For Wilshire Baptist Church
It was surreal, and it was unexpected: I was standing next to LeAnn, my wife, while staring at the name of Debra, my first wife, on the mausoleum wall. I never expected to see that name on that wall so early in life, and after that happened, I never expected to love and marry again. And most certainly I never expected to be in a room with both of them. But there we were, the three of us, united in death and life.
It was LeAnn’s idea to see where Debra is resting in Victoria, 300 miles from our home. We went down a few weeks ago for Debra’s mother’s 90th birthday celebration. We’ve been there together once before, but I’ve never suggested we visit the mausoleum because I would never have thought to subject her to that. Who would? But LeAnn said she wanted to go and pay respects to this person she didn’t know who had helped shape me. Truly remarkable.
While standing in the muted, stained-glass light of the mausoleum, I pointed to the blank square of marble next to Debra’s name and with some reluctance said, “That’s where I’m supposed to be some day.” That’s what happens when you bury someone decades earlier than expected: In the fog of the moment, you plan for your own ending; you dig your own grave. You don’t consider how your hopes might be resurrected, how your life might be reborn, how someone unexpected might walk in the room and change everything.
I call that my “upper room moment.” Not like the moment in the upper room when the disciples broke bread with Jesus for the last time, but that day after the crucifixion when they were back in that room, heartbroken, alone and afraid. I’m guessing some were thinking, “It’s over.” Not just the ministry and the hope it brought, but even their own lives. “They took Jesus; are they coming after us now?”
That’s pretty much how I felt when I bought my place in the wall. I wasn’t expecting to have this life that I have now. And I wasn’t remembering how Jesus walked back into that upper room and let his followers know, “It’s not over. In fact, it has really just begun.”
So, I have a decision to make about where to leave my bones someday. I have a place 300 miles away, but I’m feeling the pull of proximity to this life I have now; I’m feeling the pull of Easter.
But the bigger question is: Does it matter? I won’t have children or grandchildren to visit me, so does it matter? And most importantly, I won’t really be there, so does it matter?
There’s an old hymn that states:
In Christ there is no East or West, in Him no South or North;
But one great fellowship of love throughout the whole wide earth.
From a practical, geographical perspective, those words take some of the pressure off a decision. There are no boundaries in the Kingdom. Wherever we are is truly okay, because this is an eternal, spiritual matter. In faith we are part of one great fellowship of love that transcends borders and most certainly time and space. And in faith, that fellowship multiplies to include family past, present and future.
We still have awkward, earthly decisions to make, but that’s nothing compared to the good news from the upper room.