Not Lost

 

My Uncle Charlie’s birthday is April 23, so he’s been on my mind this week. Since my mother was the oldest of ten children, her little brother Charlie was young enough to be the quintessential “fun” uncle when I was a little girl. He used to stay at our house for a week or two at a time in the summer. At night he would regale us with stories as we lay in our darkened rooms. One story scared me so much, I dashed across the room to get into bed with my big sister. I still remember the story with a little thrill.

But most of what I remember about Charlie is from his adult years after he married. He and his wife were the parents of three of my sweet cousins, one of which officiated at my brother’s funeral a couple of years ago. Charlie, along with three of his sisters and a couple of other fill-ins through the years, was part of a gospel-singing quartet called The Home Quartet. They produced a couple of albums that someone in the family brings out to play again from time to time. One of his sisters was my dear Aunt Sandy, mother of Marvin. Marvin was the pastor of a Baptist church in Princeton, West Virginia, until he succumbed to Covid in the late summer of 2020.

This rambling about my family history has a point: I have been blessed with a godly heritage, and none of it is of my own doing, but I'm thankful for what I have learned from them. And if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that life is uncertain—at least, life on this earth is uncertain. A recent lesson at church and my own personal reading have gotten me thinking about what happens when we die. Not long ago, I heard a man on the radio talking about his own impending death from cancer and what he wants to be thinking about as he leaves this life. You’ll never guess . . . corned beef hash! How sad, I thought, to decide that the best thing to think about is a physical sensation, a taste treat. I’m guessing I love food as much as most people, but I can’t imagine that corned beef hash—or any other delectable dish—is going to give me comfort or joy in my last moments. (I could be wrong.)

I am told that when my cousin Marvin was taken off the machine that was keeping him alive, when he knew he likely would not survive past a few minutes, he pointed upward, indicating he was headed for God’s presence. In truth—and Marvin knew this—we are in God’s presence all the time. When we pass from this life to the next, Jesus said we do not die. Recall what he said to Martha: “He who lives and believes in me will never die” (John 11:26).

 Author and New Testament translator J.B. Phillips comments on Easter in his book Good News: “Of all the inspired certainties which sparkle on that sea of confidence in God which is the New Testament, the resounding triumph of Jesus Christ over man’s last enemy is perhaps the most magnificent. Jesus Christ hath abolished death” (II Timothy 1:10).

I’m planning to send Uncle Charlie a card. It will be late for his birthday, but he’ll know I was thinking of him. He is in poor health, and we don’t know how many more years we’ll have him with us here. But we are resting in the assurance that when he leaves this earth, he will not be lost. "Lost" is a term that I’ve used often myself, as in  "I’m sorry for your loss." And it is a loss to us, but only for a short time. As we continue to enjoy the beautiful season of burgeoning life around us, let’s remember that our loved ones who have left this realm are not gone forever, and let us live in such a way every day that we are ready to face our own last earthly moments with joy and anticipation.

--Sherry Poff