A Place I Go To
by Pat Worrell
I have this place that I go to in my spirit. Tell me, do you go places in your spirit? Of course you do if you listen and talk to the Lord. Anyway, the place that I go to, for lack of a better name, is called the wall. One day when I was waiting on the Lord, after about an hour, (long wait for me at that time) I heard this. "Be a watcher on the wall." It sure sounded like the Lord to me. I thought about it for a long time and this is the conclusion I came to. I had no desire to go sit on any wall and I doubt if the devil wanted me sitting on any wall. He has all kinds of ideas, but waiting on the Lord isn't among them. In the end I decided that it was my Father's voice.
After many years of life on this earth I have learned that God knows considerably more than I do, so I took His advice. Now the wall is somewhere in the spirit though I'm really not sure where it is located. It could be in my back yard for all I know, or it could be out past Orion. It does have birds close by if that is any help. I can hear them sing in the morning and again at about sunset. It has many other things that I have seen at various times, go on out and look for yourself. Listen, if you have time to read this, you have time to wait on the Lord!
Let me tell you about some of the things that I have seen lately. I was standing on the wall one night above a very angry sea. The wall was moving fast, just skimming the tops of the waves, yet I was dry and warm, and the wall was in my Father's hand. Tell me, have you ever heard time? Have you ever heard it coming so fast that it sounds like the wash of a jet engine? Well that's what I saw, pitch black night, angry sea, and screaming time. It went by so fast that if you weren't specifically sent out to see it, you may have missed it amidst the clamor of the angry sea. It came from somewhere behind, way off in the distance. I had the sense that it had been traveling for a long time. It seemed like it rode eons' wings, though I don't know for sure. Have you ever just known something? I mean just a knowing so deep that there was no room for doubt? Knew it more than you knew yourself? That was me that night, I knew that what went by was prophetic Words. They are somewhere up ahead, I can still see them as they went by on that pitch black night. You see, the wall is a timeless place so I'm really not sure when this happened. It could have been real time or it could have been before the foundations of the earth. It could have been tomorrow for all I know. What does it really matter?
The way I have come to understand it is this. What is time in the spirit? What is time to God? I think time to God is always now. Faith is now, isn't it? Now, if faith is now, isn't now to God when faith is? Abraham's faith is now, so is that the time it is to God? My faith is now so is that also the time it is to God? Think about it, after all He is God.
The point I want you to grasp out of all of this is simply this, the end is coming and it's coming faster than a jet engine flung from the past on a stormy night, which is much sooner than you and I think. Prophetic Words are just up ahead and as we pass more and more of them daily, more and more are rushing by. Sign posts, that's what they are. If you had been there and seen them as they went off into the future and watched the vacuum of the wake they created, you would have been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt. It would have etched itself in your very soul, as it has in mine.
Why do I write about this? It is a question I'm sure has crossed your mind if you have read anything that I write. It drifts across my mind on occasion, too. I write because I must. It pulls me and calls to me at the oddest times. I always know it's there, although I have been able to ignore it for years and years. Lately it has gotten to the point of being a need, it won't leave. I kept thinking He would find someone else to do it, someone pure and holy, possibly someone like you. He hasn't though, so until someone else comes along I guess it's my job. All and all it's not a bad job, believe me, I have had my fingers in much worse things in my past.
So there I was on the wall in my Father's hand above an angry sea and I just watched what may be the very Holy Ghost breathed Words of Daniel go by and as I stood in the vacuum of their wake, I was awed beyond any other experience I have ever had. If I recall I wondered why me? Because you will listen is the answer I received. I have heard this on more than one occasion and I think surely others listen, don't they? Each of us are unique, this I know, so it follows that only I have my ears, and yet, and yet...... Another time perhaps.
I once knew an extremely courageous lady. She was courageous for several reasons. For one thing, she was waging an uphill battle against alcoholism. For another, she was doing all she could to restore her relationship with God. It's tough to start over. It's even tougher to start over when people won't let you.
She chose a small church to attend, a church where she knew many members. She thought she'd be received there. One Sunday she parked her car near the church building and got out. As she walked toward the front door, she overheard two ladies talking nearby. The stinging words were not meant for her ears, but she heard them anyway.
"How long is that alcoholic going to hang around here."
She turned and went back to the car. She never entered another church building until she died. Those ladies meant no harm, yet seemingly painless gossip did irreparable damage.
These five ideas will help us control our tongues:
1. Never say anything about someone that you wouldn't say to his face.
2. Never say anything about someone unless he/she is there to respond.
3. Refuse to listen to someone else's gossip.
4. Initiate positive statements about people whom you're discussing.
5. Remember, "The tongue...is a fire" (James 3:6).
The Potter And The Clay
author unknown
There was a couple who used to go to England to shop in the beautiful stores. This was their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They both liked antiques and pottery and especially teacups.
One day in this beautiful shop they saw a beautiful teacup. They said "May we see that? We've never seen one quite so beautiful." As the lady handed it to them, suddenly the teacup spoke.
"You don't understand," it said. "I haven't always been a teacup.
There was a time when I was red and I was clay. My master took me and rolled me and patted me over and over and I yelled out, let me alone,' but he only smiled, 'Not yet'.
"Then I was placed on a spinning wheel," the teacup said, "and suddenly I was spun around and around and around. 'Stop it! I'm getting dizzy!' I screamed. But the master only nodded and said, 'Not yet.'
Then he put me in the oven. I never felt such heat. I wondered why he wanted to burn me, and I yelled, and I knocked at the door. I could see him through the opening and I could read his lips as he shook his head, 'Not yet.'
"Finally the door opened, he put me on the shelf, and I began to cool. 'There, that's better,' I said. And he brushed and painted me all over. The fumes were horrible. I thought I would gag. 'Stop it, stop it!' I cried. He only nodded, 'Not yet.'
"Then suddenly he put me back into the oven, not like the first one. This was twice as hot and I knew I would suffocate. I begged. I pleaded. I screamed. I cried. All the time I could see him through the opening nodding his head, saying, 'Not yet.'
"Then I knew there wasn't any hope. I would never make it. I was ready to give up. But the door opened and he took me out and placed me on the shelf. One hour later he handed me a mirror and said, 'Look at yourself.' And I did. I said, 'That's not me; that couldn't be me. It's beautiful. I'm beautiful.'
'I want you to remember, then,' he said, 'I know it hurt to be rolled and patted, but if I just left you, you'd have dried up. I know it made you dizzy to spin around on the wheel, but if I had stopped, you would have crumbled. I know it hurt and it was hot and disagreeable in the oven, but if I hadn't put you there, you would have cracked. I know the fumes were bad when I brushed and painted you all over, but if I hadn't done that, you never would have hardened. You would not have had any color in your life, and if I hadn't put you back in that second oven, you wouldn't survive for very long because the hardness would not have held. Now you are a finished product. You are what I had in mind when I first began with you.'
The Lord said, "Look, as the clay is in the potter's hand, so are you in My hand..." (Jer 18:1-11)
The Praying Hands
author unknown
Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with
eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob,
the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost
eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the
neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the
Elder's children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but
they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of
them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy.
After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally
worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby
mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy.
Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he
would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or,
if necessary, also by laboring in the mines.
They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss
and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the
next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an
immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better
than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning
to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.
When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner
on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and
memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his
honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for
the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing
words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you
can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you."
All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat,
tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while
he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No ...no ...no ...no."
Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long
table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he
said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look ...
look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger
have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so
badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less
make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother ...
for me it is too late."
More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful
portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper
engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that
you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More
than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in
your home or office.
One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer
painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers
stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire
world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed
his tribute of love "The Praying Hands."
The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be
your reminder, if you still need one, that no one - no one - - ever makes it alone!
The Present
author unknown
In a university commencement address several years ago, Brian Dyson, CEO of Coca Cola Enterprises, spoke of the relation of work to one's other commitments: "Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them - work, family, health, friends and spirit and you're keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls- family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.
How?
Don't undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special. Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.
Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless.
Don't let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.
Don't give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.
Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us to each other.
Don't be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.
Don't shut love out of your life by saying it's impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.
Don't run through life so fast that you forget not only where you've been, but also where you are going.
Don't forget that a person's greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.
Don't be afraid to learn. Knowledge is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily.
Don't use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved. Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.
Yesterday is History, Tomorrow is a Mystery and Today is a gift. That's why we call it - The Present.
Priceless Art
author unknown
Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they traveled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection.
Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate. The widowed, elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world. As winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action.
The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.
Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season, a season that he and his son had so looked forward to, would visit his house no longer.
On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand. He introduced himself to the man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you." As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told everyone of his, not to mention his father's, love of fine art.
"I'm an artist," said the soldier, "and I want to give you this." As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail. Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.
A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars of paintings. And then the man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.
During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy's life would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stilled his caring heart.
As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease the grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation! Unmindful of the story of the man's only son, but in his honor; those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas day, the day he had received his greatest gift.
The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim "I have the greatest collection."
The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room came, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's forget it and go on to the good stuff." More voices echoed in agreement. "No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?" Finally, a friend of the old man spoke, "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy, so I'd like to have it."
"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" called the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice. Gone." The gavel fell.
Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on these treasures!" The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars of art here! I demand that you explain what's going on here!"
The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."
Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art collectors discovered on that Christmas day, the message is still the same: the love of a Father, a Father whose greatest joy came from His Son, who went away and gave His life rescuing others. And because of that Father's love, whoever takes the Son, gets it all.
The Reading of Psalm 23
author unknown
There was once a Shakespearean actor who was known everywhere for his one-man show of readings and recitations from the classics. He would always end his performance with a dramatic reading of Psalm 23. Each night, without exception, as the actor began his recitation -- "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want" -- the crowd would listen attentively. And then, at the conclusion of the psalm, they would rise in thunderous applause in appreciation of the actor's incredible ability to bring the verse to life.
But one night, just before the actor was to offer his customary recital of Psalm 23, a young man from the audience spoke up, "Sir do you mind if tonight I recite Psalm 23?" The actor was quite taken back by this unusual request, but he allowed the young man to come forward and stand front and center on the stage to recite the psalm, knowing that the ability of this unskilled youth would be no match for his own talent.
With a soft voice, the young man began to recite the words of the psalm. When he was finished, there was no applause. There was no standing ovation as on other nights. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping. The audience had been so moved by the young man's recitation that every eye was full of tears.
Amazed by what he had heard, the actor said to the youth, "I don't understand. I have been performing Psalm 23 for years. I have a lifetime of experience and training, but I have never been able to move an audience as you have tonight. Tell me, what is your secret?"
The young man humbly replied, "Well, sir, you know the psalm . . .but I know the Shepherd."
It's not enough to just know the content of the Bible--its stories, its sayings, and its teachings. Unless you know the author, the Bible is nothing more than just another book. But when you put your faith in Jesus Christ, repent of your sins, confess Jesus as the Son of God, and are buried with Him in baptism for the forgiveness of your sins, the Bible truly becomes "living and active--sharper than any two-edged sword." (Hebrews 4:12)
Let God Be The Master Of Your Life In Every Way.
Ramblings of a Roman Soldier
transcribed by Alan G. Smith, inspired by the Holy Spirit
Do you hear it? What you ask? "Tetelestai" I can hear it even now. It beckons to me through the wind. I can tell you are looking at me strangely.
Let me go back and explain why this word is so full of meaning for me. I had never seen anything remotely like that day. In my time spent with the Legion in Jerusalem; I had helped perform many executions, but this one was different. This day there were three young men condemned to die. The sentence proclaimed on each of them had been death by crucifixion. At the palace, we tied the large crossbeams of rough hewn wood across the backs of each of the condemned. Their arms were outstretched on the wood demonstrating to everyone throughout the city what was going to happen to them. We took "the parade route" through town. We wound down every street to warn the people that the Roman Empire was serious about crime. Everyone knew where we were headed. There was this hill called "The Skull" where we performed the executions. As we wound down the streets, the weight of the beams dug into their back.
Several splinters from the rough wood slivered deep into their skin. The first man hollered curses at the crowd. There was no remorse there, only bitterness. I can still hear his angry voice yelling at the top of his lungs. The bitterness came out with his words and hung around him condemning him yet further. He made no appeals for mercy. I guess he was holding onto the only thing he had left. His strength had been robbed from him in the prisons. I had to prod him with my sword several times to keep him moving.
The second man was almost the opposite of the first. In his tears, he cried out for mercy. He mentioned his child and tried to tell a heart-rending story to the crowd. But all they did was jeer back at him. I had to wonder about the wisdom of killing this repentant man. But mine was not to wonder, mine was to take orders.
As the third man came by, I heard the whispers and murmurs going through the crowd. I overheard that this was Jesus. I figured this must be the guy that had whipped the city into a frenzy and the reason why we were having this execution so quickly. He didn't look like the criminal he was supposed to be. On his head, there was a wreath of thorns. They had beaten his head until each one had dug deeply into his flesh encircling his head with blood. His olive skin was hanging in bloody strips on his back and some parts were so badly mangled that it was just a bloody mesh. He was so badly whipped that the pain had to be unbearable. You would think that he would be cursing like the other two but when I glanced at him and saw such a peaceful look in his eyes that I couldn't help but stare. This peace didn't make sense. Did he not realize that he was about to die one of the most gruesome deaths possible? Did he know that he would die from lack of air as he started to lack the strength to pull himself up by his nail pierced wrists and finally his lungs would fill with liquid? I was absorbed by this man, when he stumbled. The weight of the cross seamed to be unbearable for him. I grabbed one of the young men standing by and shouted at him, "CARRY HIS CROSS!" This man looked like he was going to hesitate, but as I went for my sword he lowered his head in submission. I strapped the cross to him and we continued to march.
After an eternity of marching, we approached the site of execution. The sound of a hammer hitting a nail echoed throughout the countryside as we connected the crossbeams to the posts. As we finished each one we would lift the post up and into the hole in the ground. As we slid the cross with Jesus on it into the ground, he asked for forgiveness for us. For us??
Why in the world did we need forgiving? Even more importantly, how come he didn't hate us like every other condemned man. Did he not realize that we were killing him? I wandered away with some of the other soldiers while we waited for the condemned to die.
About three hours later, the entire land went dark. This was an unusual dark. It wasn't like night. It was a stifling darkness. This day was getting weirder and weirder. I just wanted this execution to be over with so I could go my own way.
Then about three hours later, the darkness left and I heard Jesus scream out "Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani" I wondered what he was screaming. I heard someone say that he was calling Elijah. But then I heard someone else correct them and say that what he was saying was Hebrew for "My God, My God why have you forsaken me?" The cry was with such agony that I can still hear it in my ears. It was not merely a physical agony. It went much deeper. It was the agony of a heart breaking. I recognized that cry as one that I could never quite understand. Finally something that made sense from this man. I was used to seeing a sense of desperation from these men watching their life slip away.
I was thinking about this when he screamed out his final word, "Tetelestai"
It covered the countryside. It was long and drawn out and obviously painful for him to say. Roughly translated that means "It is finished." But that alone would make sense. Truly it was finished, after all he was dead after he uttered it. But "Tetelestai" means more than that. It means that it is utterly and totally complete and that nothing else could possibly be done to add to it. My curiosity could take it no longer.
I went up to the cross and asked a woman there who this Jesus was. She broke down in tears, and I couldn't understand her through her sobs. But the man with her explained to me a fanciful story of Jesus. He tried to tell me that Jesus was the Messiah. But I wouldn't listen. After all, if Jesus was truly the Son of God then we wouldn't have been able to kill him, right??
Before I left we went ahead and broke the legs of the two other criminals, but we didn't waste our time with Jesus. He was obviously dead. One of the other soldiers ran a sword through Jesus' side and blood and water flowed. I had heard of these "tears of the heart" before but I had never seen it. I left that site and tried to go about my day.
Well the next week as I was going around town, I stopped in my tracks as I saw this guy that was in the spitting image of Jesus. I figured it must be his brother or something. But as I stared I saw the nail marks still in his wrists. As I stood there staring, he called me to him. With a slight smile, he said, "I AM He" He had read my mind, I bowed down. He could read my heart as well. He raised my head and told me, "What I had completely finished was paying for your sins. Go and sin no more, for you are a new creation."
Now as I go everywhere, I hear "Tetelestai" It is God's way of reminding me that sin is no longer my master. After all, nothing else could have been done. I hear the word echoing in the breeze as the birds sing. It is a subtle sound even in the hubbub of the crowd. Whenever I stop listening with my ears, I can hear it again. "Tetelestai" Can you hear it? Listen closely. There it is. Yes, it is finished. Jesus could have done nothing more to reconcile you with God. That is the great news!! As you hear "Tetelestai", remember once again that you can be a new creation. The old will be wiped away! Shout it in praise to Him, "Tetelestai." And when someone asks you what you are saying, you can tell them about this man that died not only for me but for you and them as well. "Tetelestai!"
Remember Adam
author unknown
The following is a true story as told to the author by Margi Brockhaus, R.N. at Children's Mercy Hospital in Kansas City. However, the person who sent me the article forgot to include who the actual author was, so he/she is unknown.
Adam was just two weeks shy of his 12th birthday when he was diagnosed with malignant fibrous histiocytoma, which is a cancer that is very rare in children. There are only 15 known pediatric cases in the United States.
Adam was given only a 12% chance of survival. He went through three major surgeries and a year and a half of chemotherapy. And throughout that time we all came to know Adam well. You see, Adam never lost his sense of humor.
And he was very much a ladies' man; a heartbreaker who loved to tease and flirt with all the nurses. A 12 year-old boy who endeared himself to every one of us. So in May of 1992 when he was taken off therapy and given a clean bill of health, we all shared in Adam's joy, and we finally thought that we had won one of our battles.
A month later he went out to California to celebrate and spend time at Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm and all those good places. One morning when he tried to get up he was unable to walk and move his right arm. He was rushed back to Children's Mercy Hospital where he was found to have a large brain tumor in his brain stem.
The tumor was an extension of the previous cancer that he had had. The biopsy of the tumor itself held almost a 20% chance of killing him, but Adam insisted on the biopsy to see if there was any type of chemo that could be used to treat it. The tumor was found to be inoperable.
Not only did he get cancer that is not known to occur in children, but Adam is the first known case in medical history to have that cancer occur in his brain. When Adam discovered that he was the first person in the world with this, he said to me with his enduring sense of humor, "Well, at least I'll be remembered for something."
He went downhill very quickly after that and, except for a few days to visit friends, never got out of the hospital again. Toward the middle of September he was really starting to withdraw. He would stop talking to his mother, with whom he had a very close relationship. You see, Adam's parents were divorced and Adam lived with his mom. And although Mom and Dad were still very bitter and angry with one another, they put their feelings aside for the sake of Adam.
But their response to Adam's cancer was very different. Dad firmly believed, after seeing so many sick and dying children at the hospital, that there was no God anywhere that would let this happen to a child, while Mom continued to believe and put her faith in God.
And for the previous year and a half that I worked with Adam, we had all called on God's name frequently: "God will watch over you, Adam." "God can help you through this." "Put your faith in God, Adam."
During those last two weeks, perhaps Adam was the most honest. He was very angry at God because of what was happening to him. And I think he earned the right to question God. But, at the same time, he simply said that he understood that this was an imperfect world and that these things happen. This from a boy who had had to grow up before his time, a boy who had lived through more pain and harsh reality than many of us will ever face.
And that's when it occurred to me.
Throughout this entire time, from Adam's diagnosis over a year and a half ago until now, no one had ever mentioned Jesus to Adam. No one had ever shared the story of Jesus' pain and suffering in order to bridge the gap between God and this imperfect world.
So one day when we were alone, I asked him if he believed in Jesus. He said he wasn't really sure. He said his dad told him that there wasn't even a God. But Adam didn't buy that. He said he believed anyway. But ever since he'd been sick, his mom had stopped talking about Jesus. She talked about God, but not Jesus.
So Adam told me he wasn't really sure, but that he wanted to believe, and what did I think? So I shared with him my feelings and my faith. Then he asked me, "Why do you think Jesus lets this happen to kids?" And I said I didn't know. I don't think any of us do.
But I did tell him that when I get to heaven I'm certainly going to ask Him.
And then Adam told me about his grandmother who was already in heaven. He talked a great deal about her and he kept saying, "Do you think I'll see her when I get there?" And I told him yes, that I believed he would.
During the last 24 hours, Adam was in a coma more often than not. There were only a few hours that he was really coherent. But he told me before he went into the coma that he was ready to die, that he didn't want to do this any more, that his body had quit working.
The only reason he really didn't want to die was because he was worried about his mom. He didn't want to leave her because he was afraid that she wouldn't be able to handle it emotionally. But I told Adam it was ok, that I had talked to his mom. And that she would miss him, and yes she loved him, but it was ok and not to hang on for her sake. She did not want him to do that.
These were things Adam's mom could not share with him, but she told me. I became kind of the go-between. Mom said this, Adam said that; but somehow it worked for them.
All the while Adam's dad just sat in the corner, very angry, hardly able to speak to Adam.
The last eight hours that Adam was alive, I sat with him and watched him go in and out of a coma. But I also watched miracles begin to happen.
How can I tell you what occurred in that room? Even now, it is so vivid in my mind and yet so hard to express.
At one point Adam began to giggle. And he said, "Grandma? It's me--Adam. Oh, yeah, I'll be there. It's ok, you go on back, I'll be there. He said it was my time, and I'm ready."
It was incredible, because even though I couldn't hear Grandma's answers, I knew what she was saying by the look on Adam's face.
As he laid in bed, his face would suddenly brighten up. He would open his eyes a little bit sometimes and always look up. He would smile, he would giggle. He would gasp and hold his breath in excitement. It was unbelievable.
Then he began talking again. He said, "Yes? Yes, I'm ready. Really? Are you sure? She's going to be there? Oh, that's neat. Oh, yes, I've heard it's beautiful. Ok. Well, you don't think I'm ready? But I am ready. Oh . . . oh, I understand. Well, then I'll go back and take care of those few things. All right."
And then Adam laid still a while. And all of us in that room just looked on this child's face and felt the presence in that room. And there was no question in any of our minds who Adam was talking to.
And then, minutes later, he about came up off his pillow and he said, "Michael! You're kidding! Really, oh that's so neat. Yeah, Michael, how ya doing?"
You see, Michael was another 13-year-old boy Adam had watched die just six weeks before. Then Adam said, "That's awesome!" as only a teenager can say it. What that "awesome" was about, I don't know. Michael was probably describing something wonderful up in heaven.
Adam didn't say anything for a little while. And then he started to cry and I reached over and stroked his face, and I said, "Adam, it's ok. Margi's here."
I asked him, "Is there anything you need?" And Adam shook his head and he said, "Oh, it's so beautiful. It's so beautiful and it doesn't hurt." And I just sat on his bed and sobbed with him.
Then he started up his conversation again. "Yes, oh, yes, I do think it is beautiful. Oh you've made it so beautiful. Yes, I'm ready. And I'm not going to hurt? Nobody will hurt? My mom won't hurt?" And his face got a little distressed, because I think God was honest with him and told him that his mom was going to hurt but that He'd take care of her.
Adam's breathing was starting to get very very erratic, and his mom sat down next to him on the bed and was stroking his face and holding his hand and telling him "Mom is here, Adam. Mom is here." Adam opened his eyes and looked up into the room and said, "You've got to tell her that we'll be together again."
And Adam's mom said, "Oh, you're right Adam, we'll be together again." And Adam repeated over, "You've got to tell her. Are You going to tell her? Ok. When are You going to tell her?" Adam set his jaw and said, "No! Well, why are You going to wait? No, You've got to tell her we'll be together again. Yes, yes, I'm coming. But You've got to tell her we'll be together again."
Then Adam listened for a moment, and whatever God said to him, Adam's face began to change. And suddenly it got so hot in that room that everyone noticed it. There was a presence that we all felt. There was simply no denying it. And it was at this point that I believe God started telling Adam about Jesus.
Adam got very upset and began to cry the kind of tears that you and I once had before it became an old story to us. Can you remember? Can you recall what it was like the first time you grasped the implications of what Christ did for you? Can you remember how over-whelmed you were by it? By His willingness to be crucified, to die for you?
Well, it was that kind of grief that rolled down Adam's cheek as he said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. You did that for me, for everybody? Oh, I'm so sorry." And then he said, "Yes God, I know . . . I know. Yes I do. Oh, yes, I really do."
Adam didn't say anything else for almost 45 minutes. Then at about 6:50 he started making predeath noises. I don't know how to describe it to you unless you've been around a lot of children who have died. Things in your body just happen and you make noises. And then Adam asked, "Are You sure there's room for me? Ok. 8:20. Yes, I'll see You at 8:20. Yes, I'm ready. Yes, tell them I'm coming." He kept repeating it over and over again.
At exactly 7:12 Adam took his last breath. But no one left that room. Usually when a child dies it takes anywhere from 15 to 25 minutes for them to get what is called the "mask of death" -- blood pools to the back of their body, their faces turn grayish-white, and the body begins to get cold.
But with Adam none of that happened. His body stayed warm. His color remained. He did not get that grayish shroud that children get. And the room stayed very warm. There was such an incredible presence.
And Adam's mom and I just wrapped our arms around each other and prayed. And I watched Adam's father finally leave his corner chair and make his way to the side of Adam's bed and get on his knees and bow his head. I didn't hear everything he said. But I did her the Name of Jesus. And, I believe with all my heart that Adam stayed in that room until 8:20.
I'm not sure why. I don't know if it was to witness how his mom would handle his passing and to make sure she would be all right, or if it was to hear his dad acknowledge Jesus Christ. But I do know that at exactly 8:20 everything that should have happened an hour before started happening very, very quickly.
I know that Adam is in a far better place. But his life has touched mine in ways I have yet to discover. And the last hours of his life will stay with me forever. It is so vivid in my memory, I dream it. Adam reminds me daily that it is not our circumstance but Christ's sacrifice that gives us hope, hope in the midst of despair.
So tonight, when you tuck your children in bed, hold them close. Tell them about Jesus. Tell them there's plenty of room.
And remember Adam . . .
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