by Kelli Sellers
“And the God of all grace, who called you into His eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered for a little while, will Himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast.”
1 Peter 5:10
Congregation
We all remembered the Sunday that followed James’s death. James had spent the last three months fighting cancer, but his battle on Earth had ended the Thursday morning prior. The news had taken all of us by surprise since we had just heard a good report from not even twenty-four hours earlier. He even shared a few Facebook posts moments before his death, including a picture of an ignited candle with First Peter 5:10 written out. We were surprised how fitting that verse was for our friend, for he had suffered through the effects of the cancer had on his body. Now, he is in the presence of Christ, fully restored and receiving the ultimate healing.
We came into the sanctuary heartbroken, yet composed, as if we had placed on our masks, holding back the tears in our eyes and the hurts in our hearts. We all talked about how we missed him and recalled the many memories we had collected about him, but our true emotions were bottled up inside each of our hearts, each of us not wanting to let them go just yet.
We made our ways to our seats as the service was about to begin. We took notice that the seat where James always sat remained empty as if maybe, just maybe, he would slip in through the back door and worship alongside us like always, but sadly, we knew that wouldn’t be the case. We worshipped through song and fellowship together, but we felt incomplete; our puzzle missing its last piece, our missing piece that is now in Heaven. No matter how hard we tried to focus on the service, we couldn’t help but think of our brother, remembering all that he had been through and all that he did for us.
Felicity
I grow more and more nervous as the service grows closer and closer towards the time to sing the special music. It’s not the normal fears of losing my place, coming in too early or too late to the music, or even singing the wrong notes. My fear is not being able to sing this song without thinking about James. It’s hard not to think about James, especially with every member of the church talking about him. In the midst of my fear, I went back to when James first sang this song and how we were all touched by its message. I realized that we need this song to help mend the wounds of our hearts over the loss of our friend. Lord, give me strength to sing this song.
* * *
It was two years ago when I first heard the song “Knowing What I Know About Heaven” on the radio when I was headed home from work. On that particular day, I kept thinking about my father. He would come by the high school — where I teach ninth grade geometry — every second Thursday of the month for lunch. When my mother passed away seven years ago, he started this tradition as a way to spend quality time together that seemed so hard to find in our busy lives. That particular day was the second Thursday, the first since he passed a month earlier. It was a hard day for me, sitting in the same spot at the teacher’s table where we would remember the days when I was younger and before Mother got sick, without him. My fellow colleagues did what they could to comfort me (and I am so grateful for them), but during that moment, I felt so alone.
When the song came on, I listened to the comforting lyrics and soothing music, crying tears of joy. I know that through Jesus, who died and arose from the dead three days later so that we — if we believed in Him — can be with Him in Heaven, I knew I will be in His presence with my father and mother one day.
After the song was over, for some odd reason, the thought of James singing this song kept coming to mind. I knew people at church requested songs for him to sing, but as I tried to brush the thought off, something kept urging me to ask him about the song. The opportunity arose a few weeks later one Sunday morning at church when he was coming in for morning service.
“Good morning, Felicity,” said James, greeting me with his cheerful smile as usual, as he reached out his hand for a handshake.
“Good morning, James,” I replied, doing the same as our hands met and shook hands before letting go. “Can I ask you for a favor?”
“What can I do for you?”
“I heard a song on the radio a few weeks ago and was wondering if you could try to learn it to sing one Sunday?”
“What’s the name of the song?”
“‘Knowing What I Know About Heaven’ by Guy Penrod.”
“I’ll do my best to learn the song.”
It was about a month later when he sang the song for the first time. As he sang the song, I then realized why this song was played on the radio, why a little voice in my head constantly told me to ask James, and why James was able to sing this song: God had a bigger plan than James or I could have ever imagined. The song had touched others besides me that Sunday morning. There were members of the congregation who, like me, shed tears for the loved ones in their lives that had passed. Even if our circumstances were different, we all went through similar hardships.
* * *
“Felicity, have you figured out a song to sing for Sunday’s service?” Carson, my husband, asked me during the phone call we had on our drives to work that Thursday morning. Since he has to get up earlier in the mornings to get to work in Birmingham, he is usually out the door by the time I get up. Our morning phone calls was just something we had always done to start our mornings.
“Well,” I answered with uncertainty, “I thought about singing ‘Amazing Grace (My Chains Are Gone),’ but I’m not sure.”
“I think it’s a good choice. You haven’t sung it in a while.”
“I know, but part of me feels like it’s not the song to sing for Sunday.”
“Well, at least you still have a few days to think about it. I’m pulling up to work, so I’ll talk to you later. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too.” After ending the call with Carson, I kept second guessing the song for Sunday. I had never had this much doubt about choosing a song. It wasn’t long until I arrived at the local high school, beginning my daily routine of teaching geometry, but in my mind, I continued to debate over songs for Sunday. Lord, please give me guidance for what song You want me to sing.
* * *
After a long day of teaching the pythagorean theorem, I drove to the local grocery store to pick up the ingredients to make spaghetti for dinner. As I was walking down aisle six for spaghetti noodles and spaghetti sauce, I noticed a familiar face turning around the far end of the aisle. It was Ms. Ruth, a sweet lady from the church.
“Hey, Ms. Ruth,” I called for her, taking her attention away from her grocery list. “How are you today?”
“Hi, Felicity,” she responded, smiling. “I’m doing alright. How about you?”
“Doing good. I just got off work and getting a few things for dinner tonight.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that. It was a shame to hear about James this morning.”
“What about James?” I asked, taken by surprise.
“You didn’t hear?” Realizing that I was not informed of what had happened, she shared the devastating news. “James passed away this morning.”
“What?” I was in disbelief. “I thought he was feeling better as of last night.”
“I thought so too, but at least we know he is in a better place.” With Ms. Ruth still standing there continuing to talk, my mind tuned her out, thinking back on the day I asked James to sing the song I requested. Feeling the certainty of what song I was supposed to sing on Sunday, I knew that it was my turn to return the favor to James, even after his death. “Is there something wrong, Felicity?” Ms. Ruth interrupted. I took a brief moment to refocus back into reality.
“No ma’am, everything is fine. I hate to rush, but I have to get going.” I reached for the store brand package of noodles and a can of Hunt’s spaghetti sauce. “It was good seeing you, Ms. Ruth. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Bye, dear.” she said before I turned around to head towards the checkout lines. When I got into my car, I quickly grabbed my phone out of my purse and sent a text to Carson: I know what song I am singing for Sunday.
* * *
The time has finally come for special music. I leave my seat by Carson and head towards the stage. I approach the music stand, putting my page of lyrics in their place and grabbing the microphone from its stand. Taking a deep breath, I nod my head to the sound tech to begin the music.
This is for you, James.
I bet the trumpets played, And the angels sang every sweet refrain of Amazing Grace.
Pastor Carter
It was hard for me just to walk to the front pew of the church without hearing James’ name constantly being repeated through the conversations of my fellow church members prior to the service starting. While the congregation knows he is no longer with us, they don’t know that I was the one who found him after he passed away. I have been alongside the bedside of many people during their finals moments, but I had mentally prepared myself for their passing in order to comfort the people around them. With James’ death, I had no time to prepare myself.
As Felicity makes her way to the stage for special music, I think back on the times James would sing special music. In my eyes, James was more than a member of the congregation. He was like a brother to me and someone who was there for me and encouraged me, even when he didn’t know I needed it. I can’t recount the numerous times when I was struggling through a day where nothing was going right until I would hear my phone ring and saw his name on the screen, always sharing his gift of encouragement with me. It’s sad to think that I will never receive one of his encouraging phone calls again.
* * *
It was November when James first found out he had cancer. I was headed to the church that afternoon after going to town to shop for Mallory’s, my wife, anniversary present while she was cooking for the Wednesday night dinner at church. Not only did these meals fill our Southern Baptist appetites, but they gave us an opportunity to fellowship with one another. This was especially true for James, who was notorious for filling up the same, extra-large styrofoam cup with sweet tea and compiling all his food together in a heaping pile on his plate. It didn’t matter if it was taco salad or meatloaf and vegetables, he would always justified it every time: “It all goes to the same place.”
As I was driving, my phone rang. It was James. This wasn’t nothing out of the norm for him, often calling me throughout the week to share a few corny jokes, asking questions his trucking buddies would ask him about God, or giving me a word of encouragement. I remembered from that past Sunday that he was asking for prayers since he was going to hear back from his doctor that particular day about the pain he’d been having for the last few weeks.
“Hey,” I answered, expecting one of his jokes to come through the phone.
“Hey, Carter,” he replied but not in his usual upbeat and joyful spirits. “The results of my test just came back. I have stage-four cancer.”
“James, I’m sorry to hear that.” That was all I could say at the moment. That six-letter word is a hard word for me to swallow, especially when my sister, Eliza, passed away after a year-and-a-half-long battle with brain cancer eight years prior. The emotional pain that cancer leaves never completely goes away.
“I’m coming home from the doctor’s office. Can we meet somewhere to talk?”
“Come by my office at the church. I’ll be there shortly.” After ending the call with James, I couldn’t but help think about the possibility of James dying from the cancer like my sister. He was only forty-eight, three years older than me. What if something happens to me when I’m forty-eight? What if something causes me to die tomorrow? Starting to get myself into a panic, I pushed my personal fears aside to focus on my pastoral duties, which was —at that moment — being there for James.
We ended up talking in my office for almost two hours that afternoon. He discussed what the doctor had told him about his diagnosis and the possible treatment options, feeling unsure and confused about what he’d do medically, but as we conversed, I knew he was for sure of one thing.
“Carter, I know that God has a plan for my life, even now when I am facing cancer. Whether I am healed here on Earth or healed in Heaven, I am ready for what God has for me.”
* * *
For some compelling reason, I decided to call James the night before his death. I was sitting at one of the round tables in the fellowship hall alone as Mallory was finishing up the last few things for the Wednesday night dinner. I hadn’t heard from James in a few days, so I wanted to get an update on how he was doing. Listening to the small, still voice in my mind, I dialed his number. In his joyful tone, he answered the phone with none other than a corny joke.
“Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pencil?”
“I don’t know, James.”
“Because it’s pointless,” he laughed, a positive sign that he was having a good day. I couldn't help but laugh as well, not because other joke, but because of the joy James had at that moment.
We ended up talking for about fifteen minutes that night. He wanted me to let the church know that he was feeling the best he had felt in the last few months and told me of his day getting his haircut at Mrs. Ruth’s house the day prior. We also prayed over the phone, hoping that he would be healed from the cancer, whether the healing was here on Earth or the ultimate healing in Heaven. Before we ended the call, James — as always —ended the conversation with, “See you soon, brother.”
“See you soon, brother.” I replied, unknowingly, ending the last phone call I would ever have with James.
* * *
It was around 7:30 a.m. that Thursday morning when I tried to call James. I kept reached his voicemail, which never happens.
“Hey James, it’s Carter. I just wanted to check on you. Call me back when you get a chance.” I ended the message when Mallory came into the bedroom.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Well, I tried to call James but didn’t reach him.”
“That’s strange. He usually answers your calls.”
“I know. Surely he’ll call me back in a few minutes.”
8:30 a.m. came around without a word from James. Out of concern, I decided to drive over to his house, thinking of the endless possibilities of why he wasn’t answering his phone. Maybe his phone in another room. Maybe his phone isn’t working. Maybe his phone is dead. Maybe he is taking a shower. Although he only lived a couple minutes away, the closer I got to his house, the more I started to think the worst.
Lord, I hope nothing is wrong with James.
When I finally arrived at his small, rundown trailer home, I noticed that his crimson Mazda Tribute was in the driveway, so I assumed that he was at home. I approached his dark wooden door and knocked, hoping that he would be there to open it.
“James, it’s Carter,” I called from outside the door, but James never came. After a few minutes of anxiously waiting, I went for the key to his house in my blue jean pocket. He had given it to me about a month prior, just in case of an emergency. Taking this moment as “just in case” moment, I placed the key in the knob, unlocked the door, and slowly went in.
As soon as I opened the door, there was James, laying in a relaxed position in his recliner. Thinking that he was asleep, I walked over to him – gently shaking him – to wake him up, but after a few moments of trying, I realized my worst fears were confirmed.
James had passed away.
* * *
And that heaven’s hands opened up the gate, And the children danced when they saw your face. As happy as they were to see you coming, I was just as sad to have to watch you go.
When James left my office that day in November, I remember just sitting at my desk, desiring the strong faith and confidence he had. As the pastor, shouldn’t I be a person that has such strong faith? Shouldn’t I be a person who doesn’t fear death? Shouldn’t I be an example to the church to have the confidence to say “I don’t fear death”? Yes, I feared the physical death and the uncertainty of how I will die. I remember asking myself, “Is it wrong to fear death? But as I sit here listening to the words of “Knowing What I Know About Heaven,” I feel at peace. Through the tears, I know in my heart that when my time comes, I’ll be ready to enter into the gates of Heaven in the presence of the Lord where I will see my sister and James again.
See you soon, my brother.
Ruth
James always sat in the pew in front of me every Sunday for the past several years. Today, his seat remains empty. No one was — or is — ready for his seat to be empty. He always came in, placed his Bible on the pew and greeted me with a smile. Today, I did not get to see his smile. Today, the service is not the same without James.
* * *
James would do anything for anyone, even if it meant dressing up as Santa Claus for the annual Christmas party at the local children’s home where I volunteer at. Prior to his cancer, James would cheerfully put on the Santa suit along with his black cowboy boots just to put a smile on the children’s faces. He pulled off the “Santa” look quite well with his portly stature and rosy cheeks, not to mention his humbling and giving spirit. It would always touch my heart to see the children so excited when Santa came in the room.
There was one particular Christmas party about a few years ago that I cherish the most. I was sitting down near Santa’s Wonderland when a little boy, around six or seven years old, approached Santa James.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” said James in a Santa-like voice, chuckling as he lifted the child onto his lap. “What’s your name?”
“Adrian,” the boy softly replied.
“Well Adrian, what would you like for Christmas?” Adrian sat there in silence for a moment before making his Christmas wish.
“Santa, I just want a friend.” This broke my heart, but I noticed James taking in what Adrian had wished for.
“Adrian, hold out your thumb and look at your thumbprint.” Adrian did so. “You are the only person with that particular thumbprint. Do you know what that means?”
“What, Santa?”
“It means you are ‘thumbody’ special.” Adrian giggled. “Everybody is ‘thumbody’ special, and just by living your life, you will find a friend that will like you for you.”
“Thanks, Santa,” he replied as he left to play with some of the other children. I just sat there, reflecting on what had occurred. It’s easy for us to be caught in the drift of the craziness and the business of what life throws at us, often missing the other special “thumbodies” of the world. It’s moments like this, even if it means wearing a Santa suit, that we need to slow down, enjoy, and learn from.
* * *
I opened my front door that Tuesday afternoon before James’s death to see him standing there.
“Hey, James,” I smiled.
“Hey, Ms. Ruth,” he smiled back. “I’m here for my haircut.”
“Come on in.” I let him in and went to the basement where my station was set up. Since retiring from the hair business several years ago, I often offer to cut my friends’ and church members’ hair during my free time.
As I trimmed his gray scruffy beard and the thick lock of his short hair, we talked about the cold and rainy winter weather we were having the last few weeks and was looking forward to the nice, warm weather that is forecasted for later in the week. As I was combing his hair, he mentioned something to me that has stayed with me.
“Ms. Ruth, God has truly blessed me. I have felt the best I have been since I started treatments. I hope and pray that I have more days like this.”
Me too, James. Me too.
* * *
I was enjoying the first beautiful sunny day we had had in a few weeks when I heard the news of James. I was reading my Sunday School lesson on the front porch around 9:30 a.m. that morning when I heard my phone ring. It was the church’s calling post. Usually, I would receive the pre-recorded message when I am on the Children’s Church and Nursery rotations, but that would be on Saturday evenings. “I wonder why the church would be calling us in this time of the day,” I asked myself aloud. I answered the phone to hear Pastor Carter giving the news no one wanted to hear.
“This call is to let everyone know of the heartbreaking news that James has passed away earlier this morning. He will be truly missed, and please keep his family in his prayers.”
I couldn’t help but cry, taking in the news of his sudden passing. I had loved James as a son, a son I never had the chance to have since I never married. He had shared with me that his parents died several years ago, his younger brother had passed a few years earlier, and he never married. I never told him how much he meant to me as his sister-in-Christ or as his friend. I wished I had told him, but now, it was too late.
* * *
Where every single voice makes a joyful noise, How sweet the sound when the saints rejoice. To every broken heart and every wounded soul,
I know that even in this time of mourning, God had allowed this to happen for a reason. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I realized that James received his wish: he will have better days, just not here with us.
Owen
I haven’t walked into a church since I was teenager. Today changes that fact. I only came for James. He had invited me on several occasions. I always said no. Today is different I guess. I thought the least I could do for him — now that he is gone — is come to one service.
I walk in the door to a man in his mid-forties standing a few feet away from me. Smiling, he turns and approaches me.
“Good morning. How are you this morning?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“I’m Pastor Carter.” He extended his hands towards me for a handshake. I remember James mentioning his name in past conversations.
“Owen,” I said, doing the same.
“I hate to rush, but the service is about to start. Glad to meet you, Owen,” he said as he heads toward the front of the church. I see an open seat on the back row to sit, but looking around, I don’t know anyone here. In a room filled with people, somehow, I feel alone. I could have come with James, but he’s gone now.
* **
I had worked with James for about a year and a half at the local branch of Walpole trucking company in town. I remember our boss introducing him to me as James “Elvis” Platt. He had a spot-on impression of the King. He was willing show me around the company even though we would both be in our trucks majority of the time. We hit it off rather quickly and found out we had a lot in common. We both played football in high school. We both grew up in rural parts in Alabama. We both loved a nice and juicy burger. But there was one thing that we didn’t have in common: our views on religion. James was a Christian. I don’t believe in a supreme being. I tried going to church with my mother when I was younger. After she died, I never went back. Religion isn’t for me anyways. As long he didn’t bring it up around me, we would get along just fine.
* * *
I was rather shocked to see how James responded to the news of having cancer. He told me while waiting for our trucks to be loaded for our runs. We waited in the break room in the warehouse where we discussed what he learned at his doctor appointment and the different treatment options that he has to offer. He didn’t seem to be deeply discouraged by the news. Sure he seemed a little down by the news, but he kept saying that his god has a plan for his life even through the cancer. How could someone be so reliant on a god to have control of his life? How could his “loving god” allow cancer to take over his body that could ultimately kill him?
These were the questions I had asked myself when my mother died ten years ago. She was a devoted Christian. She went to church every Sunday. She gave her money to the church. She cooked her famous squash casserole for potlucks. She prayed for the sick. She read her Bible. But despite all of this, she became sick and died shortly after. Why would I spend my life worshipping a god that allows bad things to happen to its people?
These were the questions I also asked James in that break room.
“God lets bad things to happen,” he replied, “because it allows us to grow and learn something valuable from it.” It made some sense but not entirely. I didn’t bother to ask him to explain it any farther, pretending that I understood what he meant. Eventually, our trucks were loaded and went our separate ways. I never saw James in person again after that day.
* * *
My truck runs kept me on the road a lot and away from home. I knew from Facebook that James had to quit driving his truck due to his treatments. From time to time, I would see where he would share some Bible verse, an event that his church would be having, or a quote someone else had posted.
But on Thursday, I saw the overflowing rest in peace posts on his wall. I was unaware if his cancer had gotten worse or if his death just suddenly happened. He believed in his god and mentioned that he would go to heaven once he died. I didn’t know how to take the news of his death.
* * *
New life begins on streets of gold. Where every tear is raining here from my eyes, I know the sun is shining where you are.
I can’t stop thinking about James as the young lady on the stage sings her song. In tears, I wonder if he was possibly right. What if there was some god that accepts us for who we are? What if he is in heaven with my mother in the presence of the god they believed in?
What if it is just as simple as they had said?
Congregation
Not a dry eye was in the sanctuary that day after the song continued to play. As Felicity sang along to the music, we took off our masks and allowed our emotions to pour out of our hearts. We all couldn’t help from hearing our dear friend’s voice singing instead as he did before. Knowing what I know about Heaven, Believing that you're all the way home. Knowing that you’re somewhere better, Is all I need to let you go. The song that had touched his heart when his brother passed away a few years earlier continues to touch the lives that remains now that he is gone. This song was not placed in his life on accident, for this song that had once been a song for healing for him, now serves a song for healing for us.
* * *
As life continues on, we remember James not only for his corny jokes or his singing, but for the life he lived and the impact he made on the people he came in contact with, unashamed to share his faith with anyone he met, something worth striving for. I could hope that I could pray you back, but why on earth would I do that when you’re somewhere life and love never ends?
Although we still miss James, we are comforted by the thought of seeing him again because of what we know about Heaven.