I'm reading Acts 2:9 "Parthians and Medes and Elamites, those dwelling in Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia," as part of the morning devotions, to my father, who can't read anymore in his disability. "Capp-a-do-cia!" he says impatiently, correcting me on my pronunciation.
I think, "wow, he knows the bible so well that even while his memory is so bad he can't remember what day it is, he remembers that. Yet, in all this, he never grasped the love of God."
I look at him from the basement stairs that look up to his kitchen chair where he has his breakfast and watch him stare into space, wondering what he is thinking. He seems to be in despair. I walk by the toast he left when his breakfast is done, and think about the despair that is written all over that toast.
Why God? Why didn't he ever get it? It doesn't seem like he ever will. It doesn't seem like anyone can show him the truth of God's love. He heads for the grave with that despair.
May he find God's love, at last, on the other side.