In the weeks after Faye's death I was troubled, deeply troubled, by worries about her last months.
I brooded about the possibility she was cold (she was wearing her little socks she wore to keep her feet warm). I brought about the possibility she was afraid, or lonely, or wanted to call me to be with her.
Then I had a mental image of her going to the kitchen to fill up her Bubba bottle with water. As she finishes filling up her jug, she feels something, and she hears something. Jesus is reaching out his hand to her. She looks back, briefly, wondering. And then she takes his hand and he takes her as she goes, she begins to smile, and smile, and smile every more gloriously.
She is home.
I miss her, but she is home.
No comments:
Post a Comment