The Glory Mantle

Last night, with the help of some medical friends, I found an old prescription for pain given to H. at the beginning of his treatment. He never had any significant pain in the beginning so it went unused. It also had a small narcotic and I didn't want him to experience nausea so I overlooked it. But the pain in his ribs returned on the right side and he could not lay down comfortably. SO...he popped the pills. Within an hour he began to experience some brief hallucinations..the furniture was misplaced in his room. ...the door was on the wrong side...but finally he got sleepy...and he laid down in his comfortable bed. I stayed with him for an hour or two until Julianne found us both asleep. His bedroom door remained opened throughout the night. No one moved, not even a mouse. Deep rest came to the house, no midnight calls, no wandering around sleeplessly, just deep quiet rest for everyone, even the cat. I was too tired to write the blog, and nothing had come together anyway....just random unrelated events. The many wonderful emails we have received lately floated endlessly through my mind and heart like a heavenly tonic for the soul. Hans had read each one. So much is going on in the lives of God's people. He was grateful for each having taken the time to write.

In the morning I felt the tender mercies of God. There was hope in the thin air of the Spirit. There was that Saturday "I'm going to clean the garage" type feeling... the time of youth, jean shorts, baggy t-shirts and tennis shoes.  In the old days it would have been coffee at the breakfast table...newspaper and mom in an apron. Now it is yahoo on my laptop. Then I remembered my companion in the next room. He has gone from 221 to 200 in six days, his tummy is flat again but his legs are like reeds. 

But for the first time, I saw Hans walk from his bedroom to the kitchen without holding on to the walls, or the walker. He was still bent over and dragging his prayer shawl behind him looking every bit like Gandhi—bald head, thin pointed nose, protruding thoughtful eyes. All he needed was his white muslin or cotton gown. Lately he will not part with a small wooden cross on a metal chain. He wears it remembering  Galatians 2:20-1; 6:14 and Romans 6. It is TAU cross and I am unaware of its significance. Does anyone know? 

As we drink coffee together he asks, "Do you think I am living in self denial?" He laughs and says "I know I am in self denial, but do you think I am in denial regarding cancer?" His voice is raspy and he sounds like an extremely old man. The year and a half coughing jags have left his vocal cords wounded. It is an extremely dangerous question for me to try to answer. Here is a man who will not help me plan his funeral, nor even talk about funerals or heaven. He is a man on mission and death is far from the door of his mind. I say, "It is a thin line, for a Christian, between denial and faith. What appears to the world as denial is really waiting on God in hope and faith. To talk about funerals is a capitulation to the obvious." But I went on to say, "There are some practical matters...should you die...where shall you be buried? How will we pay for it?" "And most of all, there is the spiritual component." Have you faced your failures? What is your legacy to the next generation? To the kingdom? Have you forgiven everyone and asked for your own sins to be forgiven? Are you at peace with yourself? He asks me if I will help him prepare for this, "just in case." My mind drifts toward the idea of "last rites..."

grateful that the central issue of salvation has long been established in his life and that we are really just talking about "putting one's house in order..." accounting, disposal, invitations, family....not the really big thing like facing the God of the universe...as a "goyim", naked—without the mantle of Christ covering you. Now my  mind drifts toward the "mercy seat" and the many times we have sung this song with its reality fresh in our hearts. "Christ died for your sins, take eat..." our mercy seat. 

He says "I want my funeral to be simple. I want to be observed as simply a servant of God. Graveyard services, a wooden box, and the Spirit of God." What? No golden chariots? That's what I want for my apostle husband. I want the glory mantle to be passed on to those who see him rise. But no, he wants the funeral of an anawim...those who possess the "mary mantle." (Hmmm..I make a note to myself, not even in death will the flesh be validated.)  No...the spirit alone is to be glorified, for what is a man except dust? So —it is graveside services. 

As we part for our morning devotions, I am shocked how much I revere this man. When did that happen? When did he stop being the guy who took out the garbage and fixed our wounds and made my overlarge furniture fit in a tiny tiny room? When did he stop being the handyman? When the strife of life ceased, when the burden of "ministry" was over, when the yoke of Christ was removed so that he could rest, did I really see him for who he is. I weep for I think, I could have been a better wife, a better companion. But no, we were like two oxen pulling a heavy cart up Mt. Zion and we didn't have time or opportunity for beauty or reverence. After all, it is the Reverend Dr. Weerstra. Oh yeah, somehow I forgot that appellation in the tyranny of life. And only now does my used up and overworked husband take on those heavenly attributes that are rightfully his. And I also ask, when did that homeless vagabond crucified nobody take on the reality of His kingship? It is a mysterious transformation, indeed.