Because He Lives

At 43 years old, Daddy died suddenly, unexpectedly, and far too young. Mama married him when they were both 19. He was all she had known for 24 years. She had three daughters to finishing raising (two in college and one in junior high) and their small business to run. How could she could she go on without him? How could she face tomorrow on her own?

At Daddy’s funeral, the mourners sang:

God sent His son. They called Him Jesus.

He came to love, heal, and forgive.

He lived and died to buy my pardon.

An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

The Gaither song was popular in the late 70s, frequently sung at the 11:00 am service at First Baptist Church. It was not a hymn, but it was worshipful enough for the old folks to like it—or not to mind it too much. At least, that’s what I remember.

For years after Daddy’s funeral, I hated seeing the song listed on the Order of Worship. I didn’t cry much then, since Mama cried all the time, but I couldn’t sing this song. Tears welled in my eyes; my throat closed up; I struggled to catch my breath. As the worshipers sang, I shut my eyes and sucked my cheeks.

Fast forward to 1997, Chuck and I lived with our twin daughters in Birmingham. Granny had just survived a quadruple heart bypass. Mama, an only child, had just received an “atypical Alzheimer’s Disease” diagnosis. While raising our own children, my sisters and I were laden with the two older generations as well. (As members of the “sandwich generation,” the King Girls were handed a hoagie.)

Starla assumed responsibility for Granny.

I assumed responsibility for Mama.

My pregnancy test was positive.

What should have been a highlight of my life—and it was—seemed an insurmountable burden. How could I do it all? How could one young woman take care of a mentally diminishing mother, two preschoolers, and a newborn?

The Sunday following the positive pregnancy test, “Because He Lives” was on the church program. I didn’t attempt to sing or worship or even pray. I grasped the back of the pew in front of me, intending to hang on until it was over. The pew supported me through the first verse; however, the second verse is this:

How sweet to hold a newborn baby

And feel the pride and joy he gives.

But greater still, the calm assurance

This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

I folded into the pew behind me. With folks around me standing and singing, I sat and sobbed.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

By their mere existence, babies bring newness and hope. Baby Phillip, named after my daddy, was a gift to our entire family during the nightmare, but he was Mama’s joy. He brought light and laughter to her gloom. He was her 7^th grandbaby, and he was the reason she got out of bed every morning.

Mama died three years after her diagnosis, 17 months after my family moved into her house to take care of her.  Steve preached at the funeral. William spoke at the graveside. Chuck played guitar. Angie sang “There Is a Fountain.” Little Granny cried throughout, but she wasn’t really sure who died. Phillip stayed with a sitter. He told me, “Mama Nell’s dead. She got shot by a gun.” (Mama would have cackled loudly at her 2.5 year-old boy who found cowboy violence more exciting than dementia.)

My sisters and I had not asked the organist for any specific songs. We simply asked her to play uplifting music, for we were not dreary and downhearted. We were rejoicing for Mama that her struggle had ended, that she was whole at the feet of Jesus, the One who had sustained her in her agony and for many, many weary days.

And so, of course, as Mama’s worn-out body was wheeled from the sanctuary, as her friends and family rose to watch her leave, as her Beloveds followed her out, the pipe organ bellowed:

And then one day, I’ll cross the river.

I’ll fight life’s final war with pain.

And then as death gives way to victory,

I’ll see the lights of glory, and I’ll know He lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

I still don’t sing the song with the congregation, but I do listen and worship. I don’t cry through it anymore. Now I cry through “There Is a Fountain,” but that is a story for another blog post.