Some Amens

We could hear music playing loudly as we approached the church doors. Music that didn't fit the occasion, I thought.

My sweaty palms clutched tissues inside my pocket as I nodded hello to the welcoming ladies at the door. Mom introduced herself and then me.

Oh thank goodness for Mom.

Just inside the doors, the ladies motioned for the pastor to come over and meet us.
 
He looks too happy, I thought.

A large man barreled his way toward us, his smiling lips creating crease lines across his face and his starched white collar wilting from sweat.

"Oh, it's so good to meet Anne and Susan Hardison!" he said. "We have reserved seats for you up front."

We followed his pointing finger into the sanctuary and to our front-row seats. The room buzzed, the loud speakers played gospel, people smiled and laughed, and not many wore black.

This is like a celebration, I thought incredulously.

Mom and I eyed each other with curious, nervous glances. In the program, I was listed to speak first and then her.

How am I ever going to get through this without crying?

When the service started, I didn't even hear what the smiling, sweaty pastor said at the podium. I was too focused on the chorus of Amens from the crowd and my increasingly sweaty palms. I squeezed Mom's hand. 

I wonder if she's as nervous as I am?

Soon, it was my turn. I gave Mom's hand one last squeeze, walked up to the podium, unfolded my paper, and took a deep breath....

****************************

Daniel had been absent from class for four days, so I asked Mrs. Jenkins after class if something was wrong.

"He's not doing well," she said. "He's in the hospital."

Fear began burning a hole in my heart at the news. I went home and told Mom we had to go visit him. And I wanted her to share the gospel with him. If Daniel was going to die, he needed to know the Lord first. Mom was the perfect person to talk to him because she had brain cancer, too, and she knew Jesus.

Mom, of course, agreed to go.

With a ding, the elevator doors opened and landed us on the pediatric oncology floor. Daniel's room, the nurse told us, was straight ahead.

He looked like the boy I knew from class, just lying in a hospital bed instead of sitting in front of his computer. The starched white sheets were pulled up to his neck, and his glasses hung clumsily down on his nose, just asking for a push. His mother was in a chair next to him, and when Mom and I walked in, Daniel smiled his huge Daniel smile.

We talked about him and how he was doing, and then Mom told Daniel that she had a brain tumor, too. She told him about the comfort she received from the Lord Jesus when she underwent brain surgery and chemotherapy. She told him about the many prayers that were still being prayed on her behalf. And she told him that many prayers were going up on his behalf, too.

As she talked, Daniel and his mom nodded vigorously in agreement.

My soul breathed out the air I'd been holding in since the elevator ding.

Daniel and his Mom knew the Lord.

Praise the Lord.

I got back on the elevator relieved.

I never saw Daniel again after that. About a month later, I was upstairs in my bedroom when I heard the phone ring . A few minutes later, Mom came to my door.

"Daniel has passed.

[pause]

"The family wants you and me to speak at his funeral."

**********************************

Here goes nothing, I thought from behind the podium. Just try not to cry.

"My name is Susan, and sitting down there is my Mom. Daniel and I were in computer class together...."

I spoke and then Mom spoke, and we, along with Daniel's family and friends, celebrated his life that afternoon. It was a funeral like I'd never been to before and haven't since.

I learned a lot from Daniel. I learned to be expectant in prayer, and I learned the wisdom in befriending the seemingly weak. I have sweet memories of him, and because of him, I have another sweet memory of Mom.

And on that note, I'd like to say for the record that neither of us cried at the podium.

We held it together, and wouldn't you know, we even got some Amens.