He stood faithfully at the entrance of our sanctuary every Sunday morning. An slender, above-average tall man with straight, fine, white hair parted down the middle and stopping just above the shoulders. It made me smile when I first learned his name was in fact Harry. It fit.
He had a look about him like he was always on a mission. Like he had a purpose in each action that he did while quietly serving our church each Sunday. Working the lights, welcoming guests and doing behind the scenes kind of work.
Come to find out he had been married to his petite wife for 43 years and was the CEO of a local credit union for 27 of those years. He always greeted you with a smile as he handed you a bulletin.
Then one week day morning he was driving to work at 6:15am and ran off the road and hit a pole in a single car accident. Not long afterward, he was in the presence of his Savior and Lord. 63 years old.
I didn't know him at all. The above description was the extent of my interaction with the usher that was seemingly the face of our fellowship. I wouldn't say I have been grieving his loss, but I was surprisingly shaken by his absence from this life.
One day he was there. The next he was gone.
There is hope in the lives of the loved ones he left behind knowing they will see him again. But suddenly my life seems so fragile. The lives of my children. My husband. Why do I waste a moment demanding my own way or harboring resentment or holding onto fear?
The truth is, this life is not my own. And the very second that God wants to take me home, my mission on this earth will be complete.
So why do I feel like a failure? I had such lofty plans when we moved to this house, this street, this neighborhood. I felt called to this community and believed God had big plans to use us here. But really our days here could be numbered and suddenly I am pondering whether I have been a good steward of the purpose God set before us during this chapter of our lives.