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Tempus Fugit
There are some events so tragic we think we’ll never forget. Yearning to breathe free. Days pass, lives pass, and the lessons we vow to learn pass away with them. It takes work to keep stories alive. To paint a picture of the past and help the next generation move forward. So we’ll never forget. Memories that will last a lifetime.
“Stars shining at intervals, as the clouds pass over them. Dark pines rising above me. It was a scene of wonderful solemnity. And yet, how do the twinkling stars of the heavens weigh down upon me? These are wild and miserable thoughts as I listen to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.”
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Cataclysms can split the mind into a before and after. The axe falls; life no longer feels of a piece; and one’s psyche can flee backwards, fashioning a temporary haven from the splinters of a perceived paradise lost.
Annus horribiles.
It was indeed a horrible year. Egregious in every way. A moment in time that literally takes your breath away. “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Mine was no exception. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And none of us ever fully recover. We simply pick what we can from the ashes and move on. And yet, somehow, we know that there must be more. That we are destined for something greater.
“All go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return.”
Ecclesiastes 3.20
On a sunny afternoon in Glendale, Arizona, I learned then what grief was. True grief. It moves through the body. Inhabits it. And it makes a permanent home there. Becomes part of your skin. But I learned to live with it. Partly because of the fond memories I can still recall. As clearly as I can see my hand in front of my face. And the support of family and friends. Those who can empathize with passing of a loved one. Others wrapping me tightly within their arms. With hugs and prayers of comfort. And, most of all, with the knowledge found in Scripture. That death has no sting. No victory. Eternal rest has been granted. Through His promises.
A day turned to years. The world seemed in tears. Consumed with angst. The ill grace extended to others is probably best seen as the spillover of a hidden sorrow. What will tomorrow bring? How will I ever recover from such tragedy? In times like these, some look in vain for the elusive reassurance we call hope. Where is this thing called hope?
It’s in the light. His light. Only Light is meant to convey a sense of hope and healing. Hope is never mere. Not even when it appears meager. Faith requires abandonment: the humility to fully surrender to a tide of truths and wills infinitely larger than ourselves.
Our God is a God of salvation, and to God, the Lord, belong deliverances from death.
Psalm 68.20
Tempus fugit. Time passes.
Who’s to blame? Such is life. This temporary domicile. Awaiting the day when we go to our eternal rest. But we have hope. In the One who has the power of an indestructible life (Hebrews 7.16). And so, as Paul wrote to those in Thessalonica, we do not grieve as others do. Our Maker and Redeemer will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep (1 Thessalonians 4.13-14). Thus we are encouraged by these words. And are called to encourage others with these same words.
Existence was always so fragile. We acknowledge that we all are living on borrowed time. Every minute a miracle. How do we not wake up every morning trembling in awe and wonder? "This is the end of the earth," John Quincy Adams said as the light faded. "But I am content." Are you?
And your life will be brighter than the noonday; its darkness will be like the morning.
Job 11.17
How mutable indeed are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery. There is left the wind on the heath. Life is very sweet. But sweeter still is the home of the soul that awaits those who are in Christ.
Behold, He is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see Him, even those who pierced Him; and all the tribes of the earth will mourn over Him. So it is to be. Amen.
Revelation 1.7 (NASB 2020)
So it is to be.
And so we choose to wing our flight to realms of day. Awaiting His return. Longing for the day when we can be with Him. So, roam if you want to. Without wings. Without wills. But understand this. Death awaits us all. And so does our eternal rest.
There will be moments where we can be happy again. Though perhaps never in the same way before. But we find solace in knowing we shall meet again. Just over the river. Knowing that our momentary distress prepares us for an eternal weight of glory (2 Corinthians 4.17).
Beyond comparison.
Just over in the gloryland.
