Last year, I read the essays and letters of one of my favorite poets,
Joyce Kilmer. The most moving of these were the ones he wrote to his
friends and family while he was in France, fighting in the first
world war. Besides the touching love and affection for his family,
his courage in the face of death, and his deep faith, the thing that
I remember most from these letters is his many mentions of the book
he was going to write when he came home. He thought about it often,
was planning it and thinking about it while he suffered through the
atrocities of war. He never came home to write it, however, because
he died bravely in battle on July 30th, 1918.
Please forgive me
for a somber topic, but somber topics are on my heart of late. Life,
death, how we live, and how we die... My mother-in-law, Nancy Hough,
has just been diagnosed with advanced cancer. She is often in a great
deal of pain, and, while the prognosis changes with the results of
each test, we have been told we need to hope for a miracle.
Nancy, who we know
as “Mama,” is a writer and an artist. She, like Joyce Kilmer, may
never have the chance to finish the book that she has been working on
and thinking about for years. But, like that other poet, she has
faith that our work does not end with this life. She believes that we
are children of God, and are made to praise him in this life and the
next. It is important to remember, for those of us who have a longer
time left in this waiting room of earth, that the work we can
accomplish now is only a shadow of what we will accomplish in heaven.
If art is a way to praise God on earth and share in his act of
creation, there is no reason to believe that it will cease in
heaven—rather, there is much reason to believe that it will go on,
perfected.
I wonder what
masterful works of art Joyce Kilmer is creating in eternity. If I
regret that he died before he finished the work he thought would be
his masterpiece, it is because my own faith is weak. I think if he
decided to descend from heaven to have a word with me, he might
playfully smack my ear and say, “You fool! Why should you regret
that my work can now be greater, clearer, and more beautiful than
anything I wrote on earth? Don't you know how hard it was to write
before? I'm glad I don't have to deal with that blasted writers'
block anymore...”
Maybe Mama will get
to read that masterpiece before I will. Maybe she will be able soon
to create her own, unhampered by time and trials. Or maybe not. Like
Kilmer, I believe that miracles happen. Sometimes God will show his
might by healing the sick. And sometimes he will show his gentleness
by giving us peace and surrounding us with love.
Please join me in
praying for both.