The Aftermath

My thoughts begin to unravel in the dark. When the day is done and I pull the covers around my neck, I let sleep drag me into an unconscious dance of slumber and dreams.
Tonight I cannot sleep. Tears slowly sink into my sheets. I try to squeeze the pain away, the loneliness that threatens to suffocate me. It sounds dramatic.

This is the aftermath.

Its not the aftermath of a bomb, an earthquake, or a tornado. No, this is the aftermath of separation. Miles between me and them, miles between my arms and theirs, miles. . .

People don't quite understand. They don't understand when they tell me my shirt is backwards and I don't care. . . I tell them there are more important things to worry about. They don't understand when my eyes well up during a normal conversation. They don't. . . They just don't.

Tonight I tried to bridge the distance. After some difficulty, I finally found a number I could call the kids at. When I first called they were in the evening devotional. I could hear the singing in the background. Oh how I miss devotions. I miss the sound of Manuel's loud, off-tune singing. I miss sitting by Elias with his tiny arms draped around my shoulder. I miss Mainor's hugs during prayer.

More tears. They won't stop now.

When I called back I talked to Elias. He didn't say much. I spent most of the time telling him how much I missed him. Suddenly Manuel had the phone and was asking me when I was coming to visit. . . Next it was Enrique who wanted to make sure I would bring him cleats for his graduation. Tania was supposed to get the phone next. Somehow it never made it to her. I was online. She sent me a chat. She told me not to bother calling her back because she didn't want to talk to me anymore. Things are different now she said. A few minutes passed. Karla sent me a message saying Tania wanted me to call her. I did, and just as they passed her the phone, my card ran out of minutes.

Don't they care? Don't they understand? The card company that is. Tania doesn't understand either. She doesn't believe me when I tell her how much I miss her. As I type, salty tears drench my face. She can't see me. She has no idea. I want to scream at her, to shake her, to reach through the computer and make her see how much she hurts me with her cold words.


I crawl into bed. Miserable. Sad. Lonely. I beg God to take away these feelings of separation. Thousands of miles away kids are going to bed unaware of how I feel. They do not see my tears or feel the anguish in my soul. Could this be how He feels?

Every night I climb into bed, often drifting to sleep in the middle of my prayer. He's thousands of miles away. Do I see the anguish in His soul or understand how He feels? Do I know His love? Those kids may forget me, may never understand how much I care about them, but I will never stop loving them.

He never stops loving me.

What's the aftermath? Is it the tears? Or the fact that His love covers me, soothes me?

Lord give me strength, courage, and love. Love is the greatest of these. . . and He first loved us.

Holier Than Thou

I hear her first. I think everyone hears her, even if they’re seated too far away to see her arm flail sporadically from side to side. Her loud ’Amens’ and grated clapping sear through Mark Finley’s steady sermon at what seem to be the most inopportune moments. I cringe a little. The long red sleeve of her suit coat looks like a beacon of disaster as she thrusts her arm heavenward. She’s the type who makes conservative Adventists squirm in their seats as they clutch for their Bibles, sure it is their duty to quote a verse or two to silence her irreverence. But here she is . . . near the front of the Sabbath church service at the 2010 ASI Convention. The sermon is amazing. We follow Finley through Matthew 25 and the story of the 10 virgins. He starts calmly, but as time ticks, he builds to a soul searching crescendo. I grab a donation envelope and scribble down a few notes, including a quote, There’s a difference between having the Word of God in your hand to DEFEND the truth and having it in your heart to LIVE the truth.

Powerful.

Why is it that we often find ourselves critical of others, certain it is our appointed duty to point out their flaws to them, or worse, to others? Instead of saturating our hearts and insides with Gods truth, we clothe our outsides with the appearance of truth. We are like sheep in wolves clothing. I find myself looking around with a snide smirk as the woman continues to voice her convictions. Even the camera person throws occasional mocking smiles toward his associates.

The sermon draws to a close and we kneel to pray. And then I hear her again. She’s loudly sobbing, gasping out Oh dear Lord, over and over again. I try to mentally drown her out and focus on the prayer, yet her passionate pleas coat my ears. I’m exasperated for a few more moments, and then I let it all sink in. I feel like the pompous Pharisee in Luke 18 who looks down on the tax collector and his simple prayer.

I need truth in my heart. She’s crying out for it, yearning for it, and she doesn’t care who sees or hears. May we follow her example.