The Eternal Part

Tonight, I blew off my grad school paper and went to a prayer vigil for Ben Towne. I got there a minute or two late, and walked into a hushed, packed sanctuary. There must have been around 1,000 people there-- for this little boy. For this family.

They had dimmed the lights, and lit the front with candles. We sang quiet worship songs, and a pastor read Psalms intermittently. He focused his brief talk on Psalm 88-- the darkest Psalm. This is the Psalm with no easy answer at the end-- no provisional resolution. It expresses unfathomable sorrow, and despair, and pain. I imagine the Townes are feeling something close to unfathomable sorrow, and despair, and pain. I imagine that they are finding no easy answers. Nor were any of us.

The worship was contemplative, and it was easy to pray and think throughout. At one point, I looked around the packed sanctuary-- at all these people, at all these believers-- at all these souls who were hoping for a miracle from their Lord, but ready to trust Him even if it didn't come-- and I wondered. I pictured Ben's little soul. I pictured it already stretched between this world and another. He has begun to comfort his mother, telling her not to worry, that he loves her. I wonder if he is already more Heaven than earth.

I pictured the souls in that sanctuary-- these combining, pleading souls-- I pictured them floating like wisps above us all and then pictured them gathering comfort and love, and rushing off to the Townes to deliver them. I pictured the eternal parts of us-- the parts that existed long before, that will exist long after, that exist even now, because isn't that what eternity means?-- and I pictured those reflective souls crowding into the Townes' home. There were so many of us in that sanctuary, we would be crowded up against the walls of the Townes'. We would be spilling out the windows, blooming out of the chimney, filling every corner, infusing from wall to wall the Towne home with comfort. With love. With hope for a miracle. With weeping empathy. I tried to picture Carin walking through all those comforting souls, and being warmed by them. Like a whiff of cinnamon. I pictured Jeff being wrapped up in them, like a wash of sunbeam. I pictured little Ben being cradled like a dear lullaby.

And I pictured the eternal parts of us that must already know heaven, that must already know the ends of our own stories, and I pictured Jeff's and Carin's souls at the front of the pack, watching over their grief-stricken selves below. I imagined them remembering the pain of this moment. I thought of them looking at their son below, and preparing themselves to catch him.

Jesus wept, you know. He lost a dear friend, and He wept. But what always surprises me about that story is that He didn't weep when He found out that Lazarus had died: He wept when he saw everyone else in such devastating grief. It says, "When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled... Jesus wept." I wonder if Jesus had only really experienced the "catching" part before-- this part on the Heaven side, the part that must be more welcome than goodbye. Before He was human, he must have always experienced more of the celebration when a soul passes into Heaven than the grief. But as a human: He saw it. He must have realized the incredible pain that exists on the earth side-- on the temporal side. On the side that can't see ahead, that doesn't have a glimpse of the eternal. He realized the immense pain that a family could go through during a death... And it made Him weep.

I hope, even as Jeff and Carin prepare themselves to say goodbye, that they feel some sense of comfort from all those praying souls. I hope that Ben's pain is eased; that as the scales begin to tip towards Heaven, he is less imprisoned by earthly pain. I hope the eternal parts of this family remain intertwined, and that some part of Jeff and Carin are able to hold Ben on both sides of the curtain. And I pray that, even as they weep, and even as we weep with them: there is comfort in the knowledge that He did too.

Sometimes there are no easy answers. Sometimes eternity just feels too far away-- even if it is all around us.

Which is Also Equal to Four SQUARED when added...

Two blogs in one day. Because I'm prolific like that. Because blogs should be in mostly written form after all. Because work is slow, as usual.

This should be a tremendously lucky day because 4 is my favorite number and there are two of them in today's date, and FOUR of them if you divide the 8 in "2008" by two, which I do, which makes FOUR lucky fours, which is even luckier since there are four of them.

So far: I've woken up late. Had a fore-head-banging-desk day at work. Ate a yucky lunch from the work cafeteria because Gramps is out of town. Got a headache. And grumped about the rain.

I loved being four. It should be a lucky number. It MUST be a lucky number. I distinctly remember lying on my stomach as a four-year-old, looking at a Disney Fairy Tale book and listening to the story via audio tape, which chimed when I was supposed to turn the page. I remember looking at the book, and looking at the tape recorder, and hearing the satisfying chime, and considering my glorious young self, and thinking, "It is GOOD to be four." Every time I meet a four-year-old now, I tell them, "That's my favorite age! I LOVED being four." They usually return a look that's quizzical; dubious. "You don't know the painful throes of my adolescence, lady." Oh, but I did love being four. The toe-headed thrill of it.

The times now when I feel most like me, when I feel like the living, not just the breathing: are semi-four-year-old moments. They consist of bubble-blowing, and stair rail sliding, and skipping when I walk, and tucking flowers behind my ears. They are when I notice berries on bushes, and mushrooms on trees, and when I imagine pickles having thoughts, and wear twirly skirts.

I am 24 now, which is very adult. 4 times 6. 8 times 3. 12 times 2. I am divisible by six numbers now, and it takes a big interger to accomplish that feat. Sooo many smaller quavering intergers beneath me now.

I almost missed the whole thing though. I was born seven minutes after Leap Year, Feb. 29th, which only comes once every 4 years. The doctor was late. The doctor was LATE, and they told my mom, "Don't push! Don't push!" So she held me in, "ARRGHHHH!!" and I slipped out seven minutes after the stroke of midnight. On good ol' March 1st. A date which comes every year, just like clock-work.

If I had been born 8 (4 divided by 2) minutes earlier, I would just have had my 6th birthday.

I should have been born on Leap Year. I sort of ACT sometimes, like I am 6. That would have been a wonderfully, fittingly quirky part to me. I feel.

But 6 is still two years older than the luckiest year of all.

You can't stop the time, see. Even when moving along in 4-year-chunks, it still rolls forward, like a heavy millstone down a hill, gathering momentum. It still drags me foward, into silly grown-up jobs, into new awkward transitions, into fear of wrinkles and facial sagging. Older people get serious. I like the not-serious moments.

I think: if we get to choose an age to be in heaven: I would like to be four. So long as I got to keep the wisdom of 77. I would love to have the eternal heart of a 4-year-old. I would run fast down clouds and then skid and slide in my heavenly socks.

The other night I was at a restaurant with my friend Alexis, and I asked her, "If you could be stuck on a desert island with any of the people at these tables, which table of people would you chose?" (Thank you Ross.)

It only took her a second to answer: "The one with guy and the kid," she said.

"Really?" I asked, in a shamefully adult moment. "Why? A kid couldn't help with survival things as much. I would have thought you would look for the person with the strongest forearms or something. Pick the one that looked like he carried around a leatherman. Or something."

"A kid would be so good to have around!" she said. "Kids have a way of bringing humor to situtions, when you can't see it. They're so goofy. And they see things in different ways. It would be cool to have that kind of mentality around, in those situations." I realized she was right. In a completely different way, having a kid on a desert island would be incredibly practical, and survivally helpful. Alexis, this is reason #16 why we are friends. 4 times 4. 4 squared. It's a good number for that reason.

It's unfortunate that today hasn't been luckier so far. Because 4/4/2008 is just such a nice day of life. We're closing in on 5 o'clock now though. And it's almost the weekend. And that is a very lucky thing, even though it's not quite special enough to solidify the 4/4/2008 as lucky a day as it should be.

But I've already found the end of the rainbow. And the 24-year-old (4 times 6, etc.)knows that not everything works just the way it ought to.

But make no mistake.

4/4/2008 OUGHT to be tremendously lucky.