The end was near and the family stood vigil, a somber semicircle around his bed. As the minutes passed, holy silence filled the room and Abraham’s breath became shallow, his breathing labored and irregular. Long moments passed, the room in stillness, before his chest rose slightly, almost imperceptibly, then fell — his last breath. His eyes closed one final time, and they saw him die.
But death is not what filled his vision.
For him, the end, when finally it came, was a beginning. If only he had known, could he ever have feared its coming? True, weakness overtook him, a dimness of vision, and then darkness, as he fell into the sleep from which he would never awaken ... except, that very sleep was wakefulness itself. And death was life — or, more precisely, death was overtaken and consumed by life. In the end, that which had been so terrifyingly unfamiliar in its coming was not unfamiliar at all. It was not the Great Unknown, it was instead the Finally Known. And it was hope.
Everything was warmth and comfort, and he found it was the Father’s embrace. Everything was light and brightness, and it was his Father’s eyes.
Abraham saw a vast and spectacular city, so long sought, and he knew its architect and builder was God. He soared above an unending seacoast and saw at once its scope and its detail — grains of sand, infinite, too numerous to count. He saw a stellar sky rushing toward him and each star was a face, and in each face he saw his own likeness.
Abraham was finally home.
And hope had become sight.
Copyright © 2008
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