They Miss Us, Too
They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,
crossed the bar or bought the farm,
ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,
asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God
and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly,
really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone.
Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say
until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned,
"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.
It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice
or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding
that he tell me why he took my son.
I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap
me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,
or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,
apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the
sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways
are always, always best. They have to be. They must.
"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,
I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."
It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,
in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"
he explained,"because the joy leaves little room
for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring
when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has
to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the
green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come
quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,
our voices and our laughter, miss the times
of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories
are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,
the other duties, play times, all the things that
perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,
I can only speculate, but this I know:
Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.
Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016