Not done yet

There's no more time. There's no more time.

There's no more time to do what we want. There's little time to do what we have to.

But we have to. We have to.

And yet all that takes so much time. (It makes me wonder if performing arts is a worthwhile ministry to be in although how can it be denied that time invested in a well put together play will bring more hearts to the altar.)

A senior died recently. Friends bid him rest. For some of them, I know they say that for his parents. For his parents, I know they wish that desperately to be true. How can we possibly suggest to them otherwise?

That he may be in hell - forever?

We went to speak to his mother on our way out. She took our hands and held on softly, firmly. Desperately. As if clinging on to someone who knew him, someone who remembered him, who talked to him, spent life with him, created friendship with him, would somehow make it feel like he was still around. That some part of him hadn't been completely lost in the collision. That some part of him wasn't sentenced to eternal condemnation.

Suffering.

Slavery.

How much anguish a mother must feel to bury a child. To see his body, once perfect, once flawless, soft, innocent and full of hope, now destroyed in a seemingly random unnecessary occurrence.

Without life.

And while many of them wish him rest, wish him peace, I know that their blessings are but dire pleas. For without God, his 'resting place' surely is bereft of all the wellness we hope for him and frankly, for ourselves.