Sleep Well, Dad

Seven years ago, my father nearly died.  His heart went psycho, possibly doing something like 600 hundred beats per minute.  I’m not even certain.  I can’t really remember correctly.

I do know that my mother resuscitated my father, pounding on his chest while praying to God that my father needed to be returned.

And he was.  Only to nearly die two more times.

And be resuscitated twice more.

A total of three times.

As an English teacher, numerical symbolism DOES NOT escape me.  My father nearly died three times.

The number of the holy trinity.



Holy Ghost

It has been seven years since my father nearly died.

Seven is the number of perfection.

God’s holy number

And today is Good Friday.

The children and I have just returned from the Good Friday service, the first time I have ever attended, and I am emotionally drained and humbled.  The Boy and I helped with the readings, reading verses from the New Testament when people had the choice not to crucify Christ, not to betray Him.

But Judas still chose silver over Jesus.

Herod chose Pilate over Jesus

People chose Barrabus over Jesus.

And today is the anniversary of the death of Christ.  Even if this isn’t the actual day, this is the symbolic anniversary of when Jesus died.

Similarly, this is the seven year anniversary of when my father almost died.  My father collapsed from the sofa after saying “Ow” and his heart pretty much stopped working the way it was supposed to.

And my mother who had never learned CPR bounced on my father’s chest and his heart returned to its normal rhythm and the first thing my mother did was command my father to pray.

And he did

Two thousand years ago, Jesus died for my sins.  For everyone’s sins.  And though not everyone believes in him or accepts him, I do.

I do.

I truly do.

Two thousand years ago, the dead body of the Messiah was laid in a cave, in a tomb, and a stone was rolled in front of it to keep in the stench and to allow the body to go through its decay and putrefaction.  But this didn’t happen.

I know that three days elapsed but people say that Jesus rose on Sunday.  And I know that some people can make legitimate claims as to how three days elapsed. I’m not certain that I need to believe in that.  I still believe that Jesus died for my sins.  And that Jesus rose again.  And through Him I am able to have a closer relationship with God.

And now, my father experienced his second birthday (as I call it) today. Today, I called him and told him how much I loved him.  How grateful that I am he is still alive.

And I thanked my mother, once more, for keeping the family together.

Seven years.

Three days.

Holy numbers

God is real.

God is good.

All the time.

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