John B.
There is a man very dear to my heart who attends the church where I grew up. His name is John, though I have never called him by his first name as one is never on a first name basis with his particular kind of wisdom. He has always been Mr. B, and rightfully so. He is the essence of my childhood church, of all the goodness, joy, grace and life I have ever experienced there represented in one compact frame, one giant bearhug of the truth of a life steeped in Christ. Every time I am there John greets me, really greets me. Greets me as I imagine Christ Himself would greet me if he was standing before me: with a joy-filled smile, genuine eye contact, a gripping hug and a heartfelt word that feeds my soul.
One of my favorite things to do when I’m back from a visit is to watch John and the other saints who helped form my faith, lift their aged faces upward when they sing. I do not wonder at what they see, that is obvious. I wonder at what they look like as they see it. They are like I imagine Stephen or Jacob or Paul looked when the heavens opened for them each in turn. I can tell they are as close as anyone to seeing God Himself. Their wobbling voices grow stronger as the hymns continue. They have seen pain my heart trembles to even consider. Yet, their eyes reflect the truth that when they look at Jesus, the things of this earth do grow strangely dim, His faithfulness truly is great and all they have ever needed has been provided by God’s gracious hand. It makes me homesick.
On a recent visit, Mr. B grasped my hands in his, a gesture so foreign to the young that it is startling and moving at once and claims my wholehearted attention for all the love that it conveys. He said, “Jenni, I would never wish this for you or anyone, but if only everyone could experience what I have experienced since I was given my cancer diagnosis: the body of Christ, the prayers being lifted on my behalf around the globe. Around the world, Jenni! The comfort of God!” He meant every word. And more importantly, he was still untiringly amazed at the truth of it all. I can hear his voice a few rows ahead of me heartily singing, “It is well with my soul,” just the way I want all to be well with my own soul.
“He will hold me fast”
Grays and whites adorn the expressions resolute
Dispersed and thinned amidst the youth.
Through decades of Beloved being
They’ve steadily held course
Amid stormy tragedies, fraught with pain and sorrow deep,
Yet still they stand believing
more and fuller the words He’s spoken.
They sing as they wait,
less and less waiting now they know,
the fruit of their faith,
closer now.
So close.
“He will hold me fast.”
They whisper-sing these words
absorbed to a depth that
has altered their being and every doing.
Seeing clearer through the thinning veil,
these monuments of trust
buoy my belief.
He will hold me fast.
They believe it to be true.
He will hold me fast.
He has held me fast
And fast
And fast
And true.
I can believe it more in their presence.
