the tug of it; for gibson

A few hours ago I was riding home from the hospital, carrying sadness and grief for my friends Beth and Daniel. Their baby Gibson had not been healed to go to his home here on earth as we had all hoped. Gibson had gone to his heavenly home, to be with God.

While we were at the hospital, my dad, not knowing anything that was going on here in Austin, sent me a poem that his grandmother, Mabel Odell Jackson has written long ago. It is called "The Tug of It". I read it as we drove home. It goes like this:

A bright, young lad, one cold, cloudy day,
       Went out in the meadow to play.
He tossed up his kite and his voice rang aloud,
       As upward and upward it went.
He stood there amazed as upward he gazed,
       For soon it was lost in a cloud.
A passerby said, "My boy tell me why
       You hold to a kite way up in the sky?"
Then answered this boy, his face strangely lit,
      "I still feel the tug of it." 

No, I was not there when the baby was born,
      In the manger so dimly lit.
No, I was not there to follow the star,
      But I still feel the tug of it.
No, I was not there when He walked among men,
      And down with the lowly did sit.
No, I was not there when they crowned Him with thorns,
      But I still feel the tug of it.
No, I was not there when they crucified Him,
      And nailed Him to the tree.
No, I never saw the old rugged cross,
      But the tug of it's still with me.
No, I never walked on the golden streets,
      Nor of the angels' band been a part.
I never gazed on the nail-peirced hands,
      But the tug of it's all in my heart.

Sitting with Beth, I didn't know what to say or do. There are no words that can soothe a mother's heart. Right before reading this poem, I grappled with the desire I had to help my friend and the difficult knowledge there was little anyone could do to ease the pain she was feeling.

I'm pretty sure my Great Grandma Jackson would have done better than I was able. She lost babies too soon, too. It's strange to think now that her poem has passed through all these years and resurfaced just now, tonight. 

Grandma Jackson is walking on those golden streets now, and so is Gibson. I hope they meet and hug, and I hope she teaches him her poem.

My prayer for my friends is that the tug of God's love behind the clouds of this life will grow stronger and comfort them. Someday in heaven, we will know and understand more fully what seems so jumbled today.

For a little while longer, until we are all reunited with Jesus, we will all have to hold fast to that tug.