FireQuill Publications
The
Short Stories, Plays and Bible Studies of Kathy Kearney
The
Short Stories, Plays and Bible Studies of Kathy Kearney
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Don't Hate - Resurrection
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I DON’T HATE THE Of course the one who is dying doesn’t want anyone to know for fear of unwanted pity, but the music and the cough keep giving them away and they are suddenly surrounded with scads of people from the garbage man to the president, who are so deeply touched by this dilemma that lives are drastically changed, the course of nations altered and the final death scene appears on national T.V. with the dying person still immaculately groomed (in a nightgown now) and from the pillow the pink healthy glowing face gives one final “cough” along with the last “TA TUUM” of the music and it’s all over. It wasn’t like that with Lisa. It’s not like that with anyone. Disease is awful. The person dwindles before you, and hurts and vomits and instead of being noble and supporting, you want to run and run, and when you don’t run then you just want them back the way they were. You pray for that, and try really hard to believe it will be so but underneath you know in your inmost being that it isn’t going to happen; that you have to stay and watch. Sure you laugh, and joke and talk all around it. Sometimes you face it alone and sometimes together, but it finally happens. They’re gone and you’re left behind. You wonder if you’ll ever feel joy again. Anyway that’s how it happened with me when Lisa died. She was twenty-five when she died. That’s a big age gap but I don’t think we ever thought much about age. We were too busy being and doing together. Actually, Lisa was my foster mother. Both my parents? Well … let’s just say they were out of the picture at that time. I had gotten into trouble and when the whirlwind of police, probation officers, courts and trials settled down there was Lisa and I went to live with her. Lisa was a Christian. She was the organist at her church and loved music more than anyone I ever knew. The apartment we shared was filled with it, either from the stereo, her guitar, the organ or her singing, all kinds of music. Me? I wasn’t brought up in any religion but I hated juvie and loved music so I thought I might as well try it. I went to church and youth group. I never gave Lisa any problems along those lines. Soon the best part of life was talking to her: late at night when my homework was done, over meals or over the noise of my shower while she was putting on her makeup in the morning. One night I had a term paper to finish. I had waited until the last minute and Lisa helped me wade through 10,000 books and showed me how to footnote the paper and then helped me type it. We finally finished at about one in the morning. I really expected her to bawl me out for putting it off. But when we were all done she got out our coats and said, “The best footnote for a term paper was a pizza”. So there we were at one thirty in the morning at an all night restaurant eating pizza and giggling like crazy because we were so tired. She taught me how to cook, how to shop for bargains, how to dress nicely and where all the best picnic places were. She told me awful, corny jokes: “Will you always remember me?” She’d ask. “Of course I will.” “Knock, Knock”. Who’s there? “See you forgot me already!” She taught me to read music and play the guitar. She told me about Christ and how he’d cleaned up her life when she was my age. She loved people, dogs, flowers, Bible studies, retreats and one day when I came home crying over not being selected for cheerleader, she cried with me, I realized then that Lisa loved me too. She made me want to live the best life ever for her. And then she died. The day of her funeral I stood by the grave and I listened to the minister talk about the resurrection. He quoted a verse I could never forget. I hated that verse. It went, “Death where is thy victory, death where is thy sting?” Where? “It’s here,” I cried inside. Death won Lisa from me and I am stung now. That verse just meant salt in a wound for me. People tried to comfort me. “Lisa’s free of pain,” they said. “She’s with God in heaven. You should be glad for that. You wouldn’t selfishly wish for her back. Would you?” “Yes, yes I would”, I shrieked inside my aching heart. I need her. So she’s with God in heaven, but what about me? All that resurrection talk was for the dead, what about the living? Then one day about a year later I was playing a song Lisa had taught me and I had a thought: “Resurrection.” That’s all. Just that word. Another time I was cooking a casserole she’d taught me to make, and it came to me again. “Resurrection.” And again when I listened to a friend pour out some hidden pain in her heart. “Resurrection.” And again one afternoon while I was sitting in the park at one of our favorite picnic spots. And then suddenly I saw that there is a resurrection in this life. Lisa’s life was continually being resurrected in mine. So many actions, thoughts, values songs; they were appearing in my life. And then I remembered what she had shared with me about Christ, and suddenly I knew that I wanted His resurrection in my life more than anything in the world. He didn’t intend for death to hurt me, but to heal me. He was the love Lisa had poured into my life and now I could have them both forever. I didn’t have to wait; it had been mine for the asking all along. I don’t hate the resurrection anymore. It has come to mean Christ in my life, and the joy of knowing that I will see Lisa again as I now see memories of her everyday in my own life. And that comforts me. “Death where is thy victory, death where is thy sting?” “Where indeed?” |
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