by Mike Blyth, January 1996

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." (Heb 12:1)

I sit under a mango tree, in the cemetery outside our chapel in Miango, listening to the praise choruses as the singing team practices. I have walked through the small area, past all the graves, noting the names and dates. In the middle of the dry season there's hardly a blade of green grass to be seen, but the mangos, eucalyptus, and many other trees still flourish.

Most of the graves are of infants and children of missionaries. I don't know how they died. Some at birth, some of illness, some of accidents. What agony and heartache lie here, now muted with the passing years. How dark were the days for those parents. Far from home, here to serve God, then a precious child lost to them. I can only imagine it, since I've never been through that valley.

Though I know few of the names or stories, I can't help crying as I stop at grave after grave. A son and father buried together, nearly the ages of Jonathan and me. The dad died trying to save the son from drowning. Twins who lived only a few days. And at least two families who lost more than one child, at different times. Even after losing a loved one, those left behind didn't run home, but stayed in the battle. I'm sure none of these parents knew they would face that deepest pain because they came, but they knew there would be dangers and costs.

Then there are the larger graves. Most are of young missionaries themselves, unknown now to most of us. Some are marked "beloved wife and mother," others "husband." Twenty-four-year-old Elsbeth Lenherr worked at Bembereke Hospital in Benin, but was buried here in 1977. Dr. Jeanette Troup, age 46, died in 1970 of Lassa fever contracted while treating patients with that then unknown disease. How husbands, wives, parents and children must have wept with sorrow and longing for all those here, doubtless asking "why?" And what meaning do their lives have now? Maybe some never saw those "results" that are supposed to give lasting meaning to life.

The saint, asked "What would you do if you knew the world would end tomorrow," answered "Plant a tree." Each act of love and obedience is eternal, existing in the "eternal now" of God, as a testimony to His love and power. The cup of water given to a dying man, kindness shown to an enemy, a word of encouragement, an apology, a prayer of adoration: each gleams forever like a tiny gem, a sparkle of color in a stained glass window, or perhaps a shining grain of white marble, in the grand cathedral God is building for eternity.

Evelyn Ocker's grave lies nearest me. She died in 1966 at the age of 41, two years younger than I am now. I don't know anything about her except that she came here to serve. She is one of the cloud of witnesses to me, and her grave but a reminder of her faithfulness, of the now-finished piece she represents in God's temple. I can't see the piece yet, and even if I could it wouldn't necessarily be understandable by itself. Perhaps she's a sparkling thread in a brilliant banner of praise. Every twist and turn, each alteration of color, every texture of her one thread, each act of love and faith, though beautiful in itself, will then be submerged in the breathtaking beauty of the whole design.

I see these graves and feel sorrow. From this side I think of the pain of loss, of bereavement. I cry thinking of empty arms. And Jesus wept, too, when he saw those empty arms and aching hearts. Yet He is laughing and rejoicing and dancing with those very ones who have gone before us. As they grasp his golden mane, he carries them in leaps and bounds over the hills of Aslan's land. Meanwhile they call to us, "See our lives, remember our obedience, suffering, and faithfulness. Free yourself of all those bonds and burdens, those sins and distractions that tie you down, and run behind us, following the Master."