Neath Death

My brother Joe Brown with children Gavin (left),
Kailey (right) and grandbaby Aspyn

I'm dying to have a near death experience. 

My brother Joe had one. He was in the hospital, thankfully, when he suffered cardiac arrest. The paddles were on him in a second, but for the brief time he was gone he remembers being somewhere beautiful - a place in which he was completely loved and without pain. Then he was back.

"But what else?" I've nagged him. "What did you see?"

Wordless, he shakes his head, gets choked up, and can never find the words to describe it. 

He's absolutely no help at all. 

This is why it would be nice to have a cardiac event myself. Not that I'm ready to leave just yet. Although, to be honest, I'm beginning to feel a tiny bit weary and have entered into the "been there, done that" phase. Nobody at my age manages to escape grief and loss and heartache. When the people I love wrestle with illness, or my boys struggle, or kids starve, or the world seems hell bent on destroying itself - I sometimes feel tired to the bone. Just a small glimpse of the life ahead would be such a relief, like the very unathletic kid on the last day of gym class who can only climb halfway up the rope.

"Screw it," he sighs. "Tomorrow's summer vacation." 

Sort of like that.

I could never leave John, though. Don't get me wrong - he's perfectly capable of living without me, but our children and all his siblings reside in other states. I'd worry about him constantly. It's best that I hang around long enough to see him out, then I'll follow like a bat out of hell.

The problem, my husband likes to point out, is that I'm obsessed with certainty.

"Where's your faith?" he pointedly asks, as if there's something unnatural about having to know exactly what happens after death. Likewise, he doesn't understand my compulsion to read the end of a book first.

"Why?" he asks in bewilderment.

Because, I patiently explain, if the story doesn't end happily, I don't want to read it.

I suppose it's why my favorite disciple is Doubting Thomas. Poor guy. How unfair to be saddled with that awful name for 2000 years. His only sin was that he posed a healthy skepticism in the wake of unbelievable news. I totally get Thomas.

"Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were and put my hand into his side," he snaps at the other Disciples who report they've seen the risen Jesus, "I will not believe!"

Was he so wrong? Surely those Disciples could have been mistaken. Were they drinking?

A week or so later, however, he's pretty embarrassed when Jesus walks through locked doors and scolds him. "Put your finger here, Thomas," Jesus says. "See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Stop doubting and believe."

Of course Thomas feels sheepish. More than that, though, he must have been completely elated and relieved and joyous. 

"My Lord and my God!" he breathes.

Thomas saw the face of Christ in the flesh. Every time I read that passage, I feel the joy of Thomas.

My sweet brother Joe is the face of Christ for me. In our huge family of siblings, Joe is the Jesus to my Doubting Thomas. More than any of us, he's endured difficult times. Still, he remains his handsome, funny, wicked, kindly self. He doesn't cave under the weight of physical pain or the sufferings of a broken world or even the sheer terror of waiting for lab results the way I do. Instead, he radiates a cheerfulness and good humor that speaks to all of us.

"All is well," his easy demeanor seems to suggest.  

Joe's seen the other side of the veil and possesses a serenity that I envy. It doesn't make the sufferings of this world any less, but it does give him confidence in a merciful and loving God and a beautiful Heavenly home.

I believe him, too. How can I not believe in my own wonderful brother?

But I'm still hoping for a cardiac event.