Because this life is not all there is.
When we die, we will be judged according to our works..the things we did for Christ. Let's leave legacies of love. Every act of love causes our Light to grow. He told us not to hide our lights under a lampstand, but to shine so that a dying world could have hope.
When Andy died, I lost hope. But I didn't understand or know Christ. He is my hope. My perspective on death changed as I grew in Christ.
Here's my poem....
Before I knew Christ,
Death was the dark hand of loss, whose slimy bony fingers
stole away moments.
She was a hand born of ashes that loomed.
Her hands moved like shadows in dark skies, rising like a hurricane towards peaceful shores.
She threatened to blow away colors.
- a hurricane that built up walls inside of people, and with puckered, withered lips, blew away turquoise.
The world became a spider, fuzzy,
but not warm,
weaving webs of black and white.
Intricate patterns that my brain could not comprehend,
threading veils across my eyes so that I walked in a maze of black.
Thick and dusty carpet draped about my face.
Suffocating and choking, she rendered me asthmatic.
There were days when I lost my breath.
Klonopin became air, like breathing through a respirator where the clouds are tainted.
I sat at gravesides, pretending that the dead could speak.
We were prisoners and Death was our wall of glass. It was an unbreakable glass. But I would have broken it, if it could've been broken.
I longed to be heard. But I learned that ash has no ears. The dead have no hands for lifting. No voice for breathing fresh air of color into hollow spaces.
I searched for meaning in drops of rain. And played old songs hundreds of times...songs where you came to life...
but then died again in the silence.
I imagined you could see me, and I became the entertainer.
I became reckless. Feral. Haunted, longing to taste where you were. Longing to put heaven onto my tongue to taste if you were there. But I had no understanding of Heaven. Then, all I knew was darkness.
But as time passed....I grew in Christ...and
Death grew dim. She shrunk like the fat grape of a poisoned wine. Her effect was still potent, but her ability to render helpless, gone. Her veil floats like gossamer, thin and insignificant...upon another stream.
But I have placed my boat in a different sort of water. A water that lives and flows and does not drown.
As I grew closer to Christ, I understood Heaven and knew that life does not end. The cord to earth has been lost, but our entire lives are lived so that we can weave our way to eternity.
We are all meant to be architects, building towards something greater than ourselves.
If Christ remains in us, then we build toward infinity.
And if He is not, then Death gains her grip and her poison flows towards rivers of rot.
We hold needles of light. We are meant to create, weave love and kindness throughout each others lives.
I can see you laughing and kicking up sand. Your toes are in the water. I can see the Light that lived in you, casting a glow about your face. Your face is young now. You are perfect..
but, to me, you always were.
I can see the Light that lived with you. It is a Light that cannot die.
A soul that lived in His Light cannot die.
I can see that now..
that is the difference.
In death we are not prisoners...only through Death, are we ever really free.