting close by.  When the bread and wine touched her tongue, Jesus arrived and He came into her body in a special way.   Treasured, precious moments.  We three in the cloud of His presence.

I stood on the precipice of heaven yesterday as her family gathered at her hospital bedside and committed her into the Lord’s care.  I led in the prayers of Last Rites.  Her husband placed his forehead against her and wept.  We sang Amazing Grace and chose to believe that “when we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, there’ll be no less days to sing God’s praise than when we first begun.”  I ached because both the pain and the beauty were so acute.  She would soon see Jesus face-to-face — how beautiful is that?  And those she loved would be left without her — how painful is that?

But for me who faces death with more than occasional frequency, I am left with the mystery of the precipice.  In these moments, heaven draws breathtakingly close.  As I walk alongside the one who is dying, closer and closer to the edge of the precipice, I find my spirit standing on tiptoes.   I can feel the essence of heaven pressing in.  I can almost glimpse its glory and amazement.  I can almost smell its sweet fragrance.  I can almost touch the density of its truth.  I can almost hear its accompaniment by angels with the saints gathered round to welcome the one who is soon coming in.

This precipice is most assuredly not a dangerous place to be.  This thing we call death which we fear or deny, is merely the place where we come to stand on tiptoes and wait to hear our Savior say, “Come, O blessed of my Father; inherit the kingdom prepared for you.”

This post is dedicated to the memory of Susan Grantham
and to her husband Cobb and children John, Jeanne and Hagen.

 

 

Value of One: The Sanctity of Life

Sanctity of Life is a big, important topic for me.  

• I am Pro-Life because God alone is the Giver of Life.
• I am Pro-Life because human beings are created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27), therefore life is sacred from conception to natural death.
• I am Pro-Life because Jesus Christ took on human nature, was conceived in a womb and born of a woman.
• I am Pro-Life because I am a Christ-Follower.
• I am Pro-Life because as a cancer sufferer, I faced death and have chosen life.
• I am Pro-Life because as a cancer care minister, I stand alongside those who choose life every day.
• I am Pro-Life because as a pastor, I am privileged to help people live well and I carry the responsibility to help people die well.

Sunday, January 24 was “Sanctity of Life Sunday” at my church.  We had a representative from Students for Life visit us and give her testimony at our morning worship services.  We held a diaper drive for both babies and adults to benefit the needy.  We hosted an afternoon Memorial Service for Children Lost to Early Death where 19 babies were lifted up to the Lord’s care — those lost to miscarriage, stillbirth, abortion, SIDS, illness or accident.

And I preached in three morning services on life from conception to natural death.  

To listen to a podcast of my sermon Value of One: The Sanctity of Life, go to http://www.stjamesnb.org/sermons-media/and click on the sermon by that title dated January 24.

To read a manuscript of the sermon, please email me at cyoung@stjamesnb.org and I will send you a copy of the text.

Blesings to you!
Rev. Cathie+

 

For more information on Life, go to Anglicans for Life the pro-life ministry of the Anglican Church of North America (ACNA), an organization I am honored to serve as a member of their national board of directors.  

 

 

 

A Day of Miracles

It began the night before.  She’d been taken to the Emergency Room by her daughter and granddaughter.  The old woman’s brain was broken by age and the mental disease that had plagued her all her life.  For unknown reasons, her medications had stopped working and deep depression had set in.  Depression had given way to paranoia and she’d been too afraid to eat or drink anything for days.  Her back was stooped.  Her body frail.  Her lips were cracked and bleeding.  She refused water and the daughter knew without fluids, she would soon die.  The old lady fought them but the daughter and granddaughter finally got her into the car and drove her to the local hospital.

It had been hard to find a vein in her shriveled arms.  Without fluids for days, her veins were small and hidden.  But finally, an IV began to drip needed fluid back into the old lady’s body.  Maybe that’s what triggered the moment.  No one really knows.  But instead of incoherent ramblings, her words became a stream and they made sense.

“I’m so sorry.  Please forgive me.  I love you all.  All I wanted to be was a good wife and mother.  And I’ve failed.  Please forgive me.  I love you all.”

The repentant flow continued for more than an hour.  Everyone was surprised, including the medical team.  Especially the daughter.  In all her years of accompanying her mother through the awful hallways of mental illness, this had never happened before.  The old lady named all her family members with acute recollection.  She spoke by name her children, grandchildren, her sisters and her dear husband.  “I love them all.  I am so sorry,” she kept saying.

The hospital assigned her a bed for the night and continued her fluids.  By then the granddaughter had gone home to her husband and baby.  It was just the daughter and the nurse listening to her.  “Should we get the chaplain?” the nurse asked.  “No,” the daughter said.  “Just let her talk.”  Finally, the old lady stopped talking and the daughter drove home to get some sleep.

By morning, the mental illness had claimed her mind again.  She was wandering the hospital hallways in silent confusion.   But when the daughter arrived, she was sitting in a chair in her room.  That when the miracle began again.  She spoke of her childhood and recounted experiences as a young adult that the daughter had not heard before.  Things the old lady was sad about and things she was ashamed of.  Things that had caught in her conscience and remained hidden for more than 70 years.  She was making her Final Confession.

The daughter listened, her breathing slow and quiet as she leaned against her mother.  This woman who had caused the daughter so much pain, so much distress for much of her life, was sharing her secrets, bearing her soul.  In this moment, the old lady became a sister-in-pain, a comrade along the hard journey of life who needed to know she was heard.  She needed to know she had been forgiven.  “We forgive you, Mama.  You are forgiven.  We love you.  Jesus loves you.” the daughter said quietly.

When the sons arrived, the miracle continued.  She didn’t recognize the eldest son which could have hurt him since he was her favorite.  Their relationship through the years was the closest by far, of all the siblings.   But the hurt of not being recognized was dimmed by her stream of conversation about how much she loved the elder son.  “I love all my children but he is the special one.  He is so close to me,” she said.

For the younger son, it was the old woman begging for his forgiveness that tenderized his heart.  When he called his elder sister who lives far away from the family he said, “Sis, you can’t believe what’s happening.  She’s asking for forgiveness.  Apologizing for everything.”  The elder sister felt sad to be so far from the miracle but the soft sound in her brother’s voice made up for all the sadness.  She’d long ago forgiven her mother.  And to hear forgiveness in her younger brother’s voice filled her heart with joy.

The miracle continued for hours and almost filled the day.  But some miracles don’t last forever.  This one didn’t.

By the time they brought her husband to see her, she’d slipped back into the dark forest of mental illness.  She didn’t have any special words for her beloved husband and mistakenly called the eldest son her husband.  By the next morning, she was thrashing about, tearing out her IV.  The family was back to living the hard life of loving a family member with severe mental illness.

But they had their day of miracles and that will be enough for them.

I know because I am the eldest daughter, the one who lives far from the family.  I listened on the phone as my mother asked me for my forgiveness.  And I heard each sibling recount the miracle as it was happening.  Our mother had awakened from her confused darkness and said to us in the light the things that children need to hear.  She told us that all she’d really wanted was to be was a good mother and that she knew she had failed.  She’d asked for our forgiveness.  And she told us she loved us.

Our miracle may be over but its effect will linger long after my mother goes home to be with Jesus.  Which we believe will be soon.