Miss Ruby

Jesus’ death and resurrection changes everything about our death and resurrection. That is Gospel 101.

I caught a glimpse of it in a different verse this morning. Matthew 10:29. Jesus was laying out a challenging road ahead for His disciples. In the heart of the life-and-death stakes, He sets this jewel: “Are two sparrows not sold for a copper? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.”

When they fall, they fall with Him. Not overlooked. Not missed. But more than that. Not alone. Not apart. In life and death, with Him.

Back before COVID was a word in our vocabulary, I had the opportunity of being with someone whose body was “falling.”

I was standing somewhere between the pasta and canned beans in the grocery store when my phone rang.

That I heard it at all was unusual.  Ambient noise fills a store. My phone is zipped inside my purse. And I am focused on meal ingredients, prices, quantities, and people around me, not incoming messages.

But I heard it this time.

The out-of-town caller was a woman I had met only once. We had a mutual friend, who didn’t know her well either. But Stacy and I had met once and visited for a bit.

Stacy’s 90-year-old mother lived in my town. Miss Ruby had been moved to hospice a couple days ago, she told me.

Because it would be several days before Stacy could travel, she was calling to ask if I would visit her mother.

A mental scan of my family calendar made my head spin. I didn’t see where that could fit in the immediate future. Not wanting to make a promise I couldn’t keep, I said I would try.

The next afternoon I drove to the hospice facility.

To tell the truth, I was a mixed bag of emotions. God had likely set this up, so I received the assignment. But I didn’t know what to do. This woman, whom I didn’t know, was reportedly a strong believer with a solid faith. So her homegoing would be a celebration. But walking into a place where people are dying still isn’t the most comfortable atmosphere.

I signed in and was directed to Miss Ruby’s room.

She and I were alone, with the door open.

Miss Ruby was unresponsive, the nurse had told me on my way in, but she hadn’t seemed to be in much pain today.

I pulled up a chair next to her bed and marveled at a resting face that looked so old and yet so young at the same time.

There was something holy about being with a saint who would soon stand face to face with her King.

I knew Miss Ruby’s body was failing, and her soul was not making conversation with anyone. But I also knew her spirit was as alive as ever.

So I addressed Miss Ruby’s spirit and introduced myself. I told her that her daughter had asked me to visit. And that I understood that I had come to see someone who was looking forward to heaven.

I don’t think I’ve ever been called a chatterbox. I prefer to listen to other people. But Miss Ruby wasn’t talking. And I was running out of things to say.

I read some Scriptures to us.

I knew it was ok to sit in silence. And we did. I just wanted to bless her transition, and I wanted to worship the God who is faithful to our very end. We didn’t need words for that.

Then I began to sing.

I sang whatever hymns came to mind. Miss Ruby was a church musician, I thought her daughter had said. So I figured she knew these well.

Every once in a while a nurse would walk in, smiling and nodding at me as if to say, “Keep going.” So I did.

I wondered if part of my reason for being here had to do with more than Miss Ruby’s room. Maybe my worship could help create an atmosphere where Jesus’ presence could be encountered by others, too.

Another hymn came to mind, and I began it:

What a fellowship, what a joy divine,

Leaning on the everlasting arms.

What a blessedness, what a peace is mine,

I can’t tell you how I knew what was happening. You can call it imagination or a vision or a picture from God. It was just something I knew: Ruby was a little girl. And the Father was holding her under her armpits and swinging her around in circles, to both of their great delight.

Leaning, leaning,

Safe and secure from all alarms,

Leaning, leaning,

Leaning on the everlasting arms.

Right there in that hospice bed, with her eyes closed, while I sang the chorus, Miss Ruby laughed out loud. Laughed. Out. Loud.

It was a most joyful and carefree sound. Just what a little girl would do as she swung around in her Heavenly Father’s arms.

She laughed again.

I could hardly finish the chorus for the tears streaming down my face at such a tender and holy moment. Her spirit was indeed so alive that it overflowed in laughter through a waning body.

Miss Ruby went to heaven a few days later. But I think she travelled very securely with the One whose arms held her in joy all the way home.

Jesus’ death and resurrection changes everything about our death and resurrection. We fall and rise with Him.