SILVER HAIR, GOLDEN HEARTS

Some shuffle; some lean on walkers; some are pushed in wheelchairs.

Arthritis-laden legs bend, and backs strain. With the aid of shaking hands, they sink down into their chairs. Racing heartbeats ease to a slower pace.

After a little rest, some are given hymnals. The others cannot see.

The first song is announced. Quivering lips part, and heaven opens up. A chorus fit for the King of Glory rises through the little room’s ceiling, bursts into the universe, and swirls into the divine throne room.

The voices of gallant warriors, torn and broken in body. The voices of strong warriors, courageous to the finish. The halting voices of conquerors, boldly reaching for their crowns.

A little later, they hear the words, “ we are gathered around this table to once again commemorate our Lord’s death.” Once again. Yes once again, as many times as it takes until the victory is reached. Bent hands, stabbed still by throbbing arthritis and shaking with palsy, reach out to touch the first symbol. The bread already has been broken for them.

With determination each forces her fingers to close around the little fragment representing the crucified body. Slowly, slowly it is taken up to the lips. Some fingers fumble at this point, and the fragment drops into a lap. The painful procedure is repeated until completed. Next the cup is brought. The blood symbol- the symbol of life and death. The little glass is so small that it could embarrassingly spill. A kind friend picks it up and places it in the palm of the awaiting cupped hand. The cup still is shaking, so two hands are used_ one folded under the other to try to steady it. The drink successfully reaches the lips, and its contents are sipped triumphantly.

OH, WHAT GLORY. TO BE ABLE TO HONOR THE DYING SAVIOR AFTER ALL THESE YEARS! The glass slips out of the tottering hands and is caught by the tray.

The mind already has started transcending this room to another from far above.

“Each week we give our contribution to a worthy cause,” they hear explained. The collection tray is brought around. Dimes and quarters are brought out of coin purses, shallow pockets, envelopes and Bibles. Some are wadded in cold hands. A faithful wife slips a dollar bill into the hand of her nearly paralyzed husband. Ever so slowly, coins and dollar bills are carefully placed into the tray. Not much? Oh, but it will help a burned-out family in need.

The preacher now stands before the little assembly. Many shift. The seats are hard, and circulation becomes cramped. Arthritis continues to distress aged joints. The young man reads about being taken home to glory someday. Some watch him; some gaze at the floor.

He speaks about heaven, and they begin to feel left behind, thinking about people they ache to see again. It has been so long. They have fought so many battles. A few tears slip down weathered cheeks. They dream about heaven.

With the sermon over and the last prayer said, they begin to leave slowly.

Life hasn’t always been this way. In years past, they had taken time out of busy weeks, gathered up their newly scrubbed children, and hurried down the road to the church building. They sang heartily and kept their children still. Afterward, they bustled about one group to another discussing crops or jobs, gospel meetings or new church buildings. The room is nearly empty now. They make their way down wandering halls to little rooms and resume their wait for the mansions. They sigh. Battles of life have been met and fought. Mountains climbed, desolations conquered.

So now it’s matter of waiting and encouraging people left behind to do the best that they too, can do. Tired, waiting, but willing to go on until they touch the mark.

Then they will start all over. Only this time it will be different. For this time, there will be no pain, no foes, no failures. And never again will they grow old.

By Katheryn Maddox Haddad.