No-Hell-Boy

I know some think he’s awful. That he’ll probably go to hell. After all, he says there is no such place. Insists there’s no way, no how a loving God would condemn all naysayers to languish in the lake of fire ever more. Proves his point with plucked phrases like "He desires none to perish” and “He’s making all things new.” Etcetera.

            Let me tell you something. God can do anything. Use anyone. For his purposes. For his kingdom. When I listened to no-hell-boy teach the parable of the unmerciful servant, I was pierced. Crushed. For my transgressions. For the lack of forgiveness (and honor) I have shown my own mother.

            After I said I do to the ultimate bridegroom, I went through the world doling out forgiveness to everyone. Like trick-or-treat candy. Freely. With a winsome smile. “Here. Take some more.” To everyone but the woman who groaned me into existence. Gnashed her teeth through my unruly and mean-spirited adolescence. So much almost-black, close to redemption-is-impossible in that house.

            But the God of new mercies daily broke through anyway. Found the crack under the garage door only the pill bugs knew. Ascended to live with us. One at a time. Four down, two to go, except one already went. Away.

            She was last. My mother. My sister in the faith. I extended my left hand to welcome her to God’s family. Grimaced when the fingernails on my right hand bit into my palm. Made a wound there. Which I ignored. I refused to drop the everything-bad-in-my-life-is-because-of-you rock. To the ground.

            For years when the Spirit prompted, “You should—“ I interrupted. “I’m sorry, God. You can’t go into that one room in my heart basement. Seems I misplaced the key.”

            Then no-hell-boy taught what he taught. And I wept. Through blind no more eyes. Fell to the floor. Slow blinked at the ceiling with drenched eyes. I held up my pointer finger.        
           “Give me just a second, Lord. To take off this mask. To wipe away this white paint.”

            I stood. Wobbled. “I need to go downstairs. And outside. So I can hurl this stone. Far, far, away.”

Reaping and Sowing



I remember the first time I heard the “Cats in the Cradle” song. At the end I thought, “That’s gonna be you someday, Mom. The second half of the song. Where the son doesn't have time for the father 'cause the father never had time for the son.”

            See, my mom hasn’t figured it out yet, but she’s reaping what she sowed. As far back as I can remember, she was pushing me out of the nest.

            “Here’s how you braid your hair. Now you can do it yourself every morning.” “This is the way you do laundry. Now you can do your own every Saturday.”

            What was I, six? Seven?

When I graduated college, she said, “Go out and make something of yourself, and take these boxes with you.”

           You got what you wanted, Mom. You made me in-de-pen-dent, like the dentist elf in the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas special.

Funny how time changes things. Now that you’re all alone, you want me back. As much as possible. I visit every two weeks, but you say it’s not enough. You think my family’s too busy, but I think you don’t remember what it’s like to have one. You want what I can’t give—more of me. I want what you won’t give—an apology.

          I’ve got good news for you, Mom. It just occurred to me that someday I’m gonna reap what I sow. That’s why I’ve decided I’m gonna try a little bit harder to give you a little bit more. Of me.