The Race

This morning I have just returned from Spain, where our organization has its annual conference. It is a time of refreshment, laughter with friends, and incredible teaching. The hotel was just a five minute walk from the beach, where I picked up shells and was filled with thankfulness for a time to be away from Berlin. We purposely left our computers behind, logging into the hotel computer only a couple of times to catch our three kids who were not with us. The computer ate euros like bee drinking nectar, so we kept the computer use to a minimum.

On Saturday, I logged into our dear friends' blog to see how Roger was doing. (http://rogerbclark.blogspot.com/) This morning, first thing, I logged in again. His daughter had also been sending emails, so I had scanned my email quickly to see if there were any new developments. The last I had heard was "a tumor on the spine--we can probably shoot that." This morning I logged in, and read, "it is hard to hear the death rattle."

For a moment, as I read the blog, I had a vision, suddenly, as clear as watching television. I am in a stadium, with a lone runner rounding the corner. The stands are filled, and many of us are lined up at the edge of the track, held back from the track because you never step onto a track when a race is on. I am standing with Roger's family and other dear friends.

We are yelling for the man Roger, his body racked with cancer, limping and dragging as he finishes the race. We yell and shout for him, "RUN, ROGER! RUN!" His eyes lock on the goal and he begins running harder, more upright. Suddenly, I see that I can see beyond the finish line. There is a second crowd, much bigger than ours, lining the track on the other side of the finish line. As Roger nears the finish, the shouts of that "great cloud of witnesses" become a roar--they rise to their feet, cheering and clapping, yelling "HOME, ROGER!" Their voices join ours, we hear them, and for a split second, we see them; we see Roger cross over into eternity--we hear how our voices fade, and we see that all Roger can see is Jesus. For a split second, we too see Jesus, not as in a glass darkly, but in the fullness of glory, as Roger sees him. The window closes, and we feel at once exhilarated, our voices hoarse from shouting, and then depleted. The race is over for Roger--we have seen a glimpse of what it is we are all one day called to do. Our brother has gone before us, and all pain and suffering melts away. He has crossed the finish line--he has run the race well, unencumbered, pure. And now his real life begins. How grateful I am to call Roger friend, to know that when I one day cross, Roger's voice will rise above the rest, yelling, "HOME! COME HOME! HOME TO JESUS!"