It matters which story guides your life. Never doubt that. Some kind of narrative shapes the way you view the world and your place in it. Some story is at the core of your identity.
I have a friend who for many years was pastor of First Baptist Church, Moncks Corner, South Carolina. His name is Hal West. Hal and his wife, Elliot, lost their little son, Philip, in 1985. Philip was six when he died of leukemia. He battled the disease for about three years.
In the summer of 1984, the year before Philip died, the family dog died, a little Cockapoo they had had for twelve years. The children insisted on a funeral and Hal, my pastor friend, constructed a plywood coffin. In their backyard they picked out an appropriate spot among some Camellia bushes to bury their little dog.
Philip, age 5, his little sister, Laura, age 3, and mom and dad attended the funeral. Hal offered a brief prayer thanking God for giving them such a special friend. Then something unusual happened.
Listen to how my friend Hal West describes that day:
I will never forget as I began to cover up this tiny coffin, that Philip took off into the house without saying a word. I finished pushing down the damp soil, and Elliot and I were trying to console a crying daughter and answer that same old question of, “But why did she have to die?”
I remember we were sitting on the ground near the grave when Philip darted out of the house, ran by the three of us, and timidly threw an object in our direction. When I picked it up, I couldn’t believe it. I nearly burst into tears myself.
Philip had secretly and compassionately constructed a cross of two sticks he had found and had bound with scrap pieces of yarn. We called him back and praised him for caring enough to take the time to lovingly make a cross to put on top of the little dog’s grave.
I don’t know how much Philip understood about death, and I’m not sure how much he understood about the cross, but I believe he had an idea that the cross was more than simply a sign of death and a grave marker.
I want to believe that in making that cross he was comforted and strengthened and that for him some of the pain of losing an object of love was lessened when he saw the cross standing above the grave where lay the body of his friend.
Philip, who was only five years old, had a defining story. He truly believed that Jesus cared about his little dead dog. The following year, Hal, Elliot, and little sister, Laura, stood at the grave of Philip remembering what he had done at their little dog’s funeral. You can imagine the power of that memory, a gift to remind them of the defining story of their lives.
Do you have a defining story powerful enough to carry you through death? Little Philip is our guide and his brief life cries out and affirms that dying in Christ is the door to the greatest adventure ever. I hope you believe that. If not, you need a new defining story.
Let me add one last thing. Because our defining story is as greats it is, I believe that not only will Jesus raise us from the dead, but also our four legged friends who brought us such joy in this life. Why not? Won’t the New Earth be that much sweeter sharing it with these creatures who loved us unconditionally? Wouldn’t that be just like Jesus to do such a thing?
Richard Hipps
My husband and I had taken our four-year old and six-year old on a family trip. On the way home, the children were talking with their father about war and weapons. I think the topic this was brought on by passing some historic Civil War site. I zoned out into my own thoughts and left the conversation. When I snapped back from the highway’s hypnotic effects, the boys and Eric’s conversation had somehow arrived at nuclear weapons. My six-year old, Ethan was disturbed. He couldn’t believe that a device capable of such destruction existed. He was nearly panicked and brainstorming ideas to solve the problem of nuclear arms. He was coming up with all sorts of plans and then quickly abandoning them for their ineffectiveness or because their results would not be good either. At some point, he thought of taking all the “big bombs” and putting them on a remote controlled rocket ship, sending them to outer space and blowing them up. Then he realized this plan could result in harm to space or accidental harm to the earth. I was in my own state of disturbance. I didn’t know how to comfort him. I didn’t know how to help him live with this knowledge, to make sense of a world in which human beings construct and possess the push-button power of mass devastation. I was trying to formulate some perspective, some words. As I struggled in my own mind, he just got more and more worked up. His eyes peeled wide when he exclaimed, “no one should have big bombs like that, not even us!” And then my four-year old spoke up. ” Ethan”, he calmly interrupted, ” If a big bomb goes off, we’re all gonna die and go to heaven. And if a big bomb doesn’t go off, we’re all gonna die and go to heaven. Stop being scared.” I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God for the rescue of my little Liam’s perspective. To this day, the ultimate truth in his words manage to extinguish so many of my human fears.
Praise Jesus, The New Earth will be sweeter beyond measure! Eternity to Eternity ! Shalom
A touching story. I have worked with many terminally ill children. Most of them leukemia, one kind or the other, and some of the children had other forms of cancer. I have seen several children comforting their parents. They knew when time was getting short even though none of the conversations were ever in the room. When the doctor started to call one family out to talk, the 4 yr. old boy told him its okay, I know I am going to die. You can talk in here so momma does not have to cry in the hall, she can cry in here with me.
What a wonderful hope!
What a marvelous certainty!
Bless be our Lord and Saviour!