My Never-ending Story

 

When I was a kid, life felt like the first pages of a new book—all wonder and magic, sprinkled with the glitter of hope. There was so much to look forward to, anything could happen, and the end of the story was many, many chapters away. Now I am over sixty. I’ve turned many pages and closed many chapters—my parents are dead, as are several friendships, two marriages, numerous family members and dear friends (not to mention the loss of dozens of people who have moved away since the Camp Fire whom I expect never see again in this life). As I age, the pace of life quickens and every turn of the page speeds me nearer to the end. With so few pages remaining, I can’t help but see that the story is nearly over. Excitement gives way to sadness. It’s not the story that little girl hoped it would be, but it’s mine. It’s the only story I’ve got.

The suddenness and totality of the destruction of the Camp Fire (followed by numerous other shocks and losses) illustrated just how quickly everything I care about can be destroyed. Before that, the closest thing to it I’d ever experienced was the morning I woke up to find that my second husband had run off with another woman. But that was several chapters ago, when I was young enough to envision more chapters ahead than I had left behind. Of course I’ve always “known” that this life and its pleasures are temporary, But having experienced first-hand how quickly they can disappear and the pain of the loss means each joy is tinged with the anticipation of grief.

What I need now more than ever is assurance that this life is not all there is. I need something to cling to that can never be snatched away. And I won’t settle for “theory.” My hope needs to be planted in something better and more real than anything this life has to offer, because only when I am fully convinced that this life is not all there is—only when I know for certain that I am, in fact, not nearing the last chapter—can I truly rejoice in the chapter I’m living right now.

That, my friends, is the struggle of faith. It’s clinging to the truth of the Gospel. It’s remembering that I have indeed been “born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead” (1 Pt. 1:3), and that this life is only the prologue of a story without end. It’s the fight to keep my focus on God’s eternal kingdom, to maintain the faith that comes from hearing the word (Ro. 10:17), to set my “hope fully on the grace that will be brought . . . at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1 Pt. 1:13), and to let the promise of that glorious future bring me comfort, rest, and yes, even joy in the midst of the trials of the remaining pages of this chapter of my life. My life in Christ has only just begun, and it is a life that will have no end. There is SO much to look forward to!