It is natural for humanity to wonder about the next life. We deny its existence, or we embrace it. We call out to know the great infinity of eternity, yet its knowledge is beyond our reach. Eternity is an ocean we fail to comprehend since it was, is, and is going to be. The answers we truly seek are large bodies of water unable to be swallowed by the mind of its inhabitants.
I found myself in mourning when my uncle Jason died. He died a troubled man. He was a world-renowned missionary and evangelist. His rise to the top of the hill was slow and methodical. Yet his fall was swift and daunting. I saw him preach in a stadium of forty thousand people, and I saw him breaking bread with natives on three different continents. He wrote many books and sold millions. Yet when it came time to celebrate his life, many had already disowned him. Only my mom, his twin sister, and a few missionary friends showed up for his wake and funeral. He had been a well-known evangelist, but he fell far from grace in the latter years of his life. The most painful part of the grieving process was the nature of my uncle’s body. It had to be a closed casket because of the damage done to his eyes.
My mother loved her twin brother, but the closure she needed was never achieved. His fall from the right hand of popularity was not because of an adulterous scandal or a misappropriation of funds; it was because of a descent into madness. He went mad after returning from his final mission trip. The emptiness of those days was a staunch contradiction to the life he once lived. I was curious how a man who didn’t choose to sin could fall so deeply into neglect.
After the funeral, one of his missionary friends handed me a box. He told me,
“Son, I know no one knows what went wrong with your uncle. I believe something happened to him, maybe one of those heathen tribes put a spell on him or they hit him on the head. I want you to have these. They are the letters he sent back home after his last mission trip. Your former aunt gave them to me.”
The older man handed me a handcrafted wooden box. He then said,
“Read it first, before your mom looks at them. And be wise with them, as they carry an ounce of madness.”
I took them to my car quickly and hid them away for a period of time.
After a month or so, I revisited the memory of my uncle when I saw a special on tv where a pastor referenced him. I remembered the letters in the car. Rushing out, I brought the box back in, turned down the tv, and began my journey into salvific madness.
Letter 1
Dear Mary,
It has been a long journey. We have finally made it to the first island we set out to reach. I have never been in the army, but I can resonate with some of their hardships, as we almost ran out of supplies. We reached the island at dusk. This island off the coast of Africa has been touched by civilized people, but civilization has not fully been integrated into their daily lives. They have some tools from the outside world, but not many. We intend to meet the village chief tomorrow when everyone is rested. I am excited to see the things God will do in these people. I have sent a present with this letter hoping that it reaches you in time for your birthday.
May God be with you.
Love,
Jason Hamilton II
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