dead man not walking.
The other day I was walking home from the train station. Where I am staying at the moment requires me to cross one of the main roads in cape town. It’s a long straight road where you can see cars coming for miles, at least at the point where I cross. So I’m not totally sure how the story I’m about to tell came about but it’s the first time I’ve ever had my hand on a man’s chest when he died.
I took the long way home because I like to walk slow and long these days. If I had taken the short route, I would have seen the man get hit. Why does part of me wish I had seen that? Does that make me morbid or sadistic? It’s just one situation of quite a few these days where I see how little decisions change your life forever. If I had seen that, I would have been highly traumatized and I’m not looking for more trauma. So, maybe God was looking out for me, taking me on the long way home. Maybe I’ve started enjoying the slow, long walk so that I would miss this very moment…if for no other reason. You never know.
I walked up to the corner I was about to turn when a woman comes running around the corner talking to herself. She stopped me and just began telling me what she heard. She was very upset and nervous. Apparently she’d been hit by a car before.
I kept going and by the time I crossed the road, my path met up with a young navy officer with 2 cigarettes and no lighter. He asked me for a light, I asked him where the driver of this car was, this red fancy sports car we were standing next to. He thrust his hand down towards the car: “It’s my #*!&ing car, man. The idiot ran right in front of me.”
We started walking towards the body in the middle of the road, but he was a fast walker and I’ve already explained to you that I’m not at the moment, so he got to the man well before I did. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to put this puzzle together. And so I started praying for this navy man, desperately in need of a lighter and a time machine so he could erase what had just happened that would forever change many, many people’s lives.
A man-ish looking woman kept checking the man-lying-in-the-road’s pulse and shaking her head. I tried to figure out if this meant “he’s dead” or “what a shame” or something else. She wouldn’t say anything. I thought at first that this woman was very official because she had a walky talky and she knew how to check someone’s pulse. But the longer I stood there, the sooner I decided she was just as freaked out as navy man. I guess that’s what results when you are checking the pulse of a dying man and able to do nothing more than talk through a walky talky to the far away world of ambulances and doctors and those machines that shock the life back into people’s hearts.
All I could say was “we need to pray”. Cause for me, that’s my answer to everything right now. I feel as helpless as the pulse-checker lady did, standing around all the dying bodies lying in the middle of my own road of life. “we need to pray” I said again. A teenage girl said “we ARE praying” in response. Hmmm…not the unified spirit of God I was looking for but at least I wasn’t alone in believing prayer might help. However, that didn’t last long.
This teenager’s mother came over and began going off about how people need to pray the blood of Jesus over their cars and that’s why she’s never had an accident, because she prays the blood of Jesus over her car every morning. I suddenly felt like this woman was finding a weird sense of superiority through this tragic experience, and that made me more nauseaus than I already was. I was glad when she and her daughter disappeared, just as I said to the pulse lady “can I touch him?”
At that point I realized how different I am than I was even 4 or 5 months ago. If I had walked up on this situation last year, praying for this man’s resurrection would not have crossed my mind, I guarantee you. Why was it now the very first thing I thought of? I only asked myself these questions later. For the moment, I turned to the spectators of this tragedy and asked if anyone would like to join me. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy, and I don’t blame them. I felt crazy and yet totally sane. It was weird.
One lady, I think out of some past religious guilt that I hope she lets go of, got this heavy look on her face, put out her cigarette, and took my hand. I thought my fingers might break off because she gripped it so tightly. I knelt down next to this nameless, dying man with a navy blue sweater on and blood filling up his eye sockets. I put my hand on his arm, and began to pray. As I did, the most incredible assurance rose up in me. Whether or not this man lives, I thought, this is the response I was glad to be having, even if I was crazy.
We prayed, this finger-breaker lady and I, until we both felt the awkwardness growing. She was very conscious of the fact that everyone was watching, but I wanted to sit there until God moved. I really thought this man would sit up. I really did. But, the man died. He lifted his head off the ground as if to try and get up. A bit of blood bubbled up in his open mouth as I think he took one last breath, or maybe he was trying to talk. He was both conscious and unconscious, if that’s possible.
I sat at home for the rest of the night, reading about the times Jesus raised the dead or healed the sick. His words rang in my ears all night: “Heal the sick; raise the dead; cleanse those who have leprosy; drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give.” (Matthew 10) Why didn’t you raise him, Jesus? Was it unbelief? I honestly thought God was going to raise this man up, I wanted it with everything in me. Did I have wrong motives for wanting this, Lord? Would I have thought I had done it, would pride have snuck in? I like to think “no”, but I kinda know “yes”. I’m very prideful.
My theology is all rearranged these days. In times of pain like the one I am in, Jesus is SO real and his words are like breath to me. I take him very much at his word. So, if you told me to raise the dead, God, then why couldn’t I? I don’t know, I’ve never tried to raise a dead person. I’ve seen some miracles that have built up my faith to believe people can and should be raised from the dead. But, this time it didn’t happen and it threw me.
So, I prayed for this man’s family, for his friend who witnessed the car hitting the old man. I prayed for the driver…I cannot imagine what he was feeling. I prayed for the living and let my questions about the dead quiet down. I thanked God for life, and for life after death. I thanked him for what he gives and for what he takes away. I sat in that place, suspended between two worlds. I felt so certain I would read in the paper the following dead a headline saying “MAN RISES FROM DEAD IN MORTURARY”. I looked the next day, but no body had reported it.
Lazarus laid in a tomb 4 days before Jesus raised him. Jairus’ daughter laid a good couple of hours. Jesus himself was dead 3 days. As I walked away from that accident, I asked myself “at what point do you let the dead be dead” and the question suddenly struck deep places in my heart. The question went far beyond the man lying in the road. It travelled to the core of my spirit, to the place where I realized I have been sitting with God for a long time, asking him all these questions about many things in my life.
I don’t know why God didn’t bring him back to life. I don’t know why God hasn’t done lots of things I’d like to see him do. But the amazing thing is, it doesn’t shake my faith one bit. I remember fearing for a while recently that my faith would suffer if God didn’t intervene in this way or that way. But you know, as I roll with the punches of my life, my faith soars. It’s reached heights I’ve never gone to before. It’s gliding along through the cloudless blue sky. And maybe that’s where I kept meeting that man, raised from the dead. Maybe my own soul met his up in that big blue sky, where he was raised from the dead, just not like I thought it would be. But that didn’t mean God didn’t keep his word.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: it will not return to my empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” (Isaiah 55)
Soar on, old man. Soar on, spirit of Ashley.
I took the long way home because I like to walk slow and long these days. If I had taken the short route, I would have seen the man get hit. Why does part of me wish I had seen that? Does that make me morbid or sadistic? It’s just one situation of quite a few these days where I see how little decisions change your life forever. If I had seen that, I would have been highly traumatized and I’m not looking for more trauma. So, maybe God was looking out for me, taking me on the long way home. Maybe I’ve started enjoying the slow, long walk so that I would miss this very moment…if for no other reason. You never know.
I walked up to the corner I was about to turn when a woman comes running around the corner talking to herself. She stopped me and just began telling me what she heard. She was very upset and nervous. Apparently she’d been hit by a car before.
I kept going and by the time I crossed the road, my path met up with a young navy officer with 2 cigarettes and no lighter. He asked me for a light, I asked him where the driver of this car was, this red fancy sports car we were standing next to. He thrust his hand down towards the car: “It’s my #*!&ing car, man. The idiot ran right in front of me.”
We started walking towards the body in the middle of the road, but he was a fast walker and I’ve already explained to you that I’m not at the moment, so he got to the man well before I did. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to put this puzzle together. And so I started praying for this navy man, desperately in need of a lighter and a time machine so he could erase what had just happened that would forever change many, many people’s lives.
A man-ish looking woman kept checking the man-lying-in-the-road’s pulse and shaking her head. I tried to figure out if this meant “he’s dead” or “what a shame” or something else. She wouldn’t say anything. I thought at first that this woman was very official because she had a walky talky and she knew how to check someone’s pulse. But the longer I stood there, the sooner I decided she was just as freaked out as navy man. I guess that’s what results when you are checking the pulse of a dying man and able to do nothing more than talk through a walky talky to the far away world of ambulances and doctors and those machines that shock the life back into people’s hearts.
All I could say was “we need to pray”. Cause for me, that’s my answer to everything right now. I feel as helpless as the pulse-checker lady did, standing around all the dying bodies lying in the middle of my own road of life. “we need to pray” I said again. A teenage girl said “we ARE praying” in response. Hmmm…not the unified spirit of God I was looking for but at least I wasn’t alone in believing prayer might help. However, that didn’t last long.
This teenager’s mother came over and began going off about how people need to pray the blood of Jesus over their cars and that’s why she’s never had an accident, because she prays the blood of Jesus over her car every morning. I suddenly felt like this woman was finding a weird sense of superiority through this tragic experience, and that made me more nauseaus than I already was. I was glad when she and her daughter disappeared, just as I said to the pulse lady “can I touch him?”
At that point I realized how different I am than I was even 4 or 5 months ago. If I had walked up on this situation last year, praying for this man’s resurrection would not have crossed my mind, I guarantee you. Why was it now the very first thing I thought of? I only asked myself these questions later. For the moment, I turned to the spectators of this tragedy and asked if anyone would like to join me. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy, and I don’t blame them. I felt crazy and yet totally sane. It was weird.
One lady, I think out of some past religious guilt that I hope she lets go of, got this heavy look on her face, put out her cigarette, and took my hand. I thought my fingers might break off because she gripped it so tightly. I knelt down next to this nameless, dying man with a navy blue sweater on and blood filling up his eye sockets. I put my hand on his arm, and began to pray. As I did, the most incredible assurance rose up in me. Whether or not this man lives, I thought, this is the response I was glad to be having, even if I was crazy.
We prayed, this finger-breaker lady and I, until we both felt the awkwardness growing. She was very conscious of the fact that everyone was watching, but I wanted to sit there until God moved. I really thought this man would sit up. I really did. But, the man died. He lifted his head off the ground as if to try and get up. A bit of blood bubbled up in his open mouth as I think he took one last breath, or maybe he was trying to talk. He was both conscious and unconscious, if that’s possible.
I sat at home for the rest of the night, reading about the times Jesus raised the dead or healed the sick. His words rang in my ears all night: “Heal the sick; raise the dead; cleanse those who have leprosy; drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give.” (Matthew 10) Why didn’t you raise him, Jesus? Was it unbelief? I honestly thought God was going to raise this man up, I wanted it with everything in me. Did I have wrong motives for wanting this, Lord? Would I have thought I had done it, would pride have snuck in? I like to think “no”, but I kinda know “yes”. I’m very prideful.
My theology is all rearranged these days. In times of pain like the one I am in, Jesus is SO real and his words are like breath to me. I take him very much at his word. So, if you told me to raise the dead, God, then why couldn’t I? I don’t know, I’ve never tried to raise a dead person. I’ve seen some miracles that have built up my faith to believe people can and should be raised from the dead. But, this time it didn’t happen and it threw me.
So, I prayed for this man’s family, for his friend who witnessed the car hitting the old man. I prayed for the driver…I cannot imagine what he was feeling. I prayed for the living and let my questions about the dead quiet down. I thanked God for life, and for life after death. I thanked him for what he gives and for what he takes away. I sat in that place, suspended between two worlds. I felt so certain I would read in the paper the following dead a headline saying “MAN RISES FROM DEAD IN MORTURARY”. I looked the next day, but no body had reported it.
Lazarus laid in a tomb 4 days before Jesus raised him. Jairus’ daughter laid a good couple of hours. Jesus himself was dead 3 days. As I walked away from that accident, I asked myself “at what point do you let the dead be dead” and the question suddenly struck deep places in my heart. The question went far beyond the man lying in the road. It travelled to the core of my spirit, to the place where I realized I have been sitting with God for a long time, asking him all these questions about many things in my life.
I don’t know why God didn’t bring him back to life. I don’t know why God hasn’t done lots of things I’d like to see him do. But the amazing thing is, it doesn’t shake my faith one bit. I remember fearing for a while recently that my faith would suffer if God didn’t intervene in this way or that way. But you know, as I roll with the punches of my life, my faith soars. It’s reached heights I’ve never gone to before. It’s gliding along through the cloudless blue sky. And maybe that’s where I kept meeting that man, raised from the dead. Maybe my own soul met his up in that big blue sky, where he was raised from the dead, just not like I thought it would be. But that didn’t mean God didn’t keep his word.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: it will not return to my empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” (Isaiah 55)
Soar on, old man. Soar on, spirit of Ashley.
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