We want to know that in the end, there is something beyond the end. We desire some assurance that when that Abyss finally creeps to our doorstep, we will somehow be able to step over it into the beyond, into an Everlasting that’s kind and good to us.
A dear lady in my church spoke words for me, once again reminding me of that truth, although she didn’t realize it at the time. I say, “dear lady,” meaning that she’s one of those sweet ones who embraces everyone, everywhere, even the kids in the nursery who need a diaper change. But, she could shock the unsuspecting with her verbal bluntness, like the time she saw a picture in my office of me in my younger days, back in the day when I was heavy into weightlifting. “Dr. Whitlock, is that you?” she asked incredulously, and then, looking me up and down, “What happened?”
It was about a year before Covid that she asked me the other question, which gave me pause for thought. It happened when people were shaking my hand after the worship service, like they usually do, fellowshipping with one another on their way out.
“What is dementia?” she asked innocently.
I filtered the question through her condition: at the time, it had been less than a year since she had been diagnosed with the disease.
My heart ached for her as I looked into her vacant eyes.
And so, I gave her my best non-medical definition: “It’s when people have trouble remembering.”
I had just preached a sermon on heaven, and I suspected the topic prompted her next question: “How much time do I have before heaven?” None of us know that, do we? Illness on our part brings the question closer to home, but when we stop and think about it, we know God has promised none of us tomorrow, or even this afternoon, for that matter.
My friend was concerned about her future, and her illness had confused her. I hurt with her in that moment, her moment, which is, whether we have dementia or not, collectively our moment, prompted by the question: “Will God remember me with favor when it comes to that time, that moment, when my life is in the balance, with eternity before me?”
That is the question, and it is an ultimate one, above all the other seemingly important questions, like, “Will I get tickets to the game? Will I pass the class? Will the kids be okay? Will I get the promotion? Will I have enough for retirement?”
The question surpassing those others is, “Am I okay for eternity?” It overpowers all others in its significance, engineering a variety of responses, spiraling into thousands of religions across millennia.
I hugged my sweet friend: “God doesn’t have dementia. And he remembers us, even when we can’t remember Him, or ourselves, or anyone else, and he will bring his children, whom he knows by name, home at the right time.”
It was as if I had covered her with a weighted blanket, soothing her as she continued peering into my eyes, as if she were looking for something beyond them.
And then she turned to her husband, who had been there all along, but who nonetheless startled her without frightening her, knowing him but not knowing him, as if someone had lifted a curtain, revealing his presence again for the first time. In an instant, everything behind her, including me and our conversation, seemed to have evaporated.
I watched them shuffle all the way out the church door, my heart feeling strangely warmed at the thought: our Father will never forget his own and will come for them, when it’s time, His time, to draw us near, into his everlasting arms, forever.