Another Good-bye … For Now

Can I just go on record and say it: I hate cancer. Hate it, hate it, hate it! I hate what it does to my friends. I hate what it did to my parents. I hate what it may one day do me. Can God use cancer to do good things, deeper things, spiritual things in people’s lives? Yes. I’ve seen God do that more times than I can count, and I’m grateful for God’s redeeming grace. But I still hate cancer.

Maybe I feel so strongly right now because yesterday I buried another friend. His name is Ralph and he died of colon cancer. And oddly enough I buried him on what would have been my dad’s 98th birthday had he not died of colon cancer himself at age 73. Did I mention that I hate cancer?

It’s been more than a year since Ralph got his diagnosis and the doctor told him he had maybe a couple of months to live. Death got the word and set up camp outside Ralph’s door. And it didn’t take long for Death to realize he should have packed a bigger suitcase. Ralph blew past those first two months and kept on going—not “going” as in laying around in a bed waiting to die, but “going” as in on with his life—family and work and having fun. Treatments knocked him down, but he always got back up.

I was on my way to see my daughter’s family in Texas the first of July when I got a call from Ralph. “The doctor told me my liver is failing and I’ll be lucky to live the rest of the week,” he said. Well, he made it through that week and about fourteen more on top of that. It wasn’t easy. He was sick a lot, had to be in the hospital off and on for one procedure or another. But he didn’t give up and he didn’t give in.

I’ve walked through the land of cancer with a lot people over more than thirty years of ministry, and some of them were real fighters. But I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone fight cancer with the courage, faith, and ferocity of Ralph Brewer. On his last doctor’s visit, the doctor said, “Ralph, we can’t give you anymore treatments. We all agree it will make things worse instead of better. It’s like trying to knock down a concrete wall with a baseball bat.” Ralph looked at the doctor and said, “You’d be surprised what I can knock down with a baseball bat.” And they gave him one more treatment. Ralph was one tough fighter. The colorful evangelist Billy Sunday once said this about sin: “I’m against sin. I’ll kick it as long as I have a foot. I’ll fight it as long as I have a fist. I’ll butt it as long as I have a head. I’ll bite it as long as I’ve got a tooth. And when I’m old and fistless and footless and toothless, I’ll gum it till I go home to Glory and it goes home to perdition.” That’s the way Ralph fought cancer. And when Ralph breathed his last on Saturday morning, I don’t know who was more exhausted: Ralph or his cancer.

There was a big crowd at the funeral. Ralph had lots of friends. One of the things I loved most about Ralph is that Ralph was Ralph—and he was that all the time. He didn’t try to be somebody else. He didn’t try to be one person in front of this group, and somebody else in front of that group. He was just Ralph—unvarnished, honest, funny, a good insurance man, hard-working, hard-playing, hard-headed, a devoted friend, a devoted dad, authentic, 100% Ralph. And Ralph was a Christian too. He wasn’t the greatest Christian that ever lived. But he loved Jesus. He leaned on Jesus’ mercy and grace for his sins—of which he was deeply aware—and he grew closer and closer to Jesus in the past year (which as his pastor was a real joy to watch.) When I think of Ralph an old Bruce Carroll song comes to mind:

I am wise, I am a fool,
A servant with a yearn to rule,
Good intentions and selfish schemes
A saint who soars on broken wings.

I am shadow, I am light
I am wrong and I am right,
Sometimes shining oh so bright,
Sometimes fading into night.
Lord, you walk with me through shadow and light.

That was pretty much Ralph, and the Lord did walk with Ralph through shadow and through light.

But now the shadows are all gone. Don’t think for a minute that cancer won that battle. Yesterday, Ralph’s cancer was buried in the ground for good—it’s done, it’s over, it can’t do him anymore harm. And what about Ralph? Well, you remember what Jesus said to Martha as they stood next to Lazarus’ grave? “I am the resurrection and the life. He that believes in me, though he were dead yet shall he live. He that lives and believes in me will never die.” Ralph lived and believed in the Lord, and that means that Ralph is alive and well with the Lord today. It may not look like it on the surface, and it doesn’t much feel like it right now in our hearts, but Ralph won that battle with cancer, and he’s taking his victory lap in heaven even now. You know, heaven—that place where cancer can never find its way in.

But that still doesn’t change the fact that I hate cancer. Because of cancer a father had to say goodbye to his son, kids had to say goodbye to their dad, and I and many others had to say goodbye to yet another friend. So go to hell where you belong, Cancer. You might have got your pound of flesh, but Ralph got a ton of life—eternal life. And because God wants to spend eternity with His children, cancer loses, God’s children win, and our good-byes are just for now.

Away in a Casket

Here it is just a few days till Christmas—the story of the most important birth in history—and I’m up to neck in death. This is not unusual. As often as not I spend December doing funerals. I've done two already and another member of our church died yesterday. Away in a manger—yes. Away in a casket—that too.

At least for me death and Christmas are irrevocably linked. My father died the day after Christmas in 1987; my mother died on Christmas Eve 2009; and I do as many funerals in December as I do any other month of the year. Death and Christmas are linked together for me. Do I like it? Not particularly. But that is my reality.

Actually, it’s the reality of all those who love and follow Christ. Even though Christmas is a birth story, Jesus was born to die. Had it not been for the cross and the resurrection, we’d know nothing more of Jesus’ birth than we know of any other child born to peasants in first-century Israel. It was the cross and resurrection that caused Matthew and Luke to learn more about the circumstances of Jesus’ birth. Aside from Mary, Joseph, and a handful of no-account shepherds, no one was the wiser as to Jesus’ identity at the first Christmas. Can’t you hear the conversation in the local beauty parlor a few days later? “I heard there was some commotion around your place the other night, Martha?” And Martha says, “Yes, some poor young couple, pilgrims from Nazareth, used our stable for a maternity ward. I think they had a little boy. But enough of that; what’s the latest with your kids?” No one in Bethlehem had a clue as the identity of that baby born in the stable.

But that’s okay. Jesus wasn’t born to create a holiday centuries later; Jesus was born to die. The birth was important—the eternal Word had to become flesh, had to live life as a man, had to be tempted in the same ways we are and yet never sin, had to reveal God to us in his teachings and his miracles. And when the time was right, Jesus had to die for the forgiveness of our sins. Jesus did that. And on the third day he rose from the dead victorious over sin and death and the grave. The apostle Paul put it this way: “Death has been swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O grave, where is your sting? But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Cor. 15:55-57). Away in a manger—a peaceful lullaby. Away in a casket—there’s peace to be found there too.

I hope that’s encouraging to you if you’re dealing with death and grief this time of year. Grieving is usually more painful at Christmas—the empty chair at the Christmas table, one less stocking on the fireplace, deep sadness in what is supposed to be a happy time, and uncertainty how to celebrate the season or whether to celebrate it at all. When “Away in a Manger” becomes “Away in a Casket” what do we do then?

Let me tell you a story. It’s one of my favorite Christmas stories. I read it in Walter Wangerin’s book, The Manger Is Empty. Walter is a Lutheran pastor and writer. The story grew out of his pastorate of the Grace Lutheran Church in Evansville, Indiana, and involves his daughter Mary, Miz Odessa Williams, and a funeral on Christmas Eve.

On the Sunday night before Christmas the people of the church attended to their annual custom of Christmas caroling in their neighborhood and local hospital. Once in the hospital, a group of children, including Mary, went with Wangarin and found their way to the room of one of their church members, Miz Odessa Williams, an old black lady on her deathbed. She was very weak, but as the children lifted their voices to sing the birth of Jesus, Miz Williams was stirred. Lying on her back, she began to direct the music. She lifted her thin and trembling arm and began to mark the beat with precision. Her thin face frowned with a painful pleasure as she found herself lost in the music.

The children sang for her, yet she caught them—drawing them near to her, their eyes fixed on old Miz Williams. After they finished, Miz Williams drew them still closer and said to them in a weak and husky voice: "Oh children, you my choir. Oh choir, you my children for sure, every las' one of you. And listen me," she said, catching all of them one by one and eye to eye. "Ain' no one stand in front of you, for goodness, no! You the bes', babies, you the final bes'."

The children were fascinated, listening to her as though she spoke with the voice of God. Miz Williams went on: "Now listen me, when you sing, no matter where you be, I be there with ya. And how can I say such a mackulous thing?" She lowered her voice, drooped her eyelids a bit and said, "Why 'cause we be in Jesus. Babies, babies, we be in Jesus, old ones, young ones, us and you together. Jesus keep us in his bosom, and Jesus, no, he don't never let us go. Never. Never. Not ever."

So spoke Odessa in the thin, long light, so spoke Odessa Williams with such love and conviction that the children wept and were not ashamed. The lady won Mary in those moments.

But the tears Mary shed that night were of a different type than the ones she shed on Christmas Eve. For three days before Christmas, Odessa Williams died. It was a long tome coming, but quick when it finally came. And because of the way the days fell, the funeral was set for Christmas Eve morning.

Wangarin broke the news to his family rather hastily over lunch. Mary barely ceased eating. But as Wangarin was leaving for the office, Mary stopped him at the door and said, "I want to go to the funeral." Wangarin nodded in agreement and left.

Christmas Eve morning came. The casket containing Odessa's body was in the church, and people came and viewed the body before the service. At about ten minutes till service time, Mary came in. Wangarin met her at the door. "Dad," she said, "it's snowing." It was. A light powder was falling. "Dad," she said in a more grievous voice, "it's snowing."

"I know, Mary. Are you coming in? It's about time to start."

Mary walked with Wangarin up to the casket and looked at Odessa's face. She reached out and touched Odessa's long fingers. "Oh no," she whispered. She touched them again – this time with her cheek. Then she stood straight up and said, "Oh no, Dad, Miz Williams is so cold. And it's snowing outside – it's snowing in Miz Willliams' grave." And Mary plunged her head into her Daddy's chest and wept. "Dad," she sobbed, "Dad, Dad, it's Christmas Eve."

Wangarin had no answers for her, so Mary wept and went to take a seat. What could Wangarin say to those tears? His Mary had met death on what was supposed to be a happy day. So the funeral and the graveside and a silent, broken Mary.

But it was Christmas Eve, and that night was the children's program at church. Mary was to portray Mary, the mother of Jesus. Wangarin told her she didn't have to if she didn't feel like it. But Mary said she would.

Wangarin watched Mary as she played her part. She was quiet and in grief. So the program unfolded. The angels came, giggled, and left. Mary and Joseph sat at the manger. Mary looked down at the manger and began to frown. She looked as if she was about to burst into tears, but she didn't. She just frowned hard, looking at the doll in the manger. And then quietly, suddenly, Mary reached for the doll and began to play a part not written in the script. She took the doll, walked down the aisle, and out of the sanctuary. Nobody knew quite what to do. People sat in stunned silence. But in a moment, Mary emerged without the doll. She knelt by the crib, her face now radiant and full of adoration. The angels sang, "Glory to God in the highest." And the pageant was over.

Wangarin drove the family home that snowy night wondering what Mary had learned. "Dad," said Mary, "Jesus wasn't in that manger. It was a doll." Wangarin winced at the loss of his daughter's innocence. But Mary went on: "Dad, Jesus doesn't have to be in the manger, does He? He goes back and forth, doesn't He? He came from heaven and was borned here. But when He was done, He went back to heaven again. And because He came and went He can be coming and going all the time, can't He?"

"Right," whispered Wangarin.

"The manger is empty," Mary said. "And Dad, Miz Williams' box is empty too. We don't have to worry about the snow. It's only a doll in her box. It's like a big doll, Dad, and we put it away today. And if Jesus can cross, if Jesus can go across, then Miz Williams, she crossed the same way too with Jesus."

Choking back the tears, Wangerin recalled Miz Williams words to the children at the nursing home: "Babies, we be in Jesus, old ones, young ones, us and you together. Jesus keep us in His bosom, and Jesus, He don't never let us go. Never, never, not ever."

Not in life. Not in death. Not in grief. Not ever.

The Advent hymn-writer caught a glimpse of the very same hope:

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Immanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
Rejoice!

Here's to Anna: As Special as They Come

We knew this day was coming. In fact, three years ago, the doctors said she could go most any day—three years ago. And nothing speaks more to Anna’s stubborn determination and will to live than that. She was put into hospice care. She got better. She got out of hospice care. And then close to a year ago or so, she got worse and went into hospice care again. But she hung on. Good days, bad days, and she hung on. She got to where her pain was great and she couldn’t eat, but she hung on. Of course, she didn’t do this by herself. Her loving family and caregivers, a devoted medical team, and numerous friends all played a part in Anna’s ability to keep on fighting, keep on living. And while her quality of life may not have looked like much to you and me who have known better, it was much to Anna.

And then Tuesday came. Death showed up at Anna’s door and started knocking. It wasn’t the first time he showed up, but this time he stayed until he got what he came for. That rubber ball named Anna who had bounced back time and time again, well, there wasn’t any bounce left anymore. It was time. The best thing to do was to make her as comfortable as possible and let her go in peace. After years of successfully pushing against the door when Death tried to barge in for Anna, everyone finally quit pushing, including Anna. And early Thursday morning Anna died—in a setting she know so well, right next to her mom and her dad and her dog Eli. On the surface it looked like Death finally won. But Death didn’t win. Jesus scooped up Anna in His strong arms and took her home to heaven.

Anna was born 23 years ago with a degenerative brain disorder of some sort—problems from birth, early surgeries, one issue after another her whole life through. The kid took a pharmacy full of medicine over the course of her life. She was poked and pricked and prodded time and time again. She had tubes for this and tubes for that. I’m not sure, especially near the end, that even one system of her body functioned as it was supposed to. And yet she lived to the fullest through it all. She was special needs. Check that—she was just special. The girl had a zeal for life matched by few persons I have known.

You’re probably thinking, “How could she live a full life in her condition?” Some of us think a hangnail is a major crisis, a bad hair day the end of the world. So how could she enjoy life with all her problems? Well, the answer to those questions was on her face. The girl was always smiling. She reminds me of Buddy in the movie Elf who said, “I like smiling; smiling’s my favorite.” Anna liked to smile; she enjoyed making others smile too.

And why shouldn’t she? The girl was loved deeply and well. I can’t imagine her being in any other family than the one she was in. In Psalm 139 David prays: “You knitted me together in my mother’s womb. You know me full well. I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” That goes just as much for Anna as it does for you or me or anyone else born with all systems on go. Anna was fearfully and wonderfully made by God, and He could have chosen no more perfect womb in which to knit her together than in her mother Amy’s. No mother and father and brother could have loved her more or loved her better. They accepted her as she was and loved her as she was. They didn’t hide her in her room. They didn’t act like turtles and draw into their shells. They included her in whatever they did. They exposed her to their large swath of friends who in turn became good friends of Anna too. They understood Anna. They didn’t expect her to be something she wasn’t. And they watched over her with the tenacity of a mama, papa, and big brother bear. They could laugh with her and even at her when she did or said goofy stuff. They cut her slack when she got mad and pouty but they still expected her to behave. They made sure she lived her life. They let her run her race.

In spite of the fact that the majority of parents with a special needs child wind up in divorce court, James and Amy did not. They figured it out. They made it work. They and their son Adam realized that it wasn’t about them; it was about Anna and how to best care for the one who couldn’t care for herself. And did they ever care for her: church, school, Special Olympics, prom, high school graduation, loads of friends. They gave Anna everything she needed and more. Every kid should be so blessed. She smiled because of her family.

She smiled because of Jesus. There was a time when moms and dads were trying to get their children up to Jesus. Jesus was doing some teaching at the time, so the disciples tried to shoo those parents and kids away. “The Master’s much too bush with grown up concerns to bother with your snotty-nosed, sticky-handed rug rats. Make an appointment!” Jesus heard the commotion, stopped what He was doing, and said, “I want those children to come to me and don’t you dare stand in their way, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. And if you grownups don’t receive the kingdom like a child, you’ll never make it in.” Then Jesus took those children in his arms and blessed them. Jesus loves children.

In light of that, I don’t know why some die so young, or why some are abused and hungry, or why some like Anna are born with maladies that keep them from living what you and I consider a normal life, and why some suffer as they do. Anna sure dealt with some suffering. I don’t understand these things, and it troubles me. But I do know this: I think it’s safe to say that everyone in this room who knew and loved Anna would admit that if we hadn’t had Anna just as Anna was, our lives would be diminished. Anna just as she was added so much to all who knew her. It’s easy to think, “Well, if she had been normal things would have been so much better.” But how do you know that? How can we say that for sure? We’re all sorry Anna had to struggle the way she did through her life, and we all feel for James and Amy and Adam and the struggles and the sleeplessness and the weariness they’ve had to bear, but Anna was a miracle, just as she was. She was a gift. And just because she couldn’t do all the things most kids can do, she was no less loved by Jesus.

She loved Jesus too. She liked to come to church when she could. She liked to pray to Jesus or to have someone pray for her. I will always remember Tuesday afternoon. She had been sleeping under the influence of strong medicines, but she woke up long enough for me to pray for her. I prayed the 23rd Psalm and she just locked eyes with me soaking in those life-giving, hope-giving words. She couldn’t parse them, probably couldn’t explain them, but she understood them at the level that matters most. The Lord was her shepherd. He had helped her all life long. And He was going to get her through the valley of the shadow of death and take her to His house where she would live forever. Right after we prayed she smiled.

So I wasn’t surprised when I got the call about her death Thursday morning and went to the house and found Anna, lying in bed, with a smile on her face—just the softest, kind of a Mona Lisa smile, as if she’d caught a glimpse of heaven just before she passed from this life to the next. And we can be confident that that is where she is. Jesus loved her. Jesus died for her sins and rose from the dead. She believed in Jesus. She loved Jesus. And she is with him today. No more needles. No more tubes. No more medicine. No more stomach pumps. No more wheelchairs. No more suffering or sorrow or pain. As much as Anna enjoyed her life on earth in spite of all the hardships, we can only imagine how much she’s going to enjoy life in heaven—seeing Jesus face to face, being reunited with her papa and other family. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s even played a little catch with her big buddy Ryan White who died suddenly a year ago in a car wreck. One thing’s for sure though: she’s still smiling.

All of us who knew and loved her will miss her. Her family will miss her most of all. They will grieve as they should grieve, but they will grieve with hope. They also know Jesus, so they live with the hope that since Anna is with Jesus and Jesus is with them, they will never be too very far apart. And then one day, Anna will meet them at heaven’s gate. I can see it now: Anna speaking to them in the clear diction that eluded her own earth: “Welcome home. Let me show you around. And do you mind if we skip?”

Life's Sure Things

I bought a large Sonic drink the other day at the Sonic just across the bridge on Airport Road. It cost me two bucks. And I smiled because when I buy that same drink in town it costs me two bucks and ten cents. Why the difference? Tax. Hot Springs has this tourist and entertainment tax in the city limits. And what a tax! Ten cents difference against a two dollar drink. As I handed the car-hop my two bucks, guess what song was cranking on my mp3 player: Taxman by the Beatles. Well, not really—I made that part up. But I did think about that song. George Harrison wrote the lyrics. Here are some of the words:

Let me tell you how it will be:
There’s one for you, nineteen for me
‘Cause I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

Should five percent appear too small,
Be thankful I don’t take it all,
‘Cause I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

If you drive a car I’ll tax the street.
If you try to sit I’ll tax your seat.
If you get too cold I’ll tax your heat.
If you take a walk I’ll tax your feet.

If you get a head I’ll tax your hat.
If you get a pet I’ll tax your cat.
If you wipe your feet I’ll tax your mat.
If you’re overweight I’ll tax your fat.

And you’re working for no one but me.
Yes, I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

It’s tax time. (Honestly, it’s always tax time in the USA, but you know what I mean.) Unless you file for an extension, the United States government is expecting an accounting of your finances for the year 2009 no later than April 15—just a couple of days from now. And even if you get an extension, sooner of later you still have to settle things with the taxman. Nobody much likes it. Everybody I know (who doesn’t work for the government) feels like we are taxed too much. And with the deluge of red ink on our government’s books in addition to billions of dollars in proposed new spending, it’s hard to imagine taxes not going up. Some wonder if it will finally get to the point where the old joke about the new simplified tax form will cease being a joke and start becoming reality. You remember that joke? The new simplified tax form has only two lines—Line 1: What did you make? Line 2: Send it in. “And you’re working for no one but me. Yeah, I’m the taxman.” Thank you, George Harrison—musician, composer, and prophet.

Taxes are nothing new, you know. Pretty much every society in history has had some form of taxation. The Bible doesn’t say a whole lot about taxes really. It just seems to assume that taxes are a reality of life in this world. Once some lawyers asked Jesus a question: “Master, is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” It was a trick question; it was like cheese in a mousetrap and Jesus was the mouse. Any way Jesus answered it He was going to offend somebody … well any way but the way He answered it. Jesus asked to see a coin. One of the lawyers reached in his pocket and produced one. “Whose picture is on the coin?” Jesus asked.

“Caesar’s,” the lawyer replied.

“Then what’s the problem?” asked Jesus. “Give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give God what belongs to God.” Here was Jesus’ big chance to pontificate on the subject of taxation, and instead of doing that, He basically said, “Pay your taxes to Caesar because your money is stamped with Caesar’s image, but give God your whole life because your life is stamped with God’s image.” That’s Jesus’ take.

And Paul isn’t much help either for those who want to build some kind of Bible case against taxes. In Romans 13 he writes that if you owe taxes you need to pay up. The authorities in place are God’s servants whether you like them or not, agree with them or not. Gripe if you want. Try to change the system if that lights your fire. But here’s the bottom-line when it comes to the Bible’s take on taxes: pay up or face the consequences. It seems the old saying is spot on: taxes are one of life’s sure things.

And death is the other. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that in my life: “John, there are only two sure things in life: death and taxes.” What’s interesting is that some of us spend more time discussing and prepping for taxes than we do getting ready for death. Both are forms of accounting. Taxes are a kind of temporal accounting; death is an eternal accounting. And when it comes to this eternal accounting there are no refunds, no lawyers to plead your case, no chance of getting the ruling reversed. God does the judging and He has all the facts. God already knows where all your receipts are and what they say. God knows your deeds, your thoughts, your words. And God will hold you accountable for them too.

This would be discouraging and frightening if not for one thing: Jesus. Because God loves us and because He knows that death is one of life’s sure things, God has done something about our death problem. He sent His only Son Jesus. Jesus left the glories of heaven to become flesh. He lived a human life. He was tempted in all ways just as we are but He never sinned. And because He didn’t have any sin of His own, He could bear our sin in His body on the cross. So if you’ll trust that what Jesus did on the cross He did for you, God will put your sin on Jesus’ account, clear your account, and save you from sin’s penalty and power. As Paul put it to the Corinthians, “He who knew no sin became sin so that we might become the righteousness of God.” Sounds sort of like God was cooking the books in our favor, huh? Well, God loves us and is determined to save us if we’ll open our hearts to Him. That means we no longer have to fear death because it gives way to eternal life. We’ll still give an accounting of our lives, but hell is no longer in the balance. Our Advocate (dare I say Lawyer) Jesus has saved us from that fate through the mercies of God.

When you know Jesus has taken care of life’s sure thing called death, you can face your death with hope and confidence. I still remember telling Ed McWha, emaciated with cancer, what was in store for him in heaven, and do you know what he did? He raised his stick-arm and with what little strength he had left, said, “Wooohooo!” And when my Uncle Doc was told he probably had a few days unless he tried this special kind of treatment which may or may not help, he said, “I’m an old man. God has given me a good life. I know where I’m going and I intend to die with a smile on my face.” I don’t know if Uncle Doc ever smiled at tax time, but he sure did at death time. Why? Because He knew Jesus had made accounting for Him.

So there are two sure things in life: death and taxes. Neither one we look forward to but both we can be prepared for. So get a good accountant for your taxes. And trust the crucified, resurrected Jesus for your death. With April 15 just a couple of days away, I hope you’re prepared for tax day. And since you never know what day death is going to come for his accounting, I encourage you to get prepared for that day today.

An Easter Reflection on Death

Rising out of Hades like smoke from a smoldering fire,
roaming the earth with sickle in hand,
reaping one person after another
with no respect for age or race or creed or position,
Death has done his dirty work.

Death: an equal opportunity destroyer.

But descending from heaven came One
who had the courage and power
to look Death in the eye and say "No!"

"No! You can't have Jairus' daughter. Get up, child!”
And she did!

"No! You can't have this widow's son.
Come out of the casket, boy,
and kiss away your mama's tears."
And he did!

"No! Not even four days' death can seal your grip.
Lazarus, come forth!"
And he did!

It seemed as if Death had met has match.

Until …

Until one Friday.
A crown of thorns.
Nails in hands and feet.

"Crucified," they called it.
And with his ever insatiable appetite,
Death swallowed up
the One who had spit in his eye;
the only One who had been able to say "No!" to him
and have His way.

Jesus: dead and buried:
stone cold dead,
dead as the nails they pounded through His hands and feet.
Dead—no heartbeat, no pulse, no breath. Dead.
And buried:
hastily wrapped in death rags
and layed in a borrowed tomb—
a tomb sealed with a heavy stone.

Stick a fork in Him;

He's done.

Now Death, drunk with power,
reclined in his Lay-Z-Boy
after his best day at work.
Wine glass in hand,
he offered himself a toast:
"To me!" he said.
"I am more powerful than God!
I have done battle with His Son,
and won the victory!"

Oh, really?

Think again, Death.
Sunday dawned,
and God stomped so hard on Death
that the earth shook,
and the stone rolled away.
And from an empty tomb an angel said
to women who had come to anoint Jesus' dead body:
"Why do you seek the living among the dead?
"He is not here;
"He is risen, just as He said."

Death is swallowed up in victory!
And we who know the Victor share in the spoil of His war.
So Jesus, not Death, gets the last word,
and that word is "Eternal Life."
For Death has met his match,

he's lost his stinger,
and all the power of Death is dead.

Edward, We Hardly Knew Ye

Saturday was a sad day for Hot Springs. Martin Draper, a local dentist, and Edward Cooper, a local oral surgeon, died in a plane crash along with Edward’s two teenage daughters. In a town the size of ours, the ripple effect of such tragedies splashes onto many shores. It’s now been three days since the news, and I still can’t believe it. Shock seems like too small a word to convey what many in our city are feeling today. And that goes for all who knew Ed’s daughters, Katie and Libby. Saturday night, after the news began to spread about the crash, students gathered in the Lakeside High School field house to share their grief and encourage one another through their tears. Katie and Libby left a mark and will be sorely missed by everyone who knew them. “They were like sisters to me,” said one. “She treated me nice,” said another. “She always made me feel important,” said still another. And most didn’t have to say anything; their tears said more than their words ever could. One of the adults at the gathering told me something that seemed to capture the essence of these girls: “They loved Jesus so much. They were beautiful inside and out.” I’ve been around a lot of death and a lot of grief in my life, but does any grief hurt more than what we feel when children die?

I didn’t know the Cooper girls, but I know their mother Cheryl, their brother E.P., and I knew their dad Ed. Those who knew him best will tell you how much he loved God and his family and the Razorbacks and adventure and life. I was very aware of some of that, but I knew Ed in a bit different way. I got acquainted with him back in 1997 when my son Nathan was in need of serious facial reconstruction surgery. Nathan’s bite was off. He needed his upper jaw pulled forward and his lower jaw pushed backward—lots of cutting, lots of blood, tricky stuff. There were a few preparatory visits with Dr. Cooper prior to the surgery. And when everything was ready, Dr. Cooper and his partner, Dr. Lloyd, spent about 6-7 hours taking my son’s face apart and putting it back together again. When you trust your son into someone’s hands to do something as radical as this, you sort of want to know something about the guy with the hands. We had heard so many good things about Dr. Cooper—“Call me, Ed,” he told Dayna and me on the first visit—and he certainly lived up to the hype. I’m not just talking medically here; I’m talking personally. We talked about some of the common friends we shared. We talked about our common faith in Jesus. He spoke kindly of our church and spoke lovingly of his. He took an interest in us not just as patrons but as persons. He took time to explain everything involved with the surgery. He gave us confidence. He inserted humor in the conversation. He put my son at ease, and he made it very easy for us to trust our son into his capable hands. The surgery went very well. Our son ended up with a normal bite. And my family ended up with a new friend.

Ed was involved in so many things that it was hard not to bump into him around town. He was at all the Lakeside Ram games. We served together for awhile on the Board of the Charitable Christian Medical Clinic. He was a last-minute replacement to serve as a dentist on one of our church mission trips to Honduras—foregoing part of his family’s spring break plans that year so that he and his son could go take care of some people in great need. And, just as he did for countless other teenagers in Hot Springs, when the time was right, he took out our daughter’s wisdom teeth too. It was my joy to play basketball with him and his son a few times over the years as well. So our paths crossed now and then. And every time we bumped into one another he would ask me about my wife and kids, calling them all by name. He was especially interested in our son because of all the time he spent with him around the surgery. And when Ed asked how Nathan was, he was never satisfied with, “Oh, he’s fine.” He wanted details: what he was up to, how his kids were doing, how his work was going. And if you’re a parent you know that few things knit your heart closer to another’s than when that person takes a genuine interest in your kids. God did a lot of people a favor when he made Edward Cooper—my family included.

I knew Ed a little. I only wish I had known him more. Many in our town knew him very well, loved him very much, and already miss him more than words can say. So I pray for them. I pray for his wife and his son and his friends and his church and his staff. I pray that they experience God’s peace that passes understanding, God’s strength made perfect in their weakness, God’s grace that is sufficient for every need, and God’s good hope that if they know Jesus, they will hold those girls again and enjoy fellowship with Ed for all eternity.

I’ve got a lot of friends on the other side already, and now I’ve got another one. So while my grief is but a teardrop in the bucket compared to those who knew him best and loved him most, I write this blog for those on the outer edges of Ed’s life who knew him and loved him in our own way too. And I think I speak for them all when I say, “Edward, we hardly knew you in this life; we look forward to knowing you better in the next.”

Score One More for Life

I first met Larry (not his real name) a few years ago. He had to be in the hospital for something or other. His mother, who is a part of our church family, asked me to go see him. So I went. And I left the hospital that day shaking my head and wondering why I bothered. Larry wasn’t exactly rude, but he certainly had no interest in visiting with the preacher from his mother’s church. And that was my last contact with Larry until this past month.

His mother called again. Larry was in the hospital again. This time it could be something very serious. Would you come see him? I got there on the heels of Brent, our Children’s Minister. He told me that Larry was not very open or welcoming to him. “Big surprise,” I thought to myself. And when I got there he wasn’t open with me either—though he did let me pray for him. That came at the insistence of a hospital transportation worker who was rolling him down to the second floor for some kind of test. It was a bit awkward, but he allowed the prayer. I think he did that more for his mother than for himself. So we prayed.

Turned out his mother was right. Tests revealed something very serious indeed. More tests were ordered. Surgery followed. The C-word was the problem. It was aggressive and relentless. It started taking up residence in various places in his body and throwing its ugly weight around. Doctors did their best. They even tried a second surgery. But it became like plugging a dike—patch one hole and two others spring a leak. It was a losing battle.

But a funny thing happened in this slow and painful journey toward death. Jesus started throwing His weight around too. As Larry became more and more aware of where all this was heading, he got to wondering about where he was heading when cancer finally had its way with him. A closed heart started to open and you could hear the creak of its rusty hinges all the way to Alaska. Suddenly, Larry had to know more about God, about death, about eternity. He asked his mother. She called Brent. Brent went to the hospital, introduced Larry to Jesus, and Larry was very glad to meet Him. Right there in that hospital bed, Larry repented of his sins and invited Jesus to be His Savior and Lord. A heart of stone became a heart of flesh. A heart dead in its trespasses and sins came to life. And Jesus smiled and mama cried and angels danced and heaven threw a party for Larry.

I saw his mother on Saturday. “Do you think Larry would like to be baptized?” I asked. “We can do it right there in the hospital.” She smiled and said, “I’ll ask him.” She called this morning with news: “Larry has been moved to hospice, and yes, he would like to be baptized.” We Baptists are pretty much sticklers for immersion, you know—that’s what the word means, that’s the way they did it in the New Testament—sticklers, I tell you. But when immersion is not a possibility we can go with the flow.

So Brent and I went to see Larry today. He is under contact isolation, so we put on our yellow gowns and little blue latex gloves. Larry couldn’t open his eyes, but he could hear us and respond with groans. I shared a Scripture or two, Larry groaned his agreement. Then I asked him, “Larry, do you believe Jesus died for your sins and rose from the dead according to the Scriptures?” Groan. “Then I baptize you, my brother, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, amen.” And as I applied water to his forehead by making the image of a cross, I declared, “Buried with Christ in baptism; raised to walk in a new life.” He groaned again—this time a groan of release and surrender and peace. Then Brent prayed and mama cried and dad stood by quietly taking it all in.

Before we left the room, I took another look at Larry. And that’s when I was struck by an image I’ll not soon forget. The sun was coming in the window at just the right angle to reveal the glistening of the baptism waters on his forehead. I’ve seen the sun piercing through the stained-glass in Nortre Dame Cathedral in Paris. I’ve seen the sun sparkling on a metal cross erected high in the Andes above the little village of Chavin, Peru. Both breathtaking in their own way. But I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more profound and beautiful than those baptism waters glistening on the head of one who has been snatched from death to life eternal.

Take that, cancer! Take that, death! Take that, devil! Jesus has saved yet another from your clutches. Score one more for life.