Journal of a Living Lady #363
Nancy White Kelly
My church is a comforting place. It is nice to know that not only is my spiritual heart covered, but my physical one as well. When I look upward over my left shoulder on Sundays, I quickly spot my cardiologist smiling down from the balcony.
If either Buddy or I have a heart attack while straining on the high notes of Beulah Land, our mutual heart doctor could be performing CPR in less than sixty seconds. If he were busy doing quadruple by-passes somewhere in Atlanta, it is reassuring to know that our backs (and hearts) are still covered.
In our church, there are more nurses per square foot than inches. Our former family doctor, now retired, sits just a few rows behind us each week. Another physician friend, a retired obstetrician, also sits in the congregation. It is highly doubtful that Buddy or I would need his special services.
But, our hearts…well, maybe. Buddy and I both have had a few problems with our tickers. If cardiac arrest were to occur at church, I suspect that half the congregation would immediately be on their hushed cell phones dialing 911.
Being that the parking lot of the church adjoins the parking lot of the local hospital, it would seem impractical to call an ambulance. The men who drive the courtesy carts could deliver a victim to the ER faster than an EMT could start his engine, that is, if the patient was conscious. Jenny Craig and I have never met so pity the guy who might try to carry my dead weight over his shoulder.
One of these days the death angel will succeed in ushering one of us out of this world. Buddy and I have no concerns.
Our former Sunday school teacher has become a masterful funeral coordinator. He and his wife can pull together a meal for an extended family in hours.
While our current pastor is relatively new to the area, I knew his fine family in another era of my life. Even if he weren’t available, our former pastor should be. He would have plenty of colorful stories to tell, especially if it were Buddy in the casket. My favorite is the time Buddy suddenly donned my Easter hat and hugged the startled pastor in front of God, cable TV, and everybody.
When the church bell tolls for either Buddy or me, we are ready. An attorney friend in the congregation has already prepared the Kelly’s last will and testament. We will be buried in our pre-paid plots in the nearby church cemetery.
Yep, Hiram and Nancy Kelly can sit in church and not worry a smirching bit about the now or the hereafter. When the roll is called up yonder, we’ll be there by the wonderful, but undeserved grace of our sovereign God.
And that’s the truth!