Brief Moments in a Vast Eternity

This evening, I sat on the edge of a bed holding the hand of my dying friend. When I first arrived, he could not move his head enough to focus on me and see that I was there. The nurse wheeled his bed to an angle away from the wall so I could position myself in his line of sight. His eyes opened wide, and he said, "Where you been?" I told him I have been there every day, but he was asleep the last two times I visited. He closed his eyes and rested while I rubbed his forehead and reminded him about how much God loves him. I started to shift my position and he said, "Don't leave yet." I assured him I would remain. Now and then after that, he would try to speak, but he was tired and dealing with fluid building up, so his efforts were guttural at best. After about half-an-hour, he summoned his strength and clearly said, "My brother David." I told him he was right, that I am his brother. You might not see the family resemblance at first, if you are distracted by comparing the black man with the thick grey dreadlocks to the mostly bald white man with the sparse, short grey hair. But, that same distraction gets in the way for all of us. We don't see the family resemblance we share as the family of humankind. That's all right; all that mattered tonight was that the two of us saw it. We didn't know each other before the hospital called me a week ago in response to his request to talk and pray with someone. But, to paraphrase an Eva Cassidy song, "we know each other now by heart." He probably has a couple of days left, according to the experts. Maybe more; who can say? The educated guess is two. The nursing home knows to call me if there are any significant changes before I see him tomorrow. Before too long, there will be a tomorrow when I won't see him anymore. Tonight, I held his hand, leaned in, and sang him the song, "All Through the Night," a lullaby from Peter, Paul and Mary's "Peter, Paul and Mommy" album of children's music. I reminded him that he is a beloved child of God, kissed him on the forehead, and quietly left the room as he drifted into sleep.