The emblem of suff’ring and shame;
And I love that old cross where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.
I attended a funeral today. It was not someone I had ever met. A man my husband's family knew. It was the largest funeral to which I've ever been. Over 300 in attendance. It was held in the 'Old School Gym' in Kelliher, Minnesota. The man himself, Shorty Hillman, was from Waskish--a town 20 or so miles further to the North. A town that for the duration of the funeral and dinner was drained of inhabitants. Although, it really only held a few dozen people on any given day.
As Shorty's family filed into the gym, the descendant's nephew, a pastor played upon the Clavinova, 'The Old Rugged Cross.' 56. That was the number of his family that walked past me. I counted them. His sweet wife, Marllys leading the march in her motorized wheelchair...smiling though obviously sad to have to make this march alone. It was standard funeral fare. Songs. Preaching. Scriptures. None of it overcooked nor long winded. It was actually refreshing. Lots of laughs. Few tears. Memories shared.
Got me to thinking about what we do with life. What do we have to give at the end? What did Shorty offer when he got home? It's a burden sometimes to be here. It doesn't seem natural to me. I have lamented many times that I'm a Stranger here...in the world. I think our bodies are like wet overalls..heavy and old, never quite fitting correctly. I get homesick and melancholy often. Longing to be back with my 'people.' I am full there. Complete. Perfect. When I get back my mission will have been fulfilled. Makes me think of Matthew 5:48. A call to be perfect. To complete the job. To come home.
I think He misses us, too.
So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.
Some day we'll arrive back in His embrace and He'll ask what we have to show Him. Not in the form of condemnation, but in the form of excitement. The way a Father would ask his little girl what she's hiding in her hand. Once, when I was a little girl, my own earthly father asked me exactly that. My hands muddy and dripping, opened to reveal a tadpole, fat and gasping. I had, to my thinking, rescued him. He was at the edge of a puddle and kept flopping himself to the edge no matter how many times I 'helped' him back into the fullness of the water. My father explained, as the poor little guy gasped his last, that he was ready to move to land and become a bullfrog. My heart was broken. I was 6 years old and a murderer of amphibians. He held me while I cried and told me that God would count that as a good deed, because the intent in my heart was to rescue him.
Another time, I saved a ground squirrel from the jaws of my sister's cat, Demon. His head crushed and bleeding, I put him in an old hamster cage. He writhed for hours, obviously in intense pain. My parents told me he would die. But, I refused to believe that my love, alone, wouldn't keep him alive. I'm sure the analogy to lost relationships is clear and need not be explained.
My life is full of such occasions. Attempts at rescue. Inevitable smothering. Fruitless rescusitation of doomed relationships. My whole life is paved with the intents of my heart. I have never purposely hurt someone. But, often my own insecurities, fears, or pride well up and create a death where one was not intended. I squish the emotional life right out of people. I don't mean to. But, I do...sometimes. Oh, how it hurts to accidentally pain someone you care about. I would rather my hand be slammed in the door a thousand times than inadvertently do it once to my child.
But, The Lord knows my heart. He knows what I mean. That's how He will judge me on the Great Day. I'll drop all my little trophies on the table in front of Him--dead tadpoles, sticky chewed gum, paper clips, rescued ground squirrels, dead butterflies, casseroles delivered, old people visited and loved, prayers uttered, blessing for my children begged, health for my parents petitioned. All trophies--and all I have to show for my life. All I have to offer.
I'll thank Him then. For carrying the old rugged cross. And leaving it there for me to see on the hill. I cherish and cling. I have no doubt that Ol' Shorty cherished and clung. Neat man from what I hear. good guy. Wish I'd met him. Wish I'd seen some of his trophies. Someday, Shorty, someday.
So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.
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