In Bible class on Sunday my friends and I talked about death and how it can be scary but how really it’s not too scary. The teacher, hoping to generate some discussion, asked us who was scared of death but no one raised his hand. No one. Not one of the fifty people in the room. Maybe we were all posing because we knew the right answer was not to be scared but I think mostly we just weren’t scared and I was proud to be sitting among so much courage and faith.
Finally, the first hand raised, but the hand-raiser had no intention of confessing fear. I looked and it was one of my favorite people, a girl who absolutely always speaks her mind. I’ve heard her say exactly what she thinks to a misbehaving four year old. I love her.
Here’s what she said:
"I don’t want to sound suicidal or anything, but, well… Heck yeah, I want to die."
Did I mention I love her?
Right there in that moment I experienced the Maranatha of the early church—the communal cry from the mouths of hungry believers, “Come, oh Lord!”
And I meant it. And Shelly meant it. And we all, for a second, really meant it.