We’ve had a death in family this weekend. It isn’t like it was a complete surprise, but it still is very hard for me to accept the barrage of feelings that accompany it. My great aunt died from complications related to congestive heart failure. She didn’t have the highest quality of life lately, so most would say I should be grateful that her suffering in that way is over. The problem is, I never witnessed to her. Ever.
We were brought up Catholic. Of course, my aunt’s generation was particularly devout. My mom doesn’t practice or anything, but she doesn’t like that I am a born again, Bible believing, Independent Baptist. I was forbidden from talking about my religion or pushing my beliefs on anyone in our family, and like a coward I complied.
I have gone through the routine of telling myself that my aunt really, really loved Jesus. She said so all the time. She lived her life with certain standards because she thought that is what one does to show love for Him. But I really don’t know if she ever knew Him. And I never once asked. I know that it isn’t the regular practice of a priest to tell a parishioner that Jesus said in John 3:3, “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” I also know that it isn’t the regular practice of a priest to tell a parishioner that it is “Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us, by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the Holy Ghost,” Titus 3:5. So, that is why I feel guilty. I may have my aunt’s blood on my hands.
I feel on par with the man given one talent, the one that digged in the earth, and hid his lord’s money. I wasted the time and opportunity given me to do the one thing the Lord has left me on this Earth to do: spread the Good News.
Please forgive me.
