The raven has entered the Areopagus. He came a rapping on my chamber door yesterday, and has perched upon a bust of Elvis atop my bookcase.

One of my very best friends died yesterday. Not an acquaintance, not a friend loitering in the narthex of my life, not even one in my inner circle, but one of my most trusted, beloved, and truest friends and confidants; a core friend, you might say. I received the news late upon arriving home. It was unexpected, yet expected. I had visited her at the hospital a couple of times this past year. We were hoping that her condition would improve–and it seemed it just might–but the bad news came just the same yesterday.

How do you avoid cliches at times such as these? I trust Christine Clements as much as I trust my own kin. She’s the most loyal person I have ever met in my life, unfailingly caring, and intrepid in her defense of those she loved. I count myself lucky to have been one of those folk. We hired her at Marc Schooley Motor Company off the street as a complete stranger, just in town from out of state. Though she had difficulty turning a computer on, she soon proved to be a woman of great resourcefulness. BTW-if ever at a loss for words in a job interview, invoke the Chris system: tell your potential hiring manager he’s got balls of steel. It might just work for you 🙂 It did for Chris.

Though she may have seemed a flight risk, within just a short period of time we were trusting her with staggering amounts of bank deposits…she was just that trustworthy. It seems silly, but you could just tell she was right. There never was any question about it, and she always came through.

Now, she had this uncanny ability to say and do whatever she felt like, and get away with it. In fact, in my forty years of knowing the Schooner, no one had ever gotten away with nicknaming him with reference to his size. Yet I can still hear Chris’s voice–yes, it could be rather loud–blaring out “where’s the big ‘un?” In fact, she called him big ‘un in front of 500 people once at church, and somehow it was fitting and appropriate. Fittingly, when the schooner passed away two years ago, there was an odd flower arrangement–the best I can remember it was the biggest as well–which simply said: Elvis has left the building. That was Chris.

I could bore you to tears with unending Chris stories–like the time she showed up at the lot decked out in her best red dress and we didn’t remember it was her birthday until 3 PM. We snuck out the back when she wasn’t looking, went to the store and got gifts, and returned and surprised her on her birthday (bet you didn’t know that one, Chris)–or how she used to leave the intercom on between offices and trick all the wholesalers and other car dealers into talking bad about us over the airwaves–or how she used to beat the Schooner at trivial pursuit–but I won’t. I can’t do the stories the justice they deserve.

What I will tell you, then, is what she was like. I realize people get this way when they’ve lost a friend; however, in this case they’re actually true:

When Chris decided on something, there was no stopping it. When Chris decided she liked you, it was a good thing, but if she decided she loved you, her life was given over in loyalty. She was tougher than any man I’ve ever met in her own way. She could bear multiple, incredible real-life burdens like no one I’ve ever met. She sacrificed herself for those she loved. Incredible, really, and extremely rare.

And what a presence. If you go to New Orleans and turn south, and continue on until you run into the Gulf of Mexico, somewhere in that general vicinity is where Chris came from. She was swamp mutha through and through, and literally could take over a room.

Now, Chris wasn’t perfect. She dragged a past with her to Texas, and owned up to every bit of it. In many ways, she was proud of it. And here is where this tale begins, really. Marc Schooley Motor Company was a bit of a missionary outlet, believe it or not (yes, I can hear the jokes). Chris made no bones, obviously, if you’ve read this far, about her feelings toward the church. But a truly amazing thing happened along the way…

I’m sometimes asked why I’m a Calvinist. It’s the biblical data that does it for me, but added to that are real-world observances. Thing is, I’ve seen too many miracles not to be. Chris came to a vibrant faith in the Lord years before her passing yesterday. Dare I say it–like you can stop me at this moment, Christine :)–she became a church lady. Grace is nothing short of a miracle. I saw it in the Schooner’s life, I saw it in Shema’s life, I saw it clearest of all in my own life, and, I saw it in Chris’s life. None of the four of us would have ever come to faith in Christ without a miracle–one that is entirely alien to ourselves. Forget the twenty-foot high stacks of crutches; salvation is a bona fide miracle. And it happened to Chris.

So, now, I’m having a little trouble grieving, because all I can think about is the look on the Schooner’s face in heaven when he hears Chris’ voice behind him in that loud tone of hers: I’m here Big ‘un!

So, yes, the raven came a rapping and sat upon the bust of Elvis upon my bookcase. But, the thing is, the bird can’t say nevermore. I mean, it tried, I suppose, but it really has nothing to say to me. You see: THERE IS BALM IN GILEAD, AND I KNOW IT. My friend is with my father in heaven, perhaps beating him at trivial pursuit, but more likely up to something much, much better.

In fact, now that I look more closely, it’s not a raven at all perched upon the bust of Elvis above my bookcase. It might just be a dove, and it just seems like it’s singing a new tune:

Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.

Love you guys…

I did the best I could, Chris…hope it’s good enough.