I suppose every generation wonders — is this the final age? Will we be the fortunate people who actually hear the trumpet sound, see the sky split open, transport to another realm?
Maybe it’s common for people my age — with children raised, careers winding down, youthfulness fading — to spend time considering eternity.
Perhaps in every century, believers have observed signs of a world “groaning as in the pains of childbirth”, waiting for its deliverance.
I just know that since meeting every Wednesday this fall with fifty beautiful women and studying Heaven in depth, I can’t stop thinking about it. Heaven has become near and dear — a real place, a true home.
I don’t know the time or date,
but I do feel a stirring in the world and in my heart.
“The world is sleeping in the dark that the church just can’t fight
‘Cause it’s asleep in the light.
How can you be so dead, when you’ve been so well fed?
Jesus rose from the grave and you, you can’t even get out of bed.
Jesus rose from the dead, come on, get out of your bed!”
I remember sitting on a little red chair in a Sunday school classroom with Carol and Sharon and Duane and Tom. We were in the basement of the Methodist church in a town with a population of 679.
Mrs. Bickford played the big upright piano. We sang “Deep and Wide”, “Zacchaeus”, and “The B-I-B-L-E”. But we always ended with “Jesus Loves Me”.
There’s something about those three words — they never get old.
That’s why I’ve been singing this new recording by Chris Tomlin all week.
When the alarm on my phone goes off in the wee hours of the morning, a song starts playing next to my pillow:
“As I rise, strength of God, go before, lift me up.
As I wake, eyes of God, look upon, be my sight.”
Before I’m fully awake, I need this prayer. Negative thoughts, worries, and bad attitudes can attack me before my feet even hit the floor.
Then I stumble into my office, light a candle and open up my Bible.
“As I wait, heart of God, satisfy and sustain.
As I hear, voice of God, lead me on, be my guide.”
Some days, as my blurry eyes focus on the Word, it jumps out and grabs me by the neck. Other days, I just look at God and He just looks at me. Both satisfy and sustain.
Then I move into the day with all the lists and obligations and duties.
“As I go, hand of God, my defense, by my side.”
By evening, I am happy to rejoin my pillow and whisper a vesper prayer.
“As I rest, breath of God, fall upon, bring me peace.”
This song has carried me through many, many days. Many, many moments.
“Your life, Your death, Your blood was shed for every moment.”
I started listening to the music of “All Sons and Daughters” three years ago. When I needed a reason to sing, I put “Reason to Sing” on repeat. When I felt poor and powerless, I kept “All the Poor and Powerless” on top of my playlist. I love their music. I love their lyrics.
This duo doesn’t know it, but they need me. I add a third harmony part to their songs every morning in the shower. Duets are great, but in my opinion, three part harmony is glorious.
I guess I’ll leave well enough alone and keep them by my pillow for now.
This week, this is my song:
Written by Leeland and Michael W. Smith. Recorded by Leslie Jordan and David Leonard.
The title caught my eye. “It Is Not Death to Die” — what an intriguing phrase. I jotted the words down on a slip of torn-off notebook paper and stuck it in my pocket. When pondering a thought, that’s what I do. I seem to need to carry ideas in my pocket for awhile. They roost in there, like a hen on her eggs, waiting for an insight to hatch.
Through the morning I argued with the short sentence that captured my thoughts. Of course dying is death, I say to the paper in my pocket. The final exhale, the last look before closing the eyes, the heartbeat halted — that’s death. That’s what it is to die. Right?
In the afternoon I had to know more. A little research revealed the origin of the words. In 1832, 60 year old Henri Abraham Cesar Malan wrote a hymn titled, “Non, Ce N’est Pas Mourir”. Fifteen years later, George Bethune translated the French lyrics into English and the song found it’s way into 126 hymnals. One hundred and sixty years later, Sovereign Grace Music recorded the hymn with a new tune. I think Henri would approve.
By the evening, I was sitting at my piano singing a song that made its way from my pocket to my heart. I got it. Dying is not death in the sense that there is nothing more but blackness and non-existence. Paul said that to be away from the body is to be at home with the Lord. (2 Cor. 5:8) Jesus said, “The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.” (John 11:25)
“The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” James Taylor
So that’s it.
The secret, according to JT, is finding joy in each part of life —
acknowledging its passing,
without fighting against the natural movement of time.
It’s a secret because not many of us get it.
I’ve spent many days trying to push through to a more promising tomorrow.
Other days, I cling to a past that has come and gone.
Lately, God’s been whispering secrets in my ear,
singing James Taylor lyrics into my heart.
He says, “Time passes, but find the joy in it.”
“Since we’re only here for awhile, we might as well show some style.”
My highest goal in life was to see my children through their growing years and witness them launching out on their own. Losing my mother at a young age, I wanted more than anything to spare my kids that pain. Now they are all married, established, on their own.
As I told a friend, “The rest is just frosting on the cake!”
She responded, “There is A LOT of frosting for you, my friend!”
I suppose every generation wonders — is this the final age? Will we be the fortunate people who actually hear the trumpet sound, see the sky split open, transport to another realm?
a small drop of ink 