Somewhere around 11:00 AM on Sunday, September 9, 2012, Dorothy Nona West, my grandmother, went to sleep for the last time before meeting our Lord.
When I first heard the news, my reaction was to get on an ATV (or four-wheeler, if you prefer) and go out on a back road for a drive. I needed to get away, to be alone for a while. I drove for eight miles, at speeds which were ill-advised for the terrain, until I came to a large stone outcropping, a cliff that overlooks a thirty-five foot drop and a beautiful view of the mountains.
I sat down on that cliff, and I cried.
It was selfish of me, but, for the moment, I didn't care. I only wanted my gramma. I was hurt and, to be brutally honest with myself, a little angry. She was taken away and (as I lied to myself then) it just wasn't fair.
That was when I started to wonder; just what -is- fair? And who gets to say what "fair" amounts to? Well, I already knew the answer to the latter part. And, the more I thought about it, the more I understood that I already knew the other part as well.
God says what's fair. What's more, He doesn't owe us, me in particular, a darned thing.
So, in a matter of ten minutes, I went from thinking "God, how -dare- You?!" to "Father, thank You. Thank You for the thirty-two years that You allowed me to know my gramma. Thank You so much for giving me the chance to learn from her, to know what it means to truly live. Thank You for the time that she and I spent talking about Your Word. And thank You for taking care of her until I can see her again."
And you know what? I meant every word.
Still do . . .
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