Once, in a dream, I encountered a man who was wearing a fedora and a corduroy coat. He was the classroom version of Indiana Jones: distinguished, professorial, strong jawed and kind eyed.
He frequented funerals. Apparently I did as well, for the dream consisted of one memorial after another—at funeral homes, chapels, gravesides. The man never removed his hat. I didn’t ask him why he wore it, but I did ask him to explain his proverbial presence at interments.
“I come to take people to their eternal home.” In waking moments this explanation would have prompted a call to the FBI for a background check. But this was a dream, and dreams permit oddities, so I didn’t probe.
I didn’t ask about the source of his list or the mode of transport. I didn’t think it odd to see the fedora at funerals. But I did think it strange to run into the man on a crowded street.
Think Thanksgiving Day parade or Fourth of July festival. A people-packed avenue. “I’m surprised to see you here,” I told him. He didn’t reply.
I saw one of my friends standing nearby. A good man, a widower, up in years, poor in health. Suddenly I understood the presence of the fedora-clad angel.
“You’ve come for my friend.”
“No.”
Then the dream did what only dreams can do. It dismissed everyone but the visitor and me. The crowded sidewalk became a quiet boulevard, so quiet I couldn’t mistake his next words.
“Max, I came for you.”
Curiously, I didn’t resist, object or run. I did, however, make a request. When he agreed, the street suddenly filled, and I began going from person to person, saying good-bye. I told no one about the angel or the hat or where I was going. As far as others knew, they would see me again tomorrow.
But I knew better, and because I did, the world righted itself. As if the lens of life had been out of focus, with a twist the picture cleared. Follies and offenses were forgotten. Love was amplified.
I shook the hand of a harsh critic, gave my wallet to a beggar. I embraced a few coldhearted and hot-tempered folks. And to my dear ones, my wife and daughters, I gave a prayer. A more simple prayer I could not have prayed.
Stay strong. Trust Christ.
And then the dream was done. I was awake. And within an hour I had recorded every memory of the dream. It’s lingered with me for years. Like a favorite song or sweater, I return to it.
Can’t say I do the same with other dreams. But this one stands out because it resonates with a deep desire that you might share: a desire to face death.
Death—“a new adventure in existence.” No need to dread it or ignore it. Because of Christ, you can face it.
I did. Not long after I had my strange dream, I was scheduled for heart surgery. Any procedure that requires four hours of work on your heart warrants added prayer.
On the evening before, my wife and I, and some friends, offered our share. We were staying at the hotel adjacent to the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. I needed to go to bed early. But before I could sleep, I wanted to offer one more prayer…alone.
I took the elevator down to the lobby and found a quiet corner and began to think. What if the surgery goes awry? What if this is my final night on earth? Is there anyone with whom I should make peace? Do I need to phone any person and make amends?
I couldn’t think of anyone. (If you’re thinking I should’ve called you, sorry. Perhaps we should talk.)
Next I wrote letters to my wife and daughters, each beginning with the sentence, “If you are reading this, something went wrong with the surgery.” Then God and I had an honest talk.
We began with a review of my first half century. The details would bore you, but they entertained us. I thanked him for grace beyond measure and for a wife who descended from the angels. My tabulation of blessings could have gone on all night and threatened to do just that.
So I stopped and offered this prayer: I’m in good hands, Lord. The doctors are prepared; the staff is experienced. But even with the best care, things happen. This could be my final night in this version of life, and I’d like you to know, if that’s the case, I’m okay.
And I went to bed. And slept like a baby. As things turned out, no angel came. I saw no fedora. I recovered from the surgery, and here I am, strong as ever, still pounding away at the computer keyboard. One thing is different, though. This matter of dying bravely?
I think I will.
May you do the same.
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