Mick wasn't just my sister's husband, he was my friend. That Sunday I'd driven over from my home in Stratford, in East London, just for a visit, and he'd complained of being very tired. That didn't strike me as unusual. It seemed then as if the Department of Education had nothing else to do than keep changing the syllabus requirements. Tiredness seemed to go with the job.
As it turned out, he had viral pneumonia. On Tuesday afternoon, his heart gave up under the struggle to keep his blood supplied with oxygen. Even if he'd been in hospital, there is apparently little that the doctors could have done, other than to put him in an oxygen tent and keep their fingers crossed.
There are things you get over, and things you just get used to. Trying to comfort your sister, the mother of four young children, falls into the latter category.
The resurrection is indeed our hope for the future. Surely it is not enough, though, that the dead are raised. Nor, I think, is it even enough to look to the time when God will wipe away every tear. For whilst God does not owe us an explanation, we may surely hope that, in the last day, our own wounds, like those of Jesus, will be part of us, and yet redeemed in him.
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