Dreaming of Glory

Face wizened with age and hair white with wisdom, I am nonetheless unbent as I stride into the room and greet the visitors. Time has ravaged neither my dignity nor my good strength. I pass from dignitaries to working men, from newly freed slaves to kings, shaking hands as I go. Each smiles at me through tears, clasps my hand to his heart, and offers thanks.

Tears trace rivulets down my cheeks as well, following ancient courses that have worn deep in my skin. Even at sixty-five I find that I am not too old to stand before the entire world and cry with unashamed love.

Nor am I too old to laugh.

Surrounded by men from every tribe and tongue, each one touched by God's grace working through me, I turn and raise my hands, laughter bubbling forth from my lips. "Hear me, men of God!" I cry aloud. "We are here tonight to celebrate the triumph of grace over guns, of mercy over misery, and of love over litigation."

Applause echoes through the assembly. I shake my head, berating myself for letting my proclivity for words get the best of me. This isn't about my speech making skills. I snort. This isn't about me at all. But then the memory of my circumstances washes over me and with a sigh I am forced to go on. "Governments have tried to stop our inexorable march. They have come with guns and laws and bureaucracy and told us that our movement must stop. But we refused, not from vain arrogance or starry-eyed idealism or delusions that we are above the law. No, we refused because we do value the law: a higher law. The royal law of love."

Once again the tears come. I lower my head into my hands, fighting off tears. God's hand hovers over me and encircles my being with protection. I can feel His tenderness as He wipes away my tears and lifts my chin with His hand. I sniffle and raise my eyes, locking gazes with members of the crowd. "But as we all know, this is not garden variety love with flowers and soft patches of sunlight and the golden laughter of young children."

The audience hushes.

"Every one of you knows pain." Salty tears sting my eyes. "And, yes, I know pain. This is the love we have. This is the love that we bear for one another. This is the love which God has poured out in His son Jesus Christ."

Amidst the flash of cameras and the applause of men, I kneel, then prostrate myself on the floor. I have no more words to speak, no audience to impress, no need to fool myself into thinking that I am more than who I am.

God's hand closes over me again. I am held in His strong right hand, comforted by the mercies of His everpresence. The buzz of humanity fades away. I love You, Father, I whisper to Him. Thank You.

His pleasure ripples over me. I feel His words more than hear them, but I know that He has spoken nonetheless. I am well pleased with you, My son. I smile, honored that He still chooses to love me and use me after all these years.

After all the times He has seen the ugliness beneath the mask.

I sigh and push myself to my hands and knees. All around are media types and admiring friends. If I listen to them, they would tell me that I'm an important man, that I have achieved some great status in this world.

But they lie. I'm only as great as my Master, no more. And that only when I am the servant of all—as I have tried all these years to become.

With careful steps I thread my way through the crowd. Off to one side, I hear a reporter talking into a camera. She is relating a quick biographical sketch of my life, and so I stop to listen. Perhaps she'll actually capture the essence of who I am. Well, perhaps. I'm not too hopeful; she'll probably focus on what I've done, not why I've done what I have. Chiding myself for thinking too much, I stop pontificating and start listening.

". . . .A multifaceted man, Mr. Salmon takes on many roles, among them relief-worker, author, missionary, and friend. Noted for bold defiance of his government's sanctions, the relief-worker, always generous to a fault, is totally adamant about supplying not only medicine, shelter, and food, but also music, toys, and games to refugee camps in every war-torn country."

I nod. So far so good—but she's still forgetting why I do what I do.

". . . .First catapulted into the international spotlight for his award-winning debut novel, Rings Golden, which led to the restructuring and reform of the entire Guyanese mining trade, the author has penned numerous works and passionately agitates for greater societal awareness and action."

All well and good. But where is the most important part? Where is the linchpin of the entire undertaking?

". . . .An articulate and ardent advocate of Christianity, the missionary is tireless in his efforts to spread the truth of the Gospel of Grace through both word and deed. Perpetually reform-minded, he has permanently altered Christendom's ideologies and methodologies about missions. Millions have been touched by his organization Awake, My Glory! and by his personal aid."

Weariness sweeps over me. My shoulders slump the more she talks. How long will people look only at the actions, only at the outcomes, only at the results of what is inside?

She is still talking, so I walk over and flash my most charming smile with a nod and a wave. Her eyes grow wide and she interrupts her own narrative to announce that I'm offering an interview.
Seconds later the microphone is hovering in front of my mouth and she's asking some perfunctory question about how my convention has gone thus far. I wince and raise my eyes to God, pleading for mercy. Is it okay to be rude and ignore her question? Divine laughter cascades over me. For the Sovereign of the universe, He's really quite playful.

"Actually, ma'am," I hear myself say, "I'd really rather offer a more complete view of who I am. You did an admirable job in summarizing my life"—I nod and flash the smile again to offer some encouragement—"but I really think that you left out the most important element."

She's startled. Panic seeps into her features. "And what's that, sir?"

I am tempted to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder for a brief second—long experience has taught me otherwise, however. Integrity is ethereal and short lived in this world. So instead I smile, and hope she knows it's sincere. "You did well. I'm not faulting you for anything. I just want people to know why I do what I do, not merely what it is that I'm doing. But it's very simple, you see. I'm an emissary of grace, a servant of the Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace. And as such it is my incredible privilege and honor to pass along the grace that He has so freely given me."

She smiles and opens her mouth to add commentary, but when I hold up my hand she shuts her mouth and nods for me to go on.

"But fine words are easy to come by. I realize that. So let me make it even simpler: I do what I do out of love. God's love. My love. The love of a small starving child whose eyes are opened to the power of love by a simple hug." Emotion overtakes me again, and I wipe away tears. "And that is why I cannot rest: the love of God compels me. " I incline my head, signaling the short interview is concluded. "Shalom."


- -=- -


I couldn't resist imagining where I might be at sixty-five, based on a friend's comments. But I hope that you, my reader, will also contemplate where you see yourself at sixty-five. What will you be doing, I wonder? More important, however, is the other question: why?


Grace and peace,
Andrew <><