Dearest Rachel –
Along with Nightelf, whose tales of balancing personal life amid the chaos of being a professional academic, she was my inspiration for putting together this collection of letters to you for in the first place. She has a knack for taking mundane vignettes of her life, and making them amusing in a way I’m still trying – and failing – to match (although in my defense, her letters, initially scribed as Christmas card accompaniments, would come out in no less than three-month intervals, whereas I’m trying to make this a daily thing, lest I forget all the little details, even if that means that I can’t always come up with a suitably humorous turn of phrase to describe what’s going on in my life).
She was also your lifelong friend, your first and last. While, in the course of growing up, moving out, and finding your way both in college and in your new life with me, you found and made similar friends (and different ones, but that’s another story), but while so many came and went, she was a constant, albeit an unintentional one. She moved to this area shortly before we got married, and while you were sad to see her go, you understood that this was the way of life – until you looked up where, exactly, her new home would be in relation to ours, and were delighted to note that it was only the next town over. Sure, that still meant there was more land and people between you and her than back down in Macomb, but it was as good as nearby for up here.
And so it was that she remained part of your life, and became part of ours. We would have her over every week to watch this or that show (I don’t remember if the reception at her apartment was poor or not, but it seemed to be the original premise for her being over) and enjoy a meal together (usually spaghetti, as it had the twin virtues of being cheap and easy to make). She was there when Daniel was born – she was at your side when he arrived early, catching my folks off guard and on vacation, she nice we were assured that he wouldn’t arrive until early in July.
Going further back, she probably should’ve been your maid of honor, as she was your closest friend for so much of your life. It could be argued that your college roommate was closer at the time, but that had only been for a couple of years; her position there was almost more due to her love of ‘high church’ (it’s why she ultimately converted to Catholicism from Methodism, after all) and willingness to serve in the position. The spotlight (and, I’d be willing to bet, the responsibility, such as it was – to say nothing of the dress) was something that your oldest friend neither craved, nor felt comfortable in.
Even now, as part of the current sermon series asking us to find our ‘one’ person to ask to come hear the message of salvation, I had to take into account that she, to this day, does not like being in the midst of crowds. Ironically – or maybe appropriately – I actually have a solution, one that would normally be in conflict with these sorts of ‘invite a friend to church’ drives; I’m working in the booth this weekend. It makes it inconvenient for me to invite and sit by somebody in the service, but given her aversion to crowds, sitting beside me in the booth might just be the ideal solution.
Not that I was really expecting anything to come of it, nor was I particularly surprised when she acknowledged that she wouldn’t be coming this weekend. I’ve never been a particularly good salesman, and there are times, many of them, when witnessing seems like the ultimate bit of salesmanship. I just don’t know how to make salvation appealing enough for her to be interested. Then again, some of her beliefs – particularly about the afterlife, which she seems to want no part of either way – militate against the possibility of ever being interested. It seems (and you had this conversation with her many times yourself) she finds neither hell nor heaven to be places worth going to, and I don’t know how to respond to that.
In fairness to her – and you and I – it’s not like we never asked her to come before, nor that she was never willing to come, but there was always something within her that clearly did not seem like fertile ground. But I know how much you want to see her there again someday – just like you did with your folks – and it seems I’m left to take up the mantle, whether I want to or not.
Ideally, I should be every bit as determined she be able to join the three of us at the end of all things as you were – indeed, I should be that concerned about everyone I know, if I really believe that all I’ve been told is true. To think and act otherwise would literally be saying ‘to hell with her,’ and of course I don’t mean that. But if she’s not receptive to the message, for whatever reason… what then?
There’s a theological paradox about whether God could create a rock so big He couldn’t lift it. It’s supposedly a ‘gotcha’ question; either God can’t create such a thing, or He can’t lift it. Either way, by definition, He’s not truly all-powerful if He can’t accomplish the task. But suppose He creates a rock He merely refuses to lift? Because in theory, He could simply cause everyone on earth to receive salvation without any action or consent on our part – after all, His Son’s sacrifice was sufficient for all of mankind, not just the relatively small percentage that ultimately choose to explicitly take Him up on it – but for reasons known only to Himself, He doesn’t. He leaves it up to each of us to decide individually whether to accept His offer of rescue or not. Meanwhile, as His rescued (and adoptive) children, all we are asked – well, to be honest, we’re basically ordered – to do is to throw the lifeline out to others (not unlike with the oxygen masks on an airplane; we are to put ours on first, and then help others with theirs if necessary). We can’t be held responsible for those who don’t reach for the lifeline when we offer it, but we will be if we don’t make it available. You and I both threw the lifeline, honey, and I’ll continue to do so, both for her sake and yours. But I can’t do anything more than that, it seems.
I wonder what it’s like for you, honey. I hear tell that there is no sadness in heaven, but how does that work with regard to people you knew that aren’t there? Do you simply forget about them? Do you think about the job you took upon yourself that was left unfinished, or has God already reassured you that ‘you’ve done your part, my child’?
I wish I knew.
Letters to Rachel 