Down Into The Valley of the Shadow

Yesterday, Sunday, was a tough day. I didnt think about it until my brother pointed it out, that neither of us got our Sunday morning text from Mom. I think it started during the pandemic, but every Sunday morning, Mom would send each of us a brief, 2 or 3 sentence text between 6 and 6:30am. Sometimes it was "Thinking of you as you preach God's Word today," or "Blessings on your worship." Sometimes the note included her plans: "Going to church with Jill," or "Heading off to play organ this morning." Often, the old farm-girl in her added a weather note too, about heat or cold or rain or drought. Every now and then, I beat her to the punch and texted first, but I usually let her win the simple race of who texted first. 

Yesterday, my phone didn't chime with her message. There were no notes of blessing, encouragement, plans, or weather updates. My phone was strangely quiet. No more messages from Mom. 

We went to Jill's church yesterday. None of us were quite up to going to the church Mom called home, the church she was part of since 1981, the church we four siblings grew up in. So, three generations of Meyers - four siblings, three spouses, five grandchildren, and one great-grandson, sat approximately together, listening to God's Word read and preached and prayed and singing as best as we could. 

I say as best as we could because this hymn got me. The first verse was fine, but then we sang:

The band of the apostles in glory sing Your praise;

The fellowship of prophets their deathless voices raise.

The martyrs of your kingdom, a great and noble throng,

Sing with the holy Church throughout all the world this song:

O all majestic Father, Your true and only Son, and Comforter - forever three in one.

I choked up. Mom was a musician, a church organist, and the combination of the words and the excellent organ got both my head and my heart. 

But what hit me the most was the celebration of the Lord's Supper. 

 In our communion liturgy, we speak of "angels, and archangels and all the company of angels" that are lauding and praising God, singing "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth. Heaven and earth are full of Your glory!" The thought that the saints, now at glorious rest from their labors and already tasting the eternal Feast with Jesus were also feasting with us in this tremendous meal washed over me. 

In old, Scandinavian Lutheran churches, there was a unique architectural feature: the communion rail was a half-circle, surrounding the altar, and touching the rear wall of the chancel. The image - connected with those words of angels, archangels, and the whole company of heaven - is that the circle is completed "on the other side," so to speak. Although we do not see that heavenly congregation with our eyes, we see them with eyes of faith. 

Yesterday, the communion rail was a complete circle, surrounding the altar on all sides. This isn't an architectural or eccleastical design critique, that one rail design is better than the other. Both are beautiful; both have symbolism. Regardless the shape of the altar rail, the whole richness of God's promises was blessedly overwhelming. For the first time in almost 26 years, Mom and Dad were celebrating the Feast of Victory together, and doing with Christ Himself, not merely in, with, and under bread and wine in a sacramental union, but in a fuller presence that we can only begin to grasp this side of heaven. 

I said yesterday was Transfiguration Sunday. The Gospel reading tells us Peter wanted Jesus to stay on the mountain - "Ill build tabernacles so we can all stay up here in blissful, glorious celebration!" See, Elijah and Moses had been talking with Jesus about His departure, His exodus, His Passion. It was as if Peter was adding, "...and that way we don't have to go down there where they want to kill you, Jesus." 

But, Jesus had to go down that mountain, down into the Valley of the Shadow of His death for us. 

Today and tomorrow, we will down the mountain, down into the valley of the shadow to give thanks to God for Mom's life, for His going from that holy mountain to the unholy hill of Golgatha to die for her, to make Mom His own beloved sister in Holy Baptism, to rescue and redeem her into eternity. We'll go to the valley where the shadow of death looms large and ugly. Make no mistake: no matter what a funeral director tells you, death is the last enemy to be conquered. We'll lay Mom's remains to rest next to Dad where he was buried almost 26 years ago at the cemetery of Euangelische Luteraner Zionst Cemetery. And we'll do so with Hope. 

Cemetery is an Englishization of the Greek "koimeterion," which means "resting place." Rest implies a future awakening. On the day when Jesus returns and the trumpets sound and the dead are raised and casket warranties are all voided, Mom and Dad will rise from their rest, whole and holy. And, wherever we four siblings, three spouses, five grandkids and one great-grandkid might be, by God's grace through faith in Christ, whether alive or dead when He returns, we will all be reunited with them. But, most of all, we, too, will be with Jesus. 

Death, where is your sting? Grave, where is your victory? It might look like both death and grave have won, but they haven't. They're already both whipped by Jesus in His own resurrection. 

A long, long time ago, my brother and I were playing in the sandbox in the back yard. It was time for supper, so Mom told one of our sisters to call us in for dinner and wash up. She did, and we ignored her completly. A few minutes later, she did it again, calling us to come inside and wash up for dinner. We continued our playing. The third time she did it, she added, "Mom said come in and wash up for dinner." That time, we left the toys behind and went inside. 

I know we all still have things to do while we wait for that day, but when Jesus calls, we'll be listening and He won't have to say it twice. 

See you soon, Mom and Dad. Rest well. 

-Jon