Till we meet, till we meet,
Till we meet at Jesus’ feet;
Till we meet, till we meet,
God be with you till we meet again.
So goes the refrain from an old hymn. Whenever I counsel someone on death’s doorstep, it leaves me thinking for a couple of days. Today, I found myself remembering this old hymn. It is a wonderful hymn, and if it is not Celtic, it ought to be.
I found myself thinking about my wife’s grandmother, Grandma Hill. When we first went overseas on mission, it was January of 1990. Grandma Hill was not doing well. She was still ambulatory and her mind was fully there, but she and we all knew that her body was failing. My wife talked about postponing our trip overseas and waiting an additional six months until the next slot to go overseas opened up. We had already done a very hard year and a half of initial fund-raising, but, after all, family is important.
But, Grandma Hill would have none of it. My wife talked to her and she said that we needed to go overseas, that she would remember us in her prayers. And so, my wife and she said a very tearful goodbye. Both knew that they would not see each other on this side of death. And so it was. A couple-three months into language training, we received the news. Grandma was gone. We both cried, and I am getting teary-eyed even as I write this.
We had a memorial service at the language school. And, because the language school was multi-denominational, we had a Roman Catholic priest playing the guitar at the service, and an Australian (I think) giving the homily, and people from several countries present with us. It was our first taste of how denominational differences are sometimes less accentuated on the mission field. And so, for a couple of thousand miles away we said goodby to a very wonderful woman, Grandma Hill.
Till we meet, till we meet. God be with you till we meet again.
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