The gathering place at SP EFH where we ate, laughed, talked, sang, played games, spent time with God. Now empty and quiet.

Dear Abdullah;

It has been four months since you left this world. I marvel at the way my heart and soul still ache for you. Sometimes I am perplexed by the things that bring you to mind. Like today, as I was pumping gas, I noticed a poster for a lost dog. It was obvious the family was heartbroken their pet was missing. In the next instance, I thought of you. There are no family members agonizing over your absence. There aren’t even photos of you. Nothing is left of your existence on this earth except the memories of those who cared for you. Even the Emergency Field Hospital where you spent your last week of life is now gone.

I had a dream a few days ago about you. It was one of those dreams so vivid, you wake up a little disoriented because it felt so real. I was a guest at your wedding. As I sat at a table, I looked up and you were standing over me smiling. It was that same smile you flashed at me when you saw me approaching your stretcher, but your eyes were very different from the wounded boy I cared for at the EFH. There was no pain or heaviness, or sense that behind those eyes you were contending with a waking nightmare. Instead, I saw joy, hope, excitement, anticipation. You took me by the hand, and led me to the dance floor. We slowly waltzed around. I touched your leg and asked if it hurt anymore. You shook your head “no”. “There is no pain anymore.”

It seems God shapes our spirit the most when we experience the dichotomy of our fallen state and our hope in a single moment. Abdullah will never have a wedding. Or welcome his first child into the world. But I still affirm, in fact even more, to the core of my being, His plans are faultless. There is no pain anymore.

 
He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
Rev 21:4