Someday, Forever

A man I know unexpectedly passed away the other day. We had a budding friendship. He was in pain from a variety of maladies and walked funny as a result. So do I when mine act up. I was surprised at his wake when folks talked about his accepting all comers when debating politics, morality, ethics, and so forth. He was well-spoken and a gentle man even during epic discussions. Personally, I never had an issue with him, for we agreed on absolutely everything. Just a few days before his passing, I had visited with him at church and was looking forward to seeing him in a few days. And now he’s gone. But he was a believer, and I’ll see him again, forever. Bonus: he’s not walking funny any longer. And neither will I someday.

Last week, my wife and I were supposed to attend the wedding of some friends. Supposed to. On the Thursday afternoon before the ceremony, my wife returned from buying herself a new dress for the occasion. I casually asked her what time we needed to leave on Saturday, as my college football game was on early. She looked up the Evite and, to our chagrin, the wedding ceremony was going on right then. AT THAT EXACT TIME! On a Thursday, not Saturday. As I was filthy from finishing up some garden masonry work in the hot sun and she had put on some ordinary clothes (though she still looked cute), there was no way we could clean up and beat feet to the ceremony. When the newlyweds get back from their honeymoon on a tropical isle, we’ll see each other, and often, I hope.

Three weeks ago, my wife and I attended the wedding of the daughter of some dear friends. And yes, the wedding was on a Saturday, because I know you’re wondering. The blushing bride is a first-generation American of Lebanese descent and the happy groom’s a first-generation American from Ethiopia. The ceremony was held in a Chaldean church, and the reception was an amazing mix of cultures and traditions, both ancient and modern. The cool thing about this couple: they are both believers, as are their parents and the vast majority of guests. Though we may not see each other again in this lifetime, we’ll see them again someday, forever.

Five weeks ago, my wife and I attended the funeral reception of the husband of a fellow writer I’ve befriended. Even after thirty-some years of marriage, they were still mad about each other. His health had been failing for a number of years, but still, his passing was unexpected. I met him once some time ago at a local author’s book fair where his wife was showcasing her award-winning books. I was there as an author, too. He was a genuinely nice man, beloved by his family and his church. His wife will see him again someday, forever. And so will we.

This past summer, my wife and I attended the funeral reception of the son of a friend of the family. He was driving alone on the highway and stretched way back to the back seat to retrieve an item. That one moment of inattention caused him to veer off the highway and into a bridge piling. It’s difficult when the children of friends die, for we witness almost their first breaths, steps, birthdays, graduations, weddings, and so forth. They become part of our lives, too, vicariously, our children at arm’s length, woven into the fabric of our lives. As parents grow older, we expect to be buried by our children. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s a tragedy when life happens the other way around. We hadn’t seen him for a long time, years, but we’ll see him again someday, forever.

We attended the funeral reception for a dear fellow churchgoer late this spring. This brother was a member of our church’s worship team. I volunteer in the audio/visual department and run the sound board. I isolate and blend each microphone and electronic input, then upload it to the internet for watchers worldwide. He had the voice of angels, always on key, never overdelivering. He had some harsh health issues, but his loss was hard to handle. We still mourn. He was indeed a believer in Jesus, and we’ll see him again someday, forever. I bet he’s going to have an even better voice in heaven.

In April, we held a going-away ceremony for my wife’s parents, who passed ten months and half a world apart. Though they were no longer married, they stayed friends. Along with close friends and family, we released their ashes into the Pacific. The metaphor of life’s changing tides struck me that day. God gives the wave and takes it back out to sea when he’s done with it on the shore. The symbolism is powerful. The body returns to the earth, but the promise of eternal life isn’t contingent upon what happens to those ashes. We’ll see them again, forever.

Mid-spring, we attended the funeral reception for a friend of mine. The invitation said the event was a ‘celebration of life,’ and I took that to mean ‘CELEBRATION’ because he was a genuinely happy man, and I expected a lighthearted time. Reality brought us down to earth. When we arrived, the occasion was somber. It was a hot day, the service was outdoors, and I left my jacket in the car. To my chagrin, I was horribly underdressed in my black short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. Thank God my shirt wasn’t bright yellow. Then his wife invited attendees to tell stories about him, and over a dozen took the microphone. To a person, they told stories that were warm, funny, a bit ribald in places, but they painted a perfect picture of him as he truly was. I always enjoyed his company, as did his many friends. He was a believer, and I’ll see him again someday, forever.

By now you’re saying to yourself, ‘What’s up with all the death?’ and I totally agree. But stick with me for a few more sentences. This blog’s not just about death.

You see, life is unpredictable. Genuine happiness does happen, and death is unavoidable.

But separation is temporary, and I like that.