NO TIME FOR DYING

 Dying is just not an option, I’ve decided. I can’t do it.

Now all of you who know me know that I have faith in divine healing and believe God is healing me because His Word is full of healing promises. However, even if I didn’t believe in healing, I just can’t die. I mean, seriously, from a purely practical point of view, I am needed on this earth.

My sister-in-law Margie would have no idea what to do with her Goodwill pile of clothes once a year because I would not be around to take them (and wear them, only to hear her say 5 years later, “Man, that is cute. Why did I give that away?”)

My parents need me to print off their mailing labels and Christmas letter and to fix their computer woes over the phone and keep them supplied with cell phone minutes.

My niece Rachel needs to know that she has an aunt in this world who totally understands anxiety issues and who is there when the devil gets into her head and starts throwing down lies. She knows I know.

My friend Susan, my soul-sister since before we were both married, would have a huge hole in her heart for the rest of her life. My friend Jill would have no idea what to do on Friday mornings without me to walk-and-catch-up with. My friend Lee needs me to blueberry pick with her and giggle with her. (Once, when we were leading singing in a nursing home in front of the residents, we looked at each other and broke into convulsive red-faced giggling that could not be stopped for an entire song. I think we almost wet our pants. My son rolled his eyes and called us immature.)

My school needs me. I am the sub who cares about kids leaving our system being able to speak the King’s English, and not sounding, like, um, a totally, like, uneducated, ah, ninny. When faced with a “Mrs. Ekstrom, can me and her go to the library?” my response is always, “I will answer your question when you ask it with proper grammar. Try it again.” Yep, the school needs me.

My niece Anna needs her goofy twin.

My brother Chris needs me to call him a rat fink every now and then, just to keep him humble, remind him of his childhood, and as payback for cutting all the hair off my beautiful bride doll.

My friends Julie, Mary Ruth, Penny and Lee need me as prayer partners. Groups of two are fine, but circles of three are even better.

My niece Betsy still wants to learn how to make her Great-Grama Della’s sour cream dill soup, and I am the only one in the family that has it down.

And man, do my husband and son both need me. Dick is a great cook, but left to himself, I’m afraid he would survive on spaghetti and baked chicken. He would not be able to discern which of the 4 remotes does what when it comes to loading CD’s and DVD’s. No more movies. His car would be dirty all the time because I wouldn’t be around to clean the interior. He does a poor job of researching condos to rent or motels to book. Without me, Lord only knows where my hubbie could end up staying.

He needs me to set his electronic watch when it goes awry, and he would read a fourth of the books he currently does because I am not here to give him book recommendations. If I died, nobody would rag on him to clean out old files, and he would still have the instruction booklet from some microwave that we dumped 15 years ago in his manila folder. He would spend entirely too much money on food and clothing, because the super sale/super coupon/thrift store queen would not be alive.

And Sam. If I died, who would call him the 15^th of every month to remind him to change his contact lenses because he always forgets? He needs my e-mail missives, even if he thinks he doesn’t. He needs me to wear purple horns and cheer loudly for the Vikes when we’re watching the game.

I have not finished my motherly duty of teaching him how to fold a clean T-shirt so that it actually looks washed and unwrinkled (do guys EVER get this or is it a manual dexterity issue?). Who would make him his favorite meals and desserts? He needs me for the back scratches and head rubs that only his mom can give him. He needs me to point out grammatical errors that broadcasters make and say, “I better never hear you make THAT statement on the air…”

And his hair. Well, the young man would become a curly-mopped hippie with hair down to his waist if I died. I am his barber. Always have been. Always will be. He refuses to let anyone else touch his thick head of waves. (This quite delights me because even if he makes it big at ESPN in NYC, he will still fly home every 6 weeks for a haircut.) Without his barber, my son’s good looks would tank. That alone should keep me glued to life, don’t you think?

Most importantly, God needs me. He needs me to teach others about divine healing, about the power of His name, about the power of His Word, and about the will of God in the whole matter of healing.

Nope, can’t do dying. That’s all there is to it.