MOM: “Hi honey.  I just wanted to make sure the dates would work for our upcoming trip when we’re heading your way.  I think it’s in about 4 to 6 weeks, is that right?”

ME: “Well, I can’t remember, I’ll have to check with Dad.  I haven’t talked with him recently, so I’ll follow-up with him.”

MOM: “Ok… well, also, while I have you, can you make sure to get me copies of the 2 sermons you recently did at Denton Bible?  I’d really like to have those.”

ME: “Sure, Mom, I’ll put those on CD for you and get them in the mail for you as soon as I can.”

The above conversation took place in my Mom’s alternate reality and my current reality.  She lives each day in the clutches of a disease that has launched her into another dimension, where time and people and events are all in a jumble.  There were no sermons at Denton Bible.  There is no upcoming visit.  A week or so ago she ran secretively across the street, only to remove 1 of the 2 pairs of socks on her feet, leave it on the neighbors’ electrical box, and complete her stealthy, secret ops. style run back to Dad’s side on the porch.

Earlier today I spoke with her about the fact that she was getting ready for a trail-ride.  Having just come in from a stroll around the block, she made it clear that she needed to hurry off the line and get dressed for the event.  I told her that sounded like fun, and hoped she had a good time.

When I am caught off guard in this matrix, it takes my breath away, and it is all I can do to keep from weeping wherever I am at the moment (Wouldn’t go over too well in our weekly admin meeting at the office).  Today’s phone call with Dad was hard, for sure.  Mom is currently convinced that she’s married to someone else.  Dad isn’t allowed to come in the bedroom or be intimate in any way with her.  He’s not even allowed to call her by familiar names, like “Honey,” or “Babe.”  Can’t imagine Dad not being permitted to call Mom “Babe.”  That was the classic name he had for her while we were growing up.

The breath-knocking wind hit me hard in the gut.  Mom’s gone.  Dad has lost her for good now.  She just isn’t there anymore.  Didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye, even though I talk to her every day.

Then tonight I remembered the name of the song Matt wanted help with this Sunday.  It’s called “There Will Be a Day,” by Jeremy Camp.  Since I like his music, I decided to just buy the whole album.  Been playing the song several times through.  It has a good grip on my heart tonight… He quotes from Revelation 21:4 for the main refrain in the song… “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”  Here’s a part of the bridge into the chorus that is pounding over again in my ears…

I can’t wait until that day where the very One I’ve lived for always
Will wipe away the sorrow that I’ve faced
Oh to touch the scars that rescued me from a life of shame and misery
Oh this is why, this is why I say

There will be a day with no more tears
No more pain, no more fears
There will be a day when the burdens of this place
Will be no more, we’ll see Jesus face to face

She mentioned to me the other day, “Maybe it would be easier for everyone if I just got hit by a truck.”  I told her that easier isn’t always better, and many people have felt that way before.  If I got hit by a truck, it would be easier, because I’d be with Jesus and wouldn’t have any more worries.  But it would leave a gaping hole in the lives of the people closest to me in this world.

I know you’re not going to read this, Mom, but just know that no matter what happens, you lived a good life and you are loved.  There will be a day when all of these shadows will run from the light of the Morning Star, and all will again be clear.  We will see each other again, and we will know fully… nothing in the way of our thoughts, nothing in the way of our love.  I hope you get to go on that trail ride in your mind.

"It’s enough to drive a man crazy;
it’ll break a man’s faith
It’s enough to make him
wonder if he’s ever been sane
When he’s bleating for comfort
from Thy staff and Thy rod
And the heaven’s only answer
is the silence of God

It’ll shake a man’s timbers
when he loses his heart
When he has to remember what broke him apart
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God"

The above are the opening lyrics in a song by Andrew Peterson.  Recently I purchased a couple of his albums on iTunes with the gift card my brother Kirk gave me for Christmas.  Toward the end of the song he says, “… the aching may remain, but the breaking does not, in the holy lonesome echo of the silence of God.”

I seem to have given the answers before I asked the questions.  This post is an observation on brokenness, as I have been mulling for days, maybe weeks on the topic.  Haiti is the poster-child for a world in pieces… lives snuffed out, children fatherless, sick and diseased people wandering in the streets.  They are all alone in the huge mobs.  Hurt, pain, and loss mar the landscape of the backwards country – everything that is wrong with this world.

When I turn my gaze homeward, the brokenness has a different mask but it is there.  It is there in the lives of my friends who have lost children.  It is there in my mother who has lost her mind to Alzheimer’s.  It is there in the hurting, wounded stack of friends at church.  It is there in the life of our foster son, who has lost his birth parents and now lives a state-run life.  It is there in the lives of my co-workers, who put all their trust in having a job, only to see the company leaders soak up all the glory and credit for themselves.  Empty, meaningless, vain.

There is love beyond measure, to be sure.  But singing songs to the hurting is like pouring vinegar on a wound… it doesn’t feel real good.  So when our cries go out and the sky remains quiet, and the small voice inside has closed for the evening, what IS the answer?  When God is silent, what are we to do?  What are we to think?

I don’t suppose I know the perfect answer there, but I do know one thing that at least gives me some measure of comfort.  It is that picture of Jesus, alone in the garden, crying out, waiting for an answer… yet willing to do the Father’s will.  Weeping, alone, in the dark, in the silence.  The Savior knows what it is like.