Heaven Can't Wait

4:38am. I barely caught up with my email after a long weekend’s accumulation when I suddenly realized I had passed my 4:30AM date with my prayer partner. “Bare me before the Lord as I bare you before the Lord” – that was what he said to me when we left him that Sunday. He had been home from the hospital on hospice care. He was lying down on the bed next to the living room’s window where the sun was hanging bright and high on yet another wintery day. His face all beamed up from that 30-minutes hymn impromptu that Luke had put together on request. My Bible sat forlornly at the desk, eyeing me with a question mark and rebuke. You are late! I glared back with a challenging look. Late, for what? 4:30 or forever? My partner is missing in action.

It has been almost 24 hours when that phone call came. 6:44AM exactly. I had been lying awake since 6:15 and trying to pull myself form the warm bed. The house was still and silent except for my idle thoughts and the debating if I should get up already. The booming ring of the phone did not alarm me much; it was late for us even for Sunday and we have had quite a few wrong numbers from the past. I heard my thoughtful other half running out to find the handset. I was still unconcerned even when he returned and opened the door. It was not until when he placed his hand on my arm that I sensed something was wrong. “Charlie died.” He said quietly. The room was dark. I was somewhat lost between a reality and a dream. I thought I should be crying or something, but I was just sitting there, swinging between too many extremes: somberness and sobriety, shocked and expected, frenzy and calm. On top of all, I was somewhat angry. I had had other plan for today - we were going to surprise him again with another violin rendezvous after church, but Charlie had bailed out at the last minute

The tears did not come on my own, I have to confess. They were induced by the others’ grieving eyes later that day and again at his funeral 3 days later. The funeral was surprisingly small, and short, but at the same time so appropriate and perfect for him. He would have wanted no other way. Tears, like yawn, are contagious at its opportune time. And there I was, sitting at the church he started decades ago, surrounded by a handful of old-timers who have been there with him through thin and thick, weeping like a fool. His casket sat forlornly before the podium where he had preached with the tiny, hand-written notes from his pocket and a smile that never failed to revive any weary soul. Right there in front and between the pews was his favorite trail when he’d pace up and down while he preached. To the left stood the new keyboard, replacing the old piano where Luke was, playing with a big grin the Christmas carols on a hot summer Sunday. It was the same church with fresh paint, a remodeled kitchen, much improved nursery and almost new congregation. Everything looked the same but everything was different. He was there and yet he was gone. The irony was: He had tried so hard to withdraw and retreat himself from this church and now he finally succeeded -- only by vanishing, for good.

Why do people say “Be happy for him; he is home now” when it is anything but happy that I am feeling? His gain has become my loss of a friend so noble and different from me. He was God’s best student, the meek and joyful, generous and faithful while I God’s worst student, proud and miserable, selfish and unfaithful. And yet there was some ridiculous resemblance between us. It takes one so awkward and misplaced to know another so insecure, one with no reason to and another with every reason; child-like, one innocent and pure while another incapable to grow up; passionate, he for all beauty and knowledge of God’s creation and I the vain and worldly things of this life. Even so, he couldn’t help his generous, shepherd heart to overlook my wretched flaws and befriend me. And now we parted; the good and faithful servant has completed his journey and the wayward, runaway slave continues on with his exile. Without his Paul’s intersession and advocacy, can Onesimus ever find his way home? Knowing him and his optimism, I can almost hear his answer. My head knows he is right, but my heart with all shame and grief wants to tell him this: heaven can wait, Charlie! I wish so much for yet another our 4:30am session, the Charlie-Benjamin meeting at blogger.com or our small talk at the church kitchen. I can see him still doing all that, but much, much more, only with our big Brother now. Mayhap he is winking at me and telling me why he couldn’t wait. Despite of all my selfish tears, there is yet this relief for his sake – he is home now, the fish back to the water, finally. If there is anyone that knows how liberating it is, that would be me.

It was a bitter sweet farewell, starting with tears and ending in calm. Yes, I was almost fine as I drove out of the parking lot, taking that same road home as I did on those Sundays after saying good-bye to him. Only this time it was the last good-bye. For once, I actually overcame my selfishness and felt happy for him. No more toil, heartaches and fear, just home, safe and free. And as sure as I was with his kind heart, I had my suspicion that he’d still be doing what he did here, along with sweet Jesus, praying and waiting forever more for his unworthy friend at 4:30am, every day.

I Heard The Owl Call His Name?

After a long stretch of cold wintry days, I found myself surprised to face a sky blue and air gentle as I walked out of office. It dawned on me that January has in fact moved soundly to its last leg. The hint of a season’s end was intoxicating. I felt the freeze thawing everywhere: the pedestrians’ face, the 4pm traffic, and the weariness within me. Even this big winter lover was anxious to move on to the next phase. Spring is in the air, and I am happy, or I thought I was. My chest that just opened up moments ago suddenly sank with heaviness. And then and there I wondered why spring could come despite of all.

No, the sun should not shine and sky not blue. And why does this world carry on so casually as if nothing is wrong? The cars were moving, minutes ticking and life recycling just like any other day. I was almost angry. And there it was again, the same anguish that had haunted me all day long. Without any warning, the tears and the sobs overtook me. I started crying.

Why does our subconsciousness or memory continue to keep us captive when we will to flee? The images of Sunday in room 544, almost colorless, a window with a view of grey sky, and a motionless bed where C. slept, flashed on and off without any warning. He had been sleeping much that day, the nurse told us, but it would do him good to have some visitors. She woke him up. I could still see his face – pale, yet almost boyish. He said with a smile that morphine had stopped the pain. He looked content and happy. “Me and the Lord – He sits there and keeps me company”, said he, pointing at the end of his bed. It drew a smile from both of us, and the tears too – smile without much joy and tears of sorrow. He talked on while we listened, struggling to match his playful mood. For a brief second, I wondered if we were the ones lying on that hospital bed and he, the doting pastor-father, comforting the sick and needy.

What do you say to someone who senses the coming of the end? Is there anything that can really convince both inquirer and replier without sounding contrived? “No, there is nothing wrong watching TV at the last days.” Both question and answer were ridiculous. He asked us if we read the book “I heard The owl Call My Name” and with a child-like grin he added: “it’s scary!” The room was still except for our disjointed conversation – the medication he has been taking had impaired some of his hearing and senses. Part of me wanted to stay forever for our mismatched, awkward talk and part of me wanted to run away. The air in that room was stifling, I thought. I looked out of the window and there they were, the seagulls, gliding away silently. I remembered the owl and wondered why it scared him.

I have been there a few times already; it’s only logical at my age. And yet, the fear continues to puzzle and shame me. The promise in my head is no match to the doubt in my heart. Did they really arrive at that final destination that makes up all the toil and ploy of a lifetime? What if at the end of the drudgery we find ourselves opening a door that leads to a wall and all the pain and grief of living and dying is just pain and grief? I looked at C’s face and found neither pain nor grief; his eyes reflected joy and trust, pure and simple. He was at home in that small hospital room with the machines mechanically beeping, nurses and patients quietly passing to and fro. Heaven could be there, as in anywhere: his own home, the podium at the church, or dinner at our kitchen. The fear and doubt was all mine if and when the owl calls; He would be all too happy to go to Vinny’s for our pizza date or that final trip home.

My tears finally stopped. It was but a Wednesday afternoon, with an unexpected relief from a long and cold winter. The pain was still there, burning persistently for a brother-friend whose life has been a hidden treasure: complex yet simple, ordinary and most extraordinary, empowering though demine. Our paths have crossed but a brief 3 years, but I would never trade its depth with the length of any other substitute. I may not have my answers yet, but I know wherever he goes, there I would like to go - even when the owls call my name.