falling asleep

These days I go about life with one primary objective: Thursday afternoon.

My workweek begins on Monday at 7 am.  I am fortunate to have an employer that permits me to do my job at hours that suit me.  By Thursday at 11 am, I have completed my 40 hours for the week, and I hit the road for Mom & Dad’s, 99 miles away.  That is where Grandpa is.  I usually get there by one in the afternoon, and that is where I stay until Sunday evening, when I drive north again to do my job the next week.

So I do everything else in order to get here on Thursday, and relieve some of the burden on the rest of the house who gives care seven days a week.  It is my great privilege to watch over Grandpa two nights a week, taking my turn on the sofa opposite his bed in the living room.  Dad takes two nights a week there when I am gone, and the other three are covered by people from outside the house.  Tonight is one of those.

The outside is nearly as still as possible.  My bedroom window has been open for two hours, but the air has not changed.  Nothing stirs.  Strange that amid the exhaustion of the routine, tonight is the night I cannot sleep, the night when I have my chance.  Strange that I cannot sleep as Grandpa cannot stay awake, preparing and being prepared to fall asleep in Christ.  He is tired – 33,000 days of tired.  Perhaps two handfuls remain.  His Old Adam has been under water for 65 years, and the sentence pronounced so long ago is almost carried out.

Music plays most of the time in his room.  Usually it is country western for this old cowboy, a 15-hour loop of classic hits from Hank Williams, Tammy Wynette, George Jones, Loretta Lynn, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Alabama and the like.  But most concerns of this world don’t concern Grandpa as much anymore – only one foot stands here I suppose.  And so the last evening, these songs of heartbreak, cheating, and loneliness were traded out for the 24/7 stream from Lutheran Public Radio.  The songs that sing of fallout and consequences of sin are now replaced with the Alleluias he will sing with the greatest choir ever.  The Te Deum comes in over the speakers in the middle of the night.  Grandpa probably doesn’t know its name, but he has sung it before in his low, gravelly voice that scoops and slides to all the notes.  Too soon for me, he will sing it better than I ever can here.

So too, the familiar sounds of the gospel music playlist are used a little less.  When one song asks, “What will you choose? Heaven or Hell?” I cringe a little.  Should doubt be cast in his mind?  Why would this be asked of a man who already has 100% certainty of salvation on account of Christ’s death for his sins and Christ’s righteousness that enrobes him?  In addition to the human eyes that watch tonight, there are those of His holy angel that watch to ensure that the evil one has no power over him until such time as his Master calls.

So too, time and space have lost their usefulness.  There is no need of hours or minutes.  Even day and night are little matter.  It seems to be one continuum that goes on forever, yet somehow unmetered.  Time works different on the other side, but I don’t know exactly how, and it doesn’t really matter.  Meanwhile, I count the minutes here between three and four.

I’m not OK with death.  Death is not good.  Death is not a part of life.  Death is not a rescue from temporal pain.  Death is not a gift.  Death is not a friend.  And death is not natural, except in a broken nature such as ours is.  But what death is for the Christian, is temporary.

When I tell people about Grandpa, they usually ask how old he is.  When I say, “91,” they usually reply, “Well, he’s had a good life.”  It is as if all that there is to live for is what has already happened, and that spent, it is all over.  It is as if his great fortune was in a long number of years.  I want to say, “No, he has a good life!”  He’s already had a good life for nearly seven decades and it goes on eternally!  It doesn’t start when he gets to heaven.  It doen’t start only when he goes to his Lord’s side.  No, until then, his Lord comes to him in with and under the bread and wine, in the absolution, and in the Word.  He is baptized!

Yes, it is rough going here, especially for Grandpa.  And caretakers say this is the hardest part of being a caretaker, these two handfuls.  But I don’t mind it because Grandpa is a Christian.  I would have a difficult time of caring for a non-Christian because apart from Christ there is no hope of salvation.  But I know that Grandpa will be waiting the resurrection there as we do here, waiting for the final fulfillment of all His promises.  And on Sunday, when we sing with all the heavenly host, “Holy, Holy Holy!” that means Grandpa too.

So please forgive my one-track-mind, and forgive me if I write about Grandpa a few more times.  After all, these days I live for Thursday afternoon, but Grandpa lives forever.

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