Jesus, Calling...

I can see in the strip malls and the phone calls
The flaming swords of Eden
In the fast cash and the news flash
And the horn blast of war
In the sin-fraught cities of the dying and the dead
Like steel-wrought graveyards where the wicked never rest
To the high and lonely mountain in the groaning wilderness
We ache for what is lost
As we wait for the holy God
Of Father Abraham
-- Andrew Peterson, The Far Country

A couple of weeks ago, on a Monday, I was told by Sutton that I would probably die that day. I asked him why he thought that and his answer was succinct-- "Because you're really old." I wanted to share it on my blog that evening but I refrained from it because of the universal fear that if we talk about our death then it may happen that day, which provides an interesting story of serendipity for our loved ones, but may not necessarily be a pleasant experience for us. So I waited a couple of weeks to make sure I didn't, in fact, die on or near that day. I didn't want to freak you out.

It'll eventually happen, but in the meantime I have things to occupy my time.

My tooth is still hurting, but I do have a dentist appointment in the morning. Because of the pain, I didn't play much with the boys today. After a little while at my house messing around with the dogs, we headed to Poage park. They ran immediately to the merry-go-round, I to the park bench. It was cloudy and slightly windy, a touch of pleasant coolness in the air. I just sat back and watched them live out big, giant worlds in the midst of the sand, sticks, rocks, and playground equipment.

I was quiet and tired.

On our way to the car I made the announcement that there was something I hadn't had all day from anyone. They both stopped in their tracks, looked at each other with questioning faces, evidently spoke to each other with their twin-telepathy, then barreled over in my direction for Monday hugs.

And more echoes. Aching and pain in the midst of a day in which my debilitating toothache paled in comparison to tragedies and injustices being committed from Virginia to Iraq, yet in these brief and fleeting moments of childlike affection, I believe I can hear the songs of The Other Place, calling all the weary ones...home.