Most people accept intellectually a belief in some kind of life after death. But usually it remains a theoretical belief until death invades one’s immediate family circle.
Then at the time of the funeral, we are handed the victgory. The working through of the specific problems that sorrow brings must come later. Many know that initial victory. As with all God’s gifts, we do nothing to ear or to deserve it. Undoubtedly a loving Father knows that without this kind of help, many of us could never withstand the emotional shock, would never even be able to get through the funeral.
At that time, the first need of the bereaved person is for comfort—just plain comfort. In sorrow, we are all like little children, hurt children who yearn to creep into a mother’s arms and rest there; have her stroke our foreheads and speak softly to us as she used to do. But, of course, that is impossible; we are grown men and women. Yet the need for comfort remains.
Our God has promised precisely that , “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God,” and “For thus saith the Lord, as one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.”
Strangely in my case I was given the beginning of that experience3 of comfort a few hours prior to m y husband’s death. That morning Peter had wakened about three-thirty with severe pains in his arms and chest. The doctor had come as quickly as he could. He had insisted that Dr. Marshall be taken immediately to the hospital.
As we waited for the ambulance, Peter had looked up at me through his pain and said, “Catherine, don’t try to come with me. We mustn’t leave Wee Peter alone in this big house. You can come to the hospital in the morning.”
Reluctantly, I had agreed. I knew that he was right, though I wanted so much to be with him.
After the ambulance had come and gone, I went back upstairs and sank to my knees beside the bed. Ther3e was the need for prayer, for this was an emergency indeed. It could mean only one thing—another massive heart attack. But how was I to pray? Swirling emotions plunged my mind into utter confusion.
Suddenly the unexpected happened. Over the turbulent emotions there crept a strange all-pervading peace. And through and around me flowed love as I had never before experienced it. It was as if body and spirit were floating on a cloud, resting—as if Someone who loved me very much were wrapping me round and round with His love.
I knelt there marveling at what was happening. I had done nothing, said nothing, to bring it about. Through my mind trooped a quick procession of thoughts:
The Three persons of the Godhead—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Sometimes I’ve known the spirit within as a nudge, as direction, or reminder, or conscience. Once especially I knew the Son—in that wonderful incident that was the turning point in my long illness. But this is different, this must be the Father. Maybe this is what the Bible means by that lovely statement: “Underneath are the everlasting arms.” That describes exactly what I’m feeling.
But what did this mean in relation to Peter, his ailing heart, and the emergency that threatened us? I thought it meant that everything was going to be all right, that Peter would be healed. There seemed to be nothing for which to ask God. Surely there was no need of asking for His presence; that Presence was all around me. So my prayer took the form simply of thanking Him for the miracle that His love could be such a personal love; for His tender care of Peter and Wee Peter and me.
At 8:15 that same morning, Peter stepped across the boundary that divides this life from the next. Then I knew that the experience of the night before had meant something far different. I had been granted it so that when the blow fell, I might have the certainty that a loving Father had not deserted me.
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