No Sugar in my Father’s House
There’s no sugar in my father’s house, only a resounding emptiness with the pests of turmoil and despair hovering above with a haunting persistence.
It’s a sad world we live in when there’s no sugar in my father’s house, just the gathers that have been sent in flowing by a disinterested wind in the willows.
It was a Sunday like any other, I had left church early when the news hit me that Nancy’s father had passed away, she was young and beautiful, a pleasant soul and we’d being going to the same church with her since we were toddlers.
I took the initiative to head to her home at least to pass my condolences. As I entered the grief stricken vicinity, a multitude of eyes met my hesitant figure, and I realized that the people had converged for a short intercessory meeting for the departed soul.
I made my peace with the solemn congregation and sat next to a sad seemingly distraught lady and focused my attention to the literal center of the crowd’s attention.
A well-dressed middle-aged man, I thought… holding a King James Bible in his large hands. He spoke in an imploring tone, his voice heavy with emotion, and as he spoke I was taken by his words and for a moment lost by them;
“I don’t know whether the deceased made peace with his maker for in a man’s dying breath the difference between everlasting life and turmoil can be deciphered. The reality of life is that people can lie, people can bear false witness even when the act, crime or deed is plain to see, but the earth we trod upon, the sky that looks down upon us can’t bear false witness. In the days that come life will cease to exist and upon his judgment seat, our maker, the God of Heaven and Earth shall assume authority and the skies and earth shall be witnesses and we, mere mortal men, shall face either demise or a future promise of hope and everlasting peace.”
“The question is dearly beloved, shall you claim that you did not hear, that the message passed you blindly, that on this day I didn’t stand and tell you this tale of a merciful father who cries out for the lives of his sons and daughters, shall you? Remember that the earth we walk upon, build our houses upon and the sky we strive to reach shall bear witness. For you or against you. Dearly beloved my work here is done”
I sat transfixed as the lean figure took his seat, a boisterous choir took charge singing a dirge of how when we die;
We would leave our memories behind. Our cherished youth would be a distant echo. Our lives will be long forgotten, our properties left behind to be gathered by the living, our souls departed to damnation or eternal peace.
I met Nancy later on, strong resilient Nancy, no tear, no falter in her step, just a clingy embrace that spoke volumes of her concealed distress. Even as we parted ways, I could still see it, a loneliness about her, a desperation, a sadness caused by loss… caused by grief.
No sugar in my father’s house, just the lamentations and gossip of passersby who speak of a once glorious household, of a long deserted fireplace, of a warmth that was, but now is no more.
Later on I heard from my friend Daniel that the preacher who had so vehemently spoke at the prayer meeting, had been involved in an accident and died instantly. I racked my conscience for answers but in my agony I could only remember his last words in his solemn address;
“Dearly beloved my work here is done”
Dear readers there is still no sugar in my father’s house