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Trick or Treat? You Decide . . .
rebecca@rebeccafussell.com
Trick or Treat? You decide . . .
The missionary husband couldn’t wait to get home. Well, not home-home
as in America, but to the little hut where his bride would be waiting.
He’d been out in the jungle for three months sharing Jesus with the natives. Without much to show for his effort but a bajillion mosquito bites and a crick in his neck, his weary heart ached to be reunited with his wife.
His darling was the strongest, most selfless woman he’d ever known. Her overworked body paid dearly for serving God, but somehow her sweet spirit and gentle eyes brought sunshine to every person she knew, especially to him.
As he reached the edge of the village, everything looked normal on the outside, but something was terribly amiss. He could feel it. Like its soul had been stolen and the hollow shell left to rot.
He quickened his pace towards the hut until he found himself in an all-out sprint. He yearned to look into his wife’s eyes and smother her in his arms.
Winded, he hung on the doorframe, unlatched the handle and flung the door open. He huffed out, “Babe?”
His heart fell. It was dark. Stale. Empty. Like his insides.
Where was she?
Villagers peeked their heads out of their huts. Scores of eyes pierced his back. He whirled around and stared into silent faces. Each dropped their gaze as if making eye contact with him would give them the plague.
The blood rushed out of the young man’s face. He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced in a small semi-circle. He bent at the waist and dropped his face into cupped hands.
In an instant, he shot upright, the panic erupting in his voice
as he shouted a guttural command. “Someone tell me. Where is my wife?”
One brave man moved forward. “Sir, she not here.”
The missionary didn’t even try to calm his voice. “I can see that. Where is she?”
The villager swallowed. “She die a month ago. We no way tell you. She say tell you she love you very much.”
The world stopped spinning.
The sun bleached out every color and his groan blocked out every other sound. The husband dropped to his knees and pounded his fist in the earth. He looked up to the sky and cursed the God who’d made it.
“How could You? After everything she’s sacrificed for you.”
He spit out the next accusation. “And then you let her die. Here, in this God-forsaken land? Alone?”
He clawed at the dusty road. Then as if shot from a cannon he flung a fistful of dirt toward the sky
and blurted at the top of his lungs, “So help me, I’ll never speak to you again.”
In a grief-stupor he managed to get himself back to America, and for two years he suffered in deep lament. True to his threat, he acted like he’d never heard of God before in his life.
One day, his mother-in-law, concerned for her daughter’s love, came to see him.
He bellowed out once again, “How could God . . .”
She listened for the umpteenth time until he’d exhausted his words. Then in a voice coated in love she said, “Son, I know it hurts. But let me ask you, which reward would you take away from her in Heaven today?”
For the first time in his mind’s eye, the man saw his beloved not as a feverish mess on a dirty cot or cooking for the villagers while her own stomach growled or crying herself to sleep for want of a friend.
No. He saw her blue eyes sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. Her face fresh and glowing with joy. His ears rang from all of Heaven applauding her faithfulness and complete surrender.
There, arms full of treasures, she stood before her Lord in the glory and delight of hearing, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of the Lord.”
He thought he could hear her giggle and sigh in relief that she had never given up on Jesus.
Yes, which crown would he wish away from her? Not a single one.
Not. One.
I’ve thought a lot about that story this week and wondered if God allows our heartaches, not as a trick done to us, but as a treat for us,
for opportunities to lay up treasures in Heaven?
The chronic illness. The mistreatment at work for believing the Bible. The sacrifice so your neighbor will see Christ. Hours on your knees in intercession. Another receiving credit for work you’ve done.
Yes, it hurts. It’s exhausting and painful.
But when you stand before God decked out in your new robe and the great cloud of witnesses cheering you, which crown will you want to forfeit?
I’m guessing your answers will match the missionary’s answer.
Not a single one.
Psalm 57:1 & 2
“Be merciful unto me o God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge until these calamities be overpast. I will cry unto God most high; unto God that performeth all things for
me.” (Emphasis mine.)
I walk. They ride. Bicycles that is.
Her name was Beatrix—Bea for short.
I can laugh about it now—quite hysterically in fact. I should’ve known, but I didn’t.
Happy New Year ~ almost! You know what that means…
Do you know what today is?
Years ago, Ronnie, Chandler and I piled into the car ready for a fun weekend away.
Life was hard. Money was short. And sleep was shorter still.
Mother or not, this post is for you.
I didn’t really have time. But this time, it didn’t matter.
The rubber tourniquet squeezed my bicep preparing my vein for the prick.