Friday, February 12, 2016

Where the Sun Is a Memory

It's been a little over two years since my uncle died.  In the days since his death, I have thought of him often.  He cared so deeply for the people he loved.  I think his intention left a deep and long impression on many.  On me, certainly.

The day after Dave died, I stood in front of my kitchen window.  It was late afternoon, and the sun blazed in those west-facing panes, a welcome warmth at the bitter end of January. Beams piled on top of me, ray after ray of heat permeating my cold skin and sinking into my bones.  This song by All Sons and Daughters was playing on the iPod.  I began to cry.  Sob, really.  In a beautiful, other-worldly way, it felt like I was being given a small picture of the light and radiance Uncle Dave was standing in.  He was with Jesus.  He was with the actual, physical reality of Christ, his faith finally replaced by sight.

Revelation says that heaven has no need of the sun, for the Lamb is the lamp (Revelation 21:23). How can we even imagine such a brightness, we who use the sun to measure our days and nights, our seasons, our planting?  The orb that enables life on our planet is the only image we possess to imagine the luminance ahead.  Yet the only light we know is a dim derivative of what's coming.

"Will there be a victory?  Will you sing it over me?"  The iPod sang on, and in that hot square of sunlight I knew all was well with my Uncle.

Indeed, there is a victory, and Dave knows it now.  All around him, over him, the new song of the redeemed rises to the throne of the King.

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