I walked up the stairs again today.  And, I cried.

She was with me—the red-headed lady who has climbed with me for most of a lifetime.  The stairs didn’t make her cry.  And yet, she stood beside me as I looked sightlessly through the liquid prisms in my eyes, out the big windows in the waiting room of the hospital.

I haven’t been in that place since my brother died.  I had climbed those stairs again and again for most of two weeks, knowing it wasn’t going to end the way I wanted it to.

Today, a friend was admitted to a room on the same floor.  We went, the Lovely Lady and I, to visit.  He and his wife, along with their children and grandchildren have been like family to us.  I think he’ll be okay.

My tears weren’t for him. Hopefully, that time won’t come for many years.

But, I remembered something today, there on the stairs.  It was a conversation I had with my brother, all those weeks ago.

His body worn out, my brother was experiencing some mental confusion in those last days of consciousness. I stood beside his bed, recognizing the fear in his eyes and I said the words to reassure him. 

I’ve thought, over and over, about how untrue they were, those words so easily spoken. 

Then again, I’ve come to realize the overwhelming truth in them as well.

“You’re safe here.  There’s no need to be afraid.”

I repeated the words to him before I left his side that night.  He said them back to me as I walked out the door.

“I’m safe here.”

Safe. 

I struggle with that word.  All around us, folks see danger and build their bunkers.  We pad sharp corners and put exploding bags of air in our cars.  We buy alarms and lights.  We buy insurance and surround ourselves with medical people or natural healers, and all the best advisors we can gather near.

And still, we’re not safe.  None of those achieve safety for us.

I didn’t lie to my brother. Even though he was in the hospital under the doctors’ and nurses’ care, he is still gone today.  But, I didn’t lie to him.

In those long night vigils and weary daytime watches, I sang the words to him often.  I don’t know if he heard them.

But, I did.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.

The prolific poet, Fanny Crosby, wrote the words over a century and a half ago.  She wasn’t wrong.

There is one safe place.  One.

I wish I could assure you troubles won’t overtake you.  I’d like to promise comfort—health—prosperity.

I can’t. 

And yet, safety awaits. It does.

The name of the Lord is a strong fortress;
the godly run to him and are safe.
(Proverbs 18:10, NLT)

The words translated are safe in that verse literally mean set on high.

Set on high.

Safe.

We’re safe here.  In His arms, we’re safe.  And we climb the stairs together.

And sometimes as we climb, we’ll cry.

Ah, but we’ll laugh and sing, too.

You’re safe here.

 

It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and if You don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, from The Fellowship of the Ring)

 

He will cover you with His pinions,
And under His wings you may take refuge;
His faithfulness is a shield and wall.
(Psalm 91:4, NASB)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.