When it came time for my father to deliver his sermon I was concerned because I hadn’t seen him prepare at all. He stepped up to the pulpit and for a moment simply looked out over the pews, every one of which was full. And then he began.
“It isn’t Easter,” he said, “but this week has caused me to think a lot about the Easter story. Not the glorious resurrection that we celebrate on Easter Sunday but the darkness that came before. I know of no darker moment in the Bible than the moment Jesus in his agony on the cross cries out, ‘Father, why have you forsaken me?’ Darker even than his death not long after because in death Jesus at last gave himself over fully to the divine will of God. But in that moment of his bitter railing he must have felt betrayed and completely abandoned by his father, a father he’d always believed loved him deeply and absolutely. How terrible that must have been and how alone he must have felt. In dying all was revealed to him, but alive Jesus like us saw with mortal eyes, felt the pain of mortal flesh, and knew the confusion of imperfect mortal understanding.
“I see with mortal eyes. My mortal heart this morning is breaking. And I do not understand.
“I confess that I have cried out to God, ‘Why have you forsaken me?’ ”
Here my father paused and I thought he could not continue. But after a long moment he seemed to gather himself and went on.
“When we feel abandoned, alone, and lost, what’s left to us? What do I have, what do you have, what do any of us have left except the overpowering temptation to rail against God and to blame him for the dark night into which he’s led us, to blame him for our misery, to blame him and cry out against him for not caring? What’s left to us when that which we love most has been taken?
“I will tell you what’s left, three profound blessings. In his first letter to the Corinthians, Saint Paul tells us exactly what they are: faith, hope, and love. These gifts, which are the foundation of eternity, God has given to us and he’s given us complete control over them. Even in the darkest night it’s still within our power to hold to faith. We can still embrace hope. And although we may ourselves feel unloved we can still stand steadfast in our love for others and for God. All this is in our control. God gave us these gifts and he does not take them back. It is we who choose to discard them.
“In your dark night, I urge you to hold to your faith, to embrace hope, and to bear your love before you like a burning candle, for I promise that it will light your way.
“And whether you believe in miracles or not, I can guarantee that you will experience one. It may not be the miracle you’ve prayed for. God probably won’t undo what’s been done. The miracle is this: that you will rise in the morning and be able to see again the startling beauty of the day.
“Jesus suffered the dark night and death and on the third day he rose again through the grace of his loving father. For each of us, the sun sets and the sun also rises and through the grace of our Lord we can endure our own dark night and rise to the dawning of a new day and rejoice.
“I invite you, my brothers and sisters, to rejoice with me in the divine grace of the Lord and in the beauty of this morning, which he has given us.”
My father’s eyes swept over the congregants who filled the pews silent as dandelions with upturned faces. He smiled and said, “Amen.”
And after a moment Gus beside me called out, “Amen.” Which was a most un-Methodist thing to do. And then I heard another voice echo, “Amen,” and I turned and saw that it was Travis Klement who had spoken and I watched as his wife laid her hand lovingly on his arm.
I left the church that morning feeling, as I do to this day, that I had experienced a miracle, the one promised by my father who had spoken a truth profound and simple. I walked across the street to our house where my mother sat with Emil Brandt in the living room with the curtains drawn against the morning light. I went upstairs to my bedroom where Jake lay on his mattress, still in his pajamas.
I sat down on my bed and said, “There’s something I haven’t told you. Something important.”
“Yeah?” he replied with no interest at all.
“You’re my best friend, Jake. You’re my best friend in the whole world. You always have been and you always will be.”
I could hear outside the calls of the congregation one to another bidding good-bye and the sounds of doors slamming and of wheels crushing gravel as cars left the church parking lot. Jake had been staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head. He didn’t move. Finally the sounds from across the street died out completely and it was just Jake and me and silence.
“I’m afraid you’ll die, too,” he finally said.
“I won’t ever die, I promise.”
His eyes slid from the ceiling to my face. “Everybody dies,” he said.
“I won’t. I’ll be the first person who never died. And you’ll be the second.”
I thought that at least he would smile but he didn’t. He looked serious and thoughtful and he said, “I won’t mind dying. I just don’t want you to die.”
“Cross my heart, Jake, I’m not going to die. I’m not going to leave you ever.”
He sat up slowly and swung his legs off the bed. “You better not,” he said. Then he said, “Everything feels wrong, Frank.”
“Everything?”
“The daytime. The nighttime. Eating. Just lying here thinking. Nothing feels right. I keep waiting for her to come up the stairs and poke her head into our room and, you know, goof around with us.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“What do we do, Frank?”
“I think we just keep going on. We keep doing what we always do and someday it’ll feel right again.”
“Will it? Really?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He nodded. Then he said, “What do you want to do today?”
“I’ve got an idea,” I said, “but you might not like it.”
• • •
My grandfather and Liz had gone home after church. To rest awhile, Liz had told us. She’d promised they would be back later to fix supper. They’d been with us constantly since Ariel first disappeared and I realize now looking back that they must have been sucked dry by our need and must have been hurting too but they never said a word of complaint.
Jake and I found them sitting in the shade of their long front porch. They were surprised to see us and looked concerned until I explained why we were there.
“It’s the Sabbath,” my grandfather said. “A day of rest.”
“Honest, it’ll be more restful than sitting home all day,” I told him.