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“First of all, I want to apologize to those of you who think it presumptuous for me to plan my own celebration of life service. To the rest of you, I just want to thank you for being here with me today. My soul is so full. I couldn’t have asked for a better life. Heartaches and all, God was there for me. I’ve had so much more joy and love and grace that I ever deserved. Thank you, Jesus for being the author and perfecter of my faith.” She slips right into prayer without closing her eyes, and all of a sudden she’s addressing us again.
“My heart’s been giving me trouble lately, as of course you all know. But just like the psalmist declares, my heart and my flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. He is the one who has awakened my soul and loosened my tongue, just like he did for Isaiah when the seraphim touched his lips with the fiery coals. You may believe in a God who has ceased to do miracles, but my heavenly Father still sets prisoners free and gives sight to the blind and releases those held by chains.
“Many of you today are held by chains even now. Fears. Despair. Bitterness. Unforgiveness. The chains of pride or lust or anger or selfish ambition. And that’s why even when my heart is so full, even when I rejoice at the thought of being surrounded by so much love and joy today, I regret that I haven’t made better use of my time here on earth. I regret I haven’t prayed with more of you. Shared with more of you. Demonstrated God’s love to more of you. But God has given me this chance. It may very well be my last, so I don’t want to waste it.
“Jesus loves you. There is nothing that you have done, no sin you could ever commit or even conceive that would make him love you less.”
My hand is shaking so hard that I can’t even focus on the picture on my screen. All the guilt, the horror at the mistakes I’ve made, these dark secrets I’ve kept buried in the blackest depths of my soul for so long — they haunt me now. Stare me full in the face. Ugly. Accusing. They will not be ignored. They will not be silenced. Grandma Lucy’s talking about a God of forgiveness and grace, a God who willingly forgives liars and petty thieves. Not people like me. People who contemplate murder. A mother who subjects her baby to a life of disability and pain just because ...
No. She can’t mean me. Guilt hooks its talons into the muscles of my neck and shoulders. I feel the icy chill. I need to turn the video off. I can’t survive any more dashed hopes.
But I can’t bring myself to stop the recording. Maybe I’m addicted to punishment. I don’t know, but I have to hear the rest of what this woman tells me.
“Now maybe you’re listening to me, and maybe you’re saying to yourself, Grandma Lucy, you don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know how bad it really is. Well, that much may be true, but God knows. And still he promises us in the Bible that while we were his enemies, Christ died for our trespasses. While we were lost in our transgressions, God forgave us the guilt of our sins. While we were once objects of God’s wrath, we can now experience grace and abundant life in him.”
My heart is racing. I’ve felt this way before. At that youth retreat when I was a teenager, the one where I promised God to turn my life around and serve him wholeheartedly. I feel the same way now, the same sense of excitement. The palpable energy surrounding me, some sort of cosmic Holy Spirit fire in my chest. I want to believe Grandma Lucy’s words. I want to believe this forgiveness and grace can extend even to me. I want to believe that if I open my heart to this divine invitation, if I accept this heavenly love that’s tugging at my soul like the strings of a master puppeteer, it will be enough. Enough to wash away the guilt of my shame, the trauma of my past, the torment of my despair. I want to believe that this grace Grandma Lucy mentions is enough to change me. For real, not just for a day and a half until Lincoln Grant gets me in the backseat of his dad’s truck again. I want to believe that this time it will last. This time I won’t feel like I’ve faked my own conversion.
But I’m so scared that I’ll end up disappointed again. My faith is too immature, my soul is too weak to endure that level of cosmic disillusionment.
I have to fight it. I have to resist. This is some kind of emotional manipulation, a psychological trick meant to make me feel like I’m God’s most beloved creation in the entire world. I can’t give in like I did as a teen. I’m a grown woman now with a daughter to look after. A daughter who needs a mother, not some Jesus freak.
“I’m still weaker than normal.” Grandma Lucy’s words are slower. I think I detect a hint of a slur, but I’m afraid to admit it even to myself.
“I’m finishing my little speech with a full heart. I’ve known my share of sorrows, but through them all, I can say with certainty that I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I’ve committed to him against that day.”
It’s the same line from the hymn we just sang. The words make very little sense to me, but she speaks them with such joy and peace. I know I’ll never be as faithful or confident as she is. It would be stupid of me to even try. But still, something is tugging at my spirit, urging me to take that chance. Take that leap of faith. Give God one last shot to change me.
Grandma Lucy invites us to pray with her. I bow my head and shut my eyes.
I don’t know if I’m ready for this or not. There’s only one way to find out.