We Baptists are not so much involved with angels; that’s more of a Catholic thing. But on the Saturday before Mother’s Day—as I say it, anyway—we had an angel at our church. There was a funeral, and there was a song.
A woman who was much admired in our congregation for her unconditional love of all of us—and of everyone else she ever met—died, suddenly. Her death shook not only our congregation, but it shook our whole town also. Diane was a vigorous seventy-one-year-old. On the day she died, I am sure that she had not expected to walk out of her front door, stumble, and regain her balance only by a stepping into Heaven.
Commonly, at our church services, there are sixty to eighty people in attendance. On the Saturday before Mother’s Day, for Diane’s funeral, there may have been three hundred.
Diane’s mother had been the Official Hugger of our church. Upon her death—two years to the day before Diane’s—informally her post was passed to Diane. Customarily, my family sits in the pew next to the pew in which Diane’s family sits. During each Sunday service, there is a moment when our choir director instructs us to greet one another. I have had hundreds of hugs from the daughter of our Official Hugger, and I have been moved by the genuineness of each one.
*****
I know that this story of mothers is complicated, but there is yet one other mother involved. Another mother of our congregation moved away from us about eighteen months ago. Gail and her husband, in their seventies and eighties, became infirm. They moved to Massachusetts to live with his son. Their absence, too, was a wrench for our congregation. Deeply loved by us, and deeply loving of us in return, Gail was a most gracious hostess when she lived among us. Their home, built by the husband, had been the location of our Wednesday night prayer meetings.
When they moved away, our pastor and his wife bought their house. During prayer meetings now, when we meet at our pastor’s house, we are repeating as guests in Gail’s home, too.
Gail had been especially solicitous toward Channa and me as we were coming to Christ. Her hugs were as genuine—though more delicate—than those of the other church mothers who hugged us.
The final thing you should know about Gail is this: she has a profoundly beautiful singing voice. Many in our choir have good voices, some have excellent ones. But Gail’s voice is of another quality entirely. It is a glory of God that humans are able to make such sounds, for the humans who make such sounds help us to anticipate what we shall hear in Heaven.
The funeral. I am a deacon, so I had chores and bustle as the hour approached. Cars piled into our parking area and overflowed along the road. One of our town’s policemen is a brother deacon. He was outside directing traffic and wondering where to put it all. A flood of mourners poured through our doors. Channa—our pastor’s secretary—was busily printing more and more copies of the bulletin as the attendees doubled and tripled.
A side door opened. Gail and her husband made their slow way inside.
That they had come!
The service. The order of service included three hymns. Before the third hymn, our pastor announced a slight change in the detail from the bulletin. Gail had agreed to sing the third hymn herself.
Gail!
Hobbling on her walker, it took several minutes for Gail to reach the front of the church. Utter silence. Our choir director held the microphone. Our pastor’s wife rippled quietly on the piano through the opening bars of the hymn. Then Gail opened her mouth, and music ascended, as on the wings of an angel.
*****
Here’s what I said to Gail afterwards. “My dear, you made me cry.”
Here’s what she replied, twinkling, “Yes. You cried because I can’t carry a tune anymore. You poor old thing, you cried.”
“No, Gail,” I said. “You took us to Heaven, with Diane.”
Copyright, 2013 -- Dikkon Eberhart
No comments:
Post a Comment