Tonight after work I was sitting on the porch swing rocking G while C played over by our fig tree (J and E are at their dad’s house this week). Jon was in the house. Just as I was about to pack it in and head inside, several missionaries from a local Baptist congregation wandered up our street and stopped at our house. They called out greetings, and I walked out into our yard to chat with them.
We exchanged pleasantries about the weather, and they told me their names. They admired C and G and asked if they were my only children. I replied that I am the mother of five children, but that I recently lost my oldest son.
That’s when they pounced.
First, one of the women said she understood just how I feel since she lost her sister last year (which is actually way better than the person who about a month ago told me that she understands my loss because her dog died recently and “he was just like a child to me.”) Then they asked me if I was sure that Henry had been “saved” before his death, and whether I knew where he is now. I took a deep breath and calmly answered “yes” and “yes.” I offered no details.
Then they asked me if I have a church. I said that I did. They asked me to elaborate, so I told them that we attend St. James Episcopal, right up the street.
They shook their heads sadly and explained in so many words that given where I go to church, it’s possible that Henry is actually burning in hell right now. They then went on to suggest that “now would be a good time” to ensure that my remaining children do not meet a similar, fiery fate by bringing the kids to THEIR church, which God and Jesus apparently favor over my own.
Then they handed me some church-produced literature about the dangers of gay marriage and abortion and whatnot, and went on to the next house on our street.
I stood there, watching them walk away, bemused by the unmitigated gall of these women.
Did two Baptist missionaries just come into my yard and tell me that my recently deceased child is likely FRYING IN HELL? Why yes, yes they did.
Henry would have found the entire episode wildly amusing. He certainly would have engaged them in an earnest debate in which he would have told them something ridiculous like that he worshipped tabby cats or pomegranates or something. Then he would have sat back and let them have at him in their attempts to save him.
As it happens, I don’t actually know WHERE Henry is, like they asked. I really struggle with that. But I do know HOW he is, and that’s loved and at peace and with God, who loves us, even if we aren’t “saved” to someone else’s specifications.
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