In His Presence

This fictional story was inspired by a sermon by Christine Caine.

One late October night, wind with pelting rain blustered outside, seeming for all the world like March. Being extremely tired, I didn’t even read my Bible before lying down, just flipped the light and nodded off. Unusual for me. The next thing I remember is being abruptly awakened by someone tugging my arm, trying to pull me from my bed. Leave me be! I twisted face down into the nest of linens.

I was dead weight. Yet they managed to elevate my lifeless body and then bury my face into what must’ve been an armpit. As frightening and as chilly as it should’ve been–wind whipping my legs and tousling my hair–I wasn’t scared or cold or anything really. Except aggravated.

In a short while, my feet bumped the ground and a blinding light fully aroused and startled me, so much so that I covered my face with my hands. “Where am I?” I faced my sleep-napper and pulled my hands away, but the light drew them back to my face. “What’s going on?”

A kind voice spoke. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in heaven.

Heaven? Seriously, heaven? Somewhat dazed, but still unafraid, I desperately wanted to view my surroundings and the person speaking.

“You’re about to learn something that those who seek God must fully understand, and you must pass along.” The voice was that of a man.

Me? I thought. Why tell such an extraordinary thing to me? Still, as curious as I was, I was more interested in seeing heaven. I peeped through slits made by my fingers, my eyes getting used to the light. Much better. “Is it okay if I look around?”

“Of course,” he said. “It just takes a few seconds to acclimate.” Seeing that I wasn’t fearful, he stepped closer. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Paul of Tarsus.”

I’m not sure what struck me more—the scenery as my eyes embraced every nuance of my bright and stunning surroundings or the seeming fact that I was conversing with the inimitable St. Paul—apostle, evangelist, and author extraordinaire. The man who penned most of the New Testament. Yet, even St. Paul couldn’t pull my gaze from the dazzling and contrasting vistas before me, like dropping into a fantasy. I twirled about, gushing. “Wow! So this is heaven?”

“Yes. You’re getting the abbreviated, back door tour. The country-side of heaven. Most people don’t come in this way, but the impact is nonetheless stunning.”

“I see you’re still the master of the understatement.” A silver sash complemented his pure white robe and his full face had an easy smile.

He laughed. “I’m glad you’re impressed.”

We stood near the edge of an iridescent road shimmering like golden diamonds. Yet it wasn’t opaque. Beneath the pavement, multi-hued earthworms wiggled and squirmed, and strange yet beautifully colored flowers whose petals popped beneath the highway’s glassy golden surface, could clearly be seen.

If that wasn’t peculiar enough, a crystal-clear brook near the road splashed across large and small rocks with jutting crystals and multiple striations, and with something resembling lips etched into their grooves! The rocks gurgled and chattered to the brook, the brook to the birds, the birds to the butterflies, and the butterflies to creatures unknown to me, flying over and around the brook.

I twirled around, trying to take it all in, and that’s when I saw the ocean. It laid beyond the brook and moved with one gentle wave as it glistened and caressed a shore that treasured its touch. The saturated sand seemed to sigh as it slipped underneath the great ocean’s embrace and then it would scurry back out. Under, over, and out. A happy game of water tag where I could see each individual grain, each drop of water, leaping, playing. How is this possible?

I turned to St. Paul, completely enthralled. “Is Jesus here?”

“He is with us, as He is omnipresent. In fact, He just asked me to bring you to Him.”

My hands quickly covered my heart, now beating so wildly I hoped it wouldn’t jump from my chest. “Here? Jesus wants to see me here?”

He smiled. “Of course, that’s why you’ve come.”

As I gazed about, spellbound, trying to grasp what was happening, trying to take in the grandeur, I pointed to the large, beautiful homes hovering near billowy clouds in the sky. “Do you live in one of those?”

He waved past me. “I live way over there.”

I tried to imagine living in one of these hovering mansions with an amazing view of talking brooks and birds, golden roads, and playful sand. And, really, I couldn’t imagine it. It seemed more like a perfected Alice in Wonderland fantasy than heaven.

I turned back to the Apostle. “I’m so grateful to you, St. Paul. You’re one of my heroes—the prisons, the torture that you endured for us all. My favorite of your letters is the one to the Romans. I bet I’ve read it a thousand times.” I hoped I wasn’t rambling.

Paul smiled humbly. “Thank you. I was dogged back then. If I couldn’t convert you, I would pray and fast for days. If nothing changed, I reluctantly moved on. Peter would tell me to dust the sand from my feet and go, but I always remembered.”

“Remembered?”

“The martyrs. My second chance.” Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “I was responsible for the deaths of many saints, you know, but Jesus gave me a lifeline. Afterwards, I memorized every martyr’s face. That, along with the hope of Christ, gave me the passion to try and convert every unsaved person.” He sort of gulped and then smiled. “But I’ve met the martyrs here! Every one of them.”

As I touched the great man’s shoulder, he dried his eyes and took my hand. “Are you ready?”

“To meet Jesus?”

He nodded.

Now somewhat fearful, I wasn’t sure, but returned his nod.

“Let’s do it.” His face was beautifully lit from his tears.

My feet lightly arose from the pavement, an amazing experience. I was so bleary-eyed before, I didn’t fully conceive that I was flying, even as my body weight had seemed to evaporate. Now, warm air rushed through my hair and filled my nostrils, my pores, and my lungs. I inhaled, riveted, as all sorts of multi-hued creatures, many of them foreign to me, flew with us and past us.

Shimmering light swirled about, dueling like swords of flashing diamonds. It reflected off every bird’s feather and blade of grass, off every splash of water and butterfly wing, producing colors alien to my eyes. Quickly, we came upon a knoll where thousands of blooming flowers and grasses in breathtaking hues birthed an enchantment of fragrances that blessed all my senses.

Stunning though it was, as I looked beyond us, a soft golden light held my gaze. I fixated on the light’s allure–like nothing I’d ever experienced–blissful, alive, captivating. Its radiance attracted every living thing toward it, including St. Paul and me.

A beautiful white stallion was enveloped by the light and was surrounded by hundreds of people, and what appeared to be angels, although I had trouble differentiating the two. The people were smaller and without wings, though some of the largest angels were wingless, too. Large and small creatures, some with four heads and six wings, some with many eyes, surrounded the soft glow and bowed to the ground. As we drew nearer, I realized the hum I heard from the distance was the glorious chants of the Cherubim and the Seraphim: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty; the whole earth is full of His glory.”

The reality of those words . . . the fragrance. His aura took my breath and I stopped mid-air. Paul smiled at me. “No one can resist Him. Well, not in this place anyway. Many resist Him on Earth.” He motioned to me. “Come. He awaits.”

It is Jesus. And he waits . . . on me. Tears came to my eyes and a knot formed in my throat.

As we floated to the ground, the great throng of angels and people parted. He stood no more than fifty feet in front of us, talking and smiling like a regular person. Anxiety filled me, realizing I would soon stand before my Creator, the Being I prayed to and listened for, and hoped to one day see. As we strolled in, my knees were giving way and my eyes were now fully moist. I measured each footstep. “Slower, St. Paul, slower.”

My senses tingled as we moved into what felt like a sunbeam’s shaft of goodness and light, where hope and mercy and love, and every good thing seemed to reside. “Worthy is the Lamb,” the Cherubim chanted, “who was slain, to receive power and riches and wisdom . . .”

My body hairs stood up like porcupine needles. The glory, the love, was so superior to anything on Earth that as Jesus’ aura fell over me, I almost couldn’t stand. I turned to St. Paul for comfort, for stability, for words, but he simply placed his hand on my shoulder and nudged me in front of him. Immediately, I saw the feathery wings and the glowing garments of the living creatures who stand before Him.

Then I saw Jesus . . .

and fell.

Tears flooded my face, not because I wanted, but because I was overcome. Breathe! I could not move in the presence of such amazing grace, my spirit discerning how completely deficient, insufficient, pathetic I was in the presence of such Holiness, power, and love. Oh please, I prayed inwardly, Dear Jesus, don’t allow me to be swallowed into the belly of the earth where I belong. Please let me do this thing it seems I have been commissioned to do, I am honored to do, I am resolute to do.

Except I could not speak or move or stand.

Since my eyes were the only things available to my will, I opened them. In my prostrate position, I saw His toes and His sandals, and the hem of his robe, and I tried to reach out to touch it like the woman in the Bible with the issue of blood, but I was paralyzed.

“Don’t be afraid.” He spoke so tenderly. “You won’t be swallowed up. You’re a vessel of light.“

“But, I am nobody.” My body trembled. “I don’t preach or teach or sing or do anything that should put me in your presence, Jesus. I wish I did.” I placed my face into the pulsating grass and it tickled me. “And my past. My past still haunts me.”

“It’s all insignificant. You mean everything to me.” He touched my hand, bidding me up, and I looked into his beautiful face, full of compassion and warmth. Not one hint of judgment. My trembling began to subside and I awkwardly stood up beside him. He put His arm around my shoulder and the white stallion neighed and bowed. “Not now, Bountiful,” He said, and I realized the horse was trying to allow Him up. Can’t believe I’m here. Maybe I’m dead?

Jesus nodded to the horse and waved to the people and angels before motioning me back through the meadow away from the crowd and toward a mountain. St. Paul had disappeared and Bountiful pranced in the distance, keeping pace with us. As we walked along, Jesus picked two flowers, a tall, cactus-like species I had never before seen. He looked over and smiled. “You’re not dead,” He said. “You’re just visiting.”

After what I’d witnessed, I was afraid to speak, though Jesus had given my fear no reason to surface. As we neared the mountain of multi-colored trees with shades of scarlet and purple, I seemed to float in the fragrance of empress trees and sweet-smelling pines, of jasmine and lavender. Even frankincense.

Jesus spoke and pointed His hand and at once an ocean appeared, exactly where the meadow ended and the mountain began. Exactly where we stood! My lip dropped. I had been almost drooling from the aroma’s and now I stood before a moveable, playful, and superior version of sea, sand, and sky that even my dreams could not improve upon.

“The ocean relaxes you. Let’s sit over there,” he motioned to two chairs facing the waves, “where we can talk.” Spectacularly-speckled silver and gold birds, with purple ribbons flowing behind them flew down to meet us and wrapped and unwrapped their ribbon-like wings around Jesus’ arms and even the strands of His hair.

He laughed and put his hands out, not waving them off, but caressing them as each flew to touch Him. “It’s their way of loving me,” He said, amused by these magnificent creatures. Afterwards, we sat in white linen arm chairs, and the birds gathered around us, cooing as birds often do. Sometimes cooing, “Hallelujah.” Sounding like chimes with an English inflection.

I was nearly trance-like when he turned his chair sideways. “So, what do you think of what Paul said?”

Knowing exactly what He meant, but still somewhat nervous, (I was in heaven with Jesus!) I tried to speak. “I . . . I’m not sure but what . . .” I shook my head.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m no closer to you here than sometimes when you pray.” He paused, an encouragement for me to answer intelligently.

“I. . . I don’t know,” I heard myself say. “St. Paul said I would be told something all seekers of God should know, and that I should pass on.” I twirled my thumbs around each other, nervous. Maybe I should just try praying. I bowed my head. “Jesus, more than anyone, you know I want to fulfil my purpose, to be part of your bigger plan.” I should just stop here. “But it never happened for me. I developed no particular gift and have little, if anything, to offer.” I sighed, and closed my eyes tighter. “I am nobody. No one thinks of me as a great person of God, or listens to me, or heaven forbid, thinks I’m someone with a calling.”

“Everyone has a calling. You’re my special child. I wish you and others knew how very special each of you is to me. But hear this–most of the time, you’ll never know the impact you’ve made. People will decide for themselves. Those who belong to me will listen.” He touched my knee. “Open your eyes. You mustn’t miss anything I have for you.”

I obeyed, blinking, knowing what He said was true, but equally believing it was useless to make the Deity who created me understand that I was nobody. I want to be a somebody, but I’m not.

He picked up a handful of sand. “Did you ever imagine sand would spill through your fingers and dance in your palm? Would glisten like tiny sunbeams and the grains would seem so individual?” He caressed it in his palm. “It’s alive, you know.”

I actually did know, as I’d read somewhere that the trees and the sea and all things bowed to Him, so having seen the sand’s magnificence, I suspected it too may be alive.

Again, I nodded.

“What would you most like to say to me?” he asked.

His face was so pleasant. Even his hands and his hair had an aura, a sereneness that defied human understanding. I should just pray again. Instead, I looked square in His eyes. “At one time, I had a million questions for you. Now, I seem so insignificant compared to this glory, what does it matter?”

“It matters. And you matter.” He opened his hand and the sand in his palm wiggled like tiny pets. “These heavenly grains of sand need water. They constantly move toward the shoreline, a sort of dance that causes them to shimmer. The water isn’t only their dance partner, but their lifeline.” He tossed the sand to his side and a gentle wind settled it back to the ground. Lifting his palm toward me, he said, “See here.”

I stretched to see that one teeny grain of sand had stuck in His palm.

“When it’s all by itself, it has no luster. You can’t even see that it wiggles. Though you thought you were seeing just a few grains in my hand, there were thousands, wiggling and shimmering.” He smiled, delighted. “This tiny grain needs the others to move it toward the water. Their connection is what creates this visually stunning seaside carpet,” he waved his hand outward, “and moves them triumphantly toward their life force.”

His gentle voice and the ambiance had soothed my soul. I nestled my bare feet into the sand, closed my eyes, and felt the warm hypnotic breeze.

“Doesn’t that feel great?”

I finally felt relaxed. “Feels like the best body and foot massage I’ve ever had.” But my mind was still working. “Am I like a grain of sand?”

He leaned forward in his chair. “You and others were created to have symmetry, to be devoted to one another, just like the sand. To love one another. But unlike the sand, you also have a role, a purpose, created specifically for you. And when you fail to complete your part, it becomes harder for others to perform.

“Come, let’s walk down the beach,” He said.

I arose and He put a hand on my shoulder. “Visualize a movie with several characters missing from the cast. Others would constantly be improvising because of the missing actors. Imagine the confusion.”

Far from Earth’s turmoil, with magical sand massaging my every step, I said, “I . . . I think I understand. Basically, we are grains of sand moving toward our life force—You!”

“That’s true.” He stopped to pick up a seashell.”However, don’t miss the part where you’re moving forward together.”

I picked up my pace, to look back at Him.”I know. But, what about the missing characters in the cast? Does some of the sand not perform?”

He slowed His gait. “No. Only humans disrupt the process.”

“I’m sorry, Jesus.” We continued on. “I want to be part of that moving-forward group, but I feel like one of those missing characters sometimes, like someone disrupting the process.”

“I know you believe this, but it isn’t true. You are Christ-centered and moving toward Me. That’s why you’re here.”

I stopped, holding onto His words, wanting to bawl. “Really, what I do is enough?”

He reached over and put the seashell in my hand. “Listen to this.” I fumbled as I found the open-shell side and placed it to my ear. I heard these words, “Not everyone in the body of Christ can be the mouth, the nose, or the eyes. Someone has to be a toe, a finger, a shin, a cell . . .” The voice faded out. “Wow! Do all shells in heaven do this?” I handed it back.

He laughed. “No, I wanted this to be a special remembrance for you.”

We walked again and Jesus became serious. “Everyone can’t stand out for the world to see. But I see. I see every heart and how the Body connects. I see who loves, who gives, who nurtures. And what you do is as important as the evangelist or the singer. Do you realize through love you can affect one person who can have a huge impact on the world? Or even in your own family. One person loving or praying, or believing for me to direct their path, can affect changes in the atmosphere, in the spiritual realm, that you can’t begin to imagine. You are not just making a difference on earth, but in heaven and also in hell.”

He touched my hand. “Let’s turn around.” I notice that His robe wafts in the same direction as before. The breeze at His back.

“After you go home, you should read 1st Corinthians, Chapter 13, often. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.’ Remember those verses?”

I nod.

“Everything passes away except for love. Mighty forces are moving and fighting all around you.” The wind whips up at His words. “You feel the tug sometimes, don’t you? Certainly you see the chaos.”

I nod as the sudden brisk breeze blows my hair.

“And, I know you hear my voice because you’ve responded. People read what Paul wrote about love and use it at weddings, as they should. But to affect real change, you mustn’t participate in conversations, in actions, in anything contrary to love. That means no gossip, forgiving, giving people the benefit of the doubt, no cheating, taking the furthest parking spot, loving the loveless. So many things. ‘Love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things . . .’ It’s a tall order, I know.”

I can’t believe I do this, but I interrupt. “What about purpose?”

“That’s exactly what we’re talking about.” The breeze has quietened. “People want to change the world, but not themselves. They compete with one another, not complete each other.” He sighs. “And everyone wants a platform. I suggest a platform of love. ‘Love never fails.’” His words are strong, but His voice is gentle. “Remember these verses?—‘Whether there are prophecies they will fail, whether there are tongues, they will cease, whether there is knowledge it will vanish. . . ‘ Nothing is eternal except love.”

He walks over to the shoreline, directly in front of our chairs. “How beautiful is this water embracing the sand?”

Breathtaking. “It’s a scene I’ll never forget.”

“This is how it is if you walk in love. This is where you’ll find My presence. You are one of the precious grains of sand by my side, anointed with living water.” He walks into the wave, covering His feet. “Living in love—living here at the water’s edge—will drench you in the peace and power you need to overcome, to live supernaturally, and to complete your purpose.”

He lifts His wet robe and walks to the chair. “Do you understand?”

I shake my head. “Yes, Jesus. I think I finally do. I’m just impatient, I guess.”

He nods knowingly. “When I was born on earth, I was no less God than I am today. Yet Father held me back for thirty years before my ministry began.”

“Wow! I never thought of it that way.”

“He knows your heart and your abilities and He already has forces in motion. When your fullness in love and understanding and His timing finally collide, that’s when supernatural changes can lift hearts and lives, can break chains and move mountains.”

I shake my head. “That’s awesome! There’s so much we don’t comprehend as humans.”

“It’s true. Plus, it’s difficult living in today’s world. The enemy ignites so much anger and division he’s tearing even the ‘body of believers’ apart. This is what I want you to remember above everything. Apart from each other, you are disadvantaged. But together, you are majestic. You are a part of the Bride of Christ, my church, the body that must shine to the world in order to bring the world unto Me.” He opens His arms, seemingly bidding the universe to come. “There is only one way to do that. Love.”

Suddenly Bountiful bounded up the beach; Jesus arose and stepped toward me. My time with Him was over. I didn’t want to say goodbye, yet I’d been blessed much more than I deserved. I stood and held on to Him as Bountiful bowed by His chair. Tears fell from my eyes and He brushed them away. “This has been very good,” He said.

I nodded. “I know. I just don’t want to say goodbye.”

He patted my shoulders. “I am always with you. Pray to me. I love you, remember this.” Then He turned and stroked Bountiful’s beautiful full mane before mounting him.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see St. Paul. Jesus waved to us and pulled on Bountiful’s reins, turning the beautiful stallion. He trotted along the flawless shoreline as Jesus’ hair wafted in the gentle breeze. I watched, nearly breathless, hoping to never turn away.

St. Paul came to my side. “Ready to go?” he said.

My eyes trailed Jesus, along with the soft caress of the breeze. “No. I want to stay forever.”

Rinnggg! The alarm jars me. I rub my eyes, throw the sheet back, and jump up.

“Jesus!” I scream, as I frantically search the bedroom, scurry into the living room, run around the sofa, almost tripping over a rug, and walk dejectedly back to my bed. I know St. Paul was here and that I was with Jesus.

I plop onto the bed and eye my Bible on the nightstand. Opening it, I fumble for my glasses and place them square on my nose. My eyes move to these prophetic words, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love . . .” Tears flood my face.

I feel stunned, validated, loved. St. Paul, Jesus. It was real, wasn’t it?

I walk to the mirror over my dresser. My Creator revealed Himself to me, showed me my purpose, and really, every person’s purpose. Unbelievable. Pulling a tissue from its box, I gaze into the mirror.

A chime like that of an angel’s harp halts my blubbering. Suddenly I hear: “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three, but the greatest of these is love.” It’s from Chapter 13 of 1st Corinthians. What Jesus suggested I read.

Breathe . . . breathe.

I smile, crying and laughing, and gazing, just gazing into the mirror. Jesus is real!  At the Cross He gave me a gift I cannot repay and He asks almost nothing in return. Certainly nothing of comparison.

Now He offers me another gift–of supernatural living, of walking with Him, of knowing Him. In exchange, I offer Him myself.

I will swim in the wake of His presence by the ocean of His love, and I will give Him what He asks. Three words. Simple words.

I know you’re here and you hear me, Jesus.

I choose love.

 

 

 

This Side of Heaven

Ever feel like a cosmic force has sucked you into space, spun you around, and then slammed you back hard against the earth? And then afterwards, if that wasn’t bad enough, it happens all over again!

This was the beginning of one of those moments. If you’ve ever been stretched to your limit, and then some, you’ll understand what I’m about to say.

It started simply enough: My husband, Alan, and I were snuggled up on pillows, reading in bed when I heard a voice. It said, “Be patient with your Aunt LoRayne.”

I lowered my book and looked at Alan. “Why did you say that?”

He peered over his magazine. “Say what?”

“You said I should be patient with LoRayne.”

“No I didn’t.”

Uh oh. The Voice was as clear as an announcement, and even though I’d never heard God speak, I knew it was Him. That, or I was developing multiple personalities.

Had I been raised in a different family, (see Something about Karyn) I probably would’ve ignored it. Must be my imagination working overtime I would surely have thought. And for good reason. For months, we had been making exhaustive, weekly trips to Atlanta for my mother, Naomi Cantees’, care, but this time was different. We were nearing the end.

You see, my 55 year old mother was dying of cancer. Intensifying the situation, my Aunt LoRayne believed she would be healed, regardless of the diagnosis. Having a cancer patient in the family or being a cancer patient, many of you know, is a roller coaster ride from hell. One day things seem okay, yet the next, Last Rites can be in order. One Charleston doctor had advised us, “Don’t drag your mother all over the country looking for a cure.”

But we had, finding a renowned physician at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta who had performed the difficult surgery for colon cancer the first doctor had advised against.

Then the Voice had said to be patient. And I knew why.

LoRayne’s positive slant on even the worst prognosis was making me fruit-loopy, even though she was steadfast to help. Still, that constant diet of highs and lows, of becoming excited about something positive she’d relay only to learn that reality was nearly the opposite, made me weary, and leery of anything she said.

However, after three long years we all knew the end was near. Well, eveyone except LoRayne.

She and I were taking 12 hour shifts staying with Mother at Emory Hospital, and I was due to relieve her. I phoned to see how things were going before I left, as we sometimes did.

LoRayne was upbeat. “There are complications,” she said, “but Naomi’s condition appears to be reversing!” What! This was Mother’s last chance, and I wanted desperately to believe. LoRayne’s words offered the only lifeline we had left and so I clung to the lilt in her voice and the magnificence of her words, though her past assertions had thumped me. Hanging up, I unleashed a bucket of tears, thinking: Could we possibly be planning a celebration instead of a funeral?

Almighty God, it seemed, had answered our prayers.

LoRayne drove from the hospital that day and I decided to walk. It was an early summer morning and the news had invigorated me.

When I arrived in the room, I smiled and threw my arms around Mother.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “I’m excited about your news,” I said.

Mother looked away. “What did LoRayne tell you?”

When I told her, Mother started to cry. “I’m so sorry, darling, but that’s not exactly what the doctor said.” She explained that an annoying itch she had complained about was the complication LoRayne mentioned. It had been diagnosed as skin cancer. Another cancer. Though it was likely treatable, the original sarcoma was still killing her.

I sat through my shift rather civilly, considering the lump in my throat was jump kicking between my feet and my head. I was restless and angry, but I hid it from Mother.

The acting ceased when I retired my shift early. I found LoRayne in her hotel room. Something outside of me took over. I screamed, “How could you do this? Skin cancer can’t possibly be a sign that everything is okay?” Over and over. I had been thumped from the foot of the grave to the heavens one time too many.

And then I heard, not the audible Voice as before, but an expression in my heart that was just as clear. “This is what I was talking about. Be patient with your Aunt LoRayne.” I stopped mid sentence.

LoRayne began to cry. She was older than my mother, and had been a sort of surrogate mother to her sister since the two of them were young. She was wearier than me and just as distraught. That night she cried a long while. Together, we decided that she should fly home. My brother Ric took her place.

A couple of months later, Mother died.

My Aunt LoRayne believed that If you have faith as small as a grain of mustard seed, miracles will happen, just like the Bible says. She had enough faith for all of us. And maybe if we all could have believed the way she did, my Mother would have been healed. I’ve heard it said that an uncommon problem requires uncommon faith. I think there’s much truth to that. God certainly heals people miraculously and I know He answers prayers. He heard my aunt’s prayer. And while He appreciated her hopeful heart, He knew there would be no miracle for my Mother this side of heaven.

The miracle was for me—the gift of His soft yet urgent Voice. He warned me, not just to save LoRayne from my tongue lashing, but as a powerful reminder that He was mightily present.

In life and in death.

In the middle of the pain, the suffering, and the tears.

Photos:  Above: On our way to Atlanta in our Cesna. One of numerous weekly trips. With my mother Naomi Cantees and my husband, Alan.

Pic left: Mother, center, with her sisters, Ilda, left, and LoRayne, right. Circa 1944 in Belfry, Ky.

Pic. right: Mother next to my brother, Rick, at Alan’s and my wedding in Charleston, WV.

IMAG0040Ilda Nyberg, Naomi Cantees, LoRayne Dinguess for blog