19

Not My Home

Nearly everyone in our society wonders what to say—or not to say—to a widow. Do you mention the deceased in normal conversation? Will she burst into tears? Are you better off just to keep things light and upbeat? But is that being respectful to what she is going through?

As you can tell by now, I talk about Martin all the time. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not a morbid topic in the least. I often laugh at some of the great memories. We had a great relationship, and I love recalling it. He wasn’t a perfect husband, but he was awfully close to it in my book. I still love him and smile when I think of him.

His sense of humor even shows on his gravestone. Being a pilot, he was always irked that people would assume a plane crash was probably the pilot’s fault. He used to joke to the kids and me, “I want you to put it clearly on my tombstone: ‘It wasn’t pilot error!’” We always had a good laugh about that.

Well . . . if you drive from Rose Hill about two miles east on a gravel road to the country cemetery where Martin is buried, you will see a tombstone that is a real work of art. The engraver managed to create a lovely tropical scene across the front, with mountains in the background, tall palm trees to the left and right, and a little plane coming in for a landing. The words say:

MARTIN RAY BURNHAM

Sept. 19, 1959 † June 7, 2002

And then if you walk around to the back of the marker, in small etching down near the grass it says:

“IT WASN’T PILOT ERROR.” :) MRB

I love that! It shows the personality of a man who never took himself too seriously.

When I am around other people who have recently lost a loved one, I find myself out of step with the prevailing custom. Instead of saying, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I tend to say, “Oh, good—she [or he] is finally home! She’ll never have to pack another suitcase or clean up another messy floor. No more good-byes, no more tears— she’s home.”

Well, at least that’s what I want to say, because I truly have this big smile inside. I restrain myself if I feel I’ll be misunderstood. But for me, the reality of heaven is so vivid now. I long to see it myself.

One of Martin’s stock encouragements to me in the jungle, when he could see I was about to collapse, was “Just keep going, Gracia . . . who knows, tomorrow you may get to go home.” Yes indeed! This world is not my home, as the old gospel song says. I’m interested in the real home above.

People still come up to me with sober faces, now more than two years later, and say, “I’m so sorry Martin died.” I take their hand and thank them for their concern. But inside I’m thinking, Well, yes, death is a rotten thing. But even worse would be to live a long life unhappily. I’m glad Martin lived a full and happy life, even if it was short. I can’t change who I am, and I can’t be sad when I think about him enjoying heaven. I wouldn’t wish him back here.

*   *

When you live in the Philippines, you learn a lot about Chinese culture, because many Chinese have immigrated to that country and done well in the business world. As a result, everybody is familiar with their calendar, knowing whether it’s the Year of the Horse or the Year of the Dragon or whatever.

You also observe that the color to wear to a Chinese funeral is not black, but white. Why is this? They say white stands for happiness and prosperity in the next world.

Once when a Christian believer in our town passed away, the Filipinos said to each other, “Why should we wear black to the funeral? Our friend has gone to be with the Lord, whom he loved. Let’s all wear white!”

They spread the word, and on the day of the service, there were white dresses and white barongs (dress shirts) everywhere. We loved it. The focus had been turned to the blessings of heaven that lay ahead.

People in the town who saw non-Chinese folks going to a funeral in white naturally asked questions. This gave us an opportunity to explain that our friend was now in the presence of Jesus, who welcomes those who “will walk with me in white, for they are worthy. All who are victorious will be clothed in white” (Revelation 3:4-5). Nearly every description of an angel in the Bible mentions white clothing as well. What a resplendent scene awaits us in heaven! It is going to be gorgeous.

When we embrace the notion of heaven instead of fearing the transition that takes us there, it affects our whole emotional outlook. We open up in a new way to God’s tender embrace not only then, but here and now. While we enjoy the earth and its pleasures, we’re no longer satisfied simply with what this world offers. I was driving the other day when a song came on the Christian station that expressed the joy that comes from this outlook: “I am finally free,” the song says. “My heart is spoken for.”[14] I loved those lyrics, and tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about not only being God’s child right now but also experiencing the coming joy of being with the Lord forever.

The concept of heaven as our real home also affects our practical outlook on daily living. A few miles north of Rose Hill is a working cattle ranch that also operates the Prairie Rose Chuckwagon Supper. After finishing a dinner of mouthwatering barbecue, guests are treated to a cowboy music show. A standing number on the Prairie Rose Wranglers’ repertoire is the old country classic “I Am a Pilgrim and a Stranger.” I often take guests there, and that song never fails to make me think. Am I living as a pilgrim-in-transit now that I’m back in comfortable America? I clearly had that view when I was stumbling around Basilan Island for a year with nothing more than a grimy backpack. Have I lost it now that life is easier? I hope not. I want nothing but to surrender my life, my belongings, my circumstances to the Lord, and to hold the “stuff” of my existence very, very loosely.

*   *

My Grandma Jones died not long ago at the age of 102. She was a gracious woman with a kind heart, and I have warm memories of going as a child to her home in Wynne, Arkansas, where there was always a big jar of pennies for the grandchildren to share. My brother and sisters and I would dump them out on the table and sort them into equal piles, then head for the nearby dime store to see what wonderful things we could buy. By the next time we visited her house, Grandma had somehow managed to refill the penny jar for our pleasure.

Now it was time for the funeral. We gathered from Kansas and Missouri and Indiana and Ohio and even Canada to honor this marvelous woman. My sister Nancy and I were asked to sing. We settled on the old Swedish melody “He the Pearly Gates Will Open,” and soon our siblings were volunteering to sing with us, and then some of the great-grandchildren, and even my dad, until it turned into a little choir.

The song needed some kind of setup, I felt. I spent part of a morning contemplating this while listening to a CD about heaven. I came to settle upon a passage near the climax of John Bunyan’s marvelous work, The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678).

When we entered the funeral home that day, we stopped first to look at the many flower arrangements people had sent. Soon the pastor began the service with Scriptures of comfort. And then it was time for our song.

We gathered around the organ that Nancy would play, and I said, “Before we sing today, I want to share with you a passage from the famous classic by John Bunyan.”

While they were thus drawing towards the Gate, behold a company of the heavenly host came out to meet them. . . . There came out also at this time to meet them several of the King’s trumpeters, clothed in white and shining raiment, who with melodious noises and loud, made even the heavens to echo with their sound. These trumpeters saluted [the pilgrims] with ten thousand welcomes from the world: and this they did with shouting and sound of trumpet. . . .

Now when they were come up to the Gate, the pilgrims gave in unto them each man his certificate, which they had received in the beginning; those therefore were carried into the King, who when he had read them, said, “Where are the men?” to whom it was answered, “They are standing without the Gate.” The King then commanded to open the Gate. . . .

Now I saw in my dream that these [pilgrims] went in at the Gate; and lo, as they entered they were transfigured, and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. . . . Then I heard in my dream, that all the bells in the City rang again for joy; and that it was said unto them, “Enter ye into the joy of your Lord.”

Just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after them; and behold, the City shone  like the sun, the streets also were paved with gold, and in them walked many [people] with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises. . . .

When I had seen, I wished myself among them.[15]

So do I. I fervently wish myself to be among those who have been welcomed through the pearly gates to the Real World. There await Grandma Jones, and Martin, and so many others who mean the most to me . . . and to you. To join them once again will be the highest of pleasures for us all.

I never want to lose touch with the hope of that coming day.