Everything That Rises

I was fine. For about three years I had been preparing myself for that day; I knew it was coming soon. I always asked myself what I'd do when it happened. Would I be upset? If I was, would I show it? Would the world stop spinning? What about everyone else; how would they react? It seemed like that day would never come, but then it did. And as soon as it did it started to feel like a distant memory--fading at first around the edges, creeping its way towards the center of my memory like a dissolving acid. We hadn't been home long. Our move back across the Mississippi River was a long haul, but we were here, back where there were hills, pork barbecue, and boiled peanuts. We hadn't even unpacked the boxes in our temporary rent house. I was getting used to the routine (or lack thereof) of being the "new guy" when my phone rang. I knew who it was and what they were going to say: "She's getting worse. It won't be much longer now. Can you do the funeral?...

Someone once asked me how old I thought we'd be in heaven. I didn't even have to think about it too long; I said "3." My answer has no real theology behind it, no real biblical citations to proof text, just my own personal preference. I mean think about what life was like for most of us when we were 3: No school. No real responsibility. No worrying about politics. No real concept of religion. No bills. No understanding of hatred or difference. No diets, just eating whatever was put in front of you--if you liked it. Your imagination could actually take you places. Your experience of loss was minimal if not non-existent. Your only great worry was whether or not you could play outside. You weren't judged. Come to think of it, 3 was a pretty awesome age, and who knows, maybe the eternal kingdom of God is full of non-judging, loving, carefree children, all seeking the same goal with the same purpose. And you know, now that I've written this, maybe there is a passag...