For some reason, sleep eluded me last night. My thoughts were flooded non-stop with memories of all the dementia sufferers I've known over the decades at the nursing home I visit every week. Yet in some cases, "sufferers" is a misnomer; many of them have been happy enough, remembering only their distant pasts--for example, expecting Mama to pick them up at any moment, or Daddy to take them for a nice long walk after church.

So who are these people now? Are we the sum total of our pasts? And if so, are these people left without much of an identity, beyond their fleeting memories of early childhood? A troubling thought!

But then it occurred to me that this is not always the case. Because those who are Christian have an indestructible, eternal identity in Jesus Christ, no matter how deep their dementia may be.

I considered the theological implications of being a believer in such a childlike state -- having no list of past good works to offer, and no thoughts of being a decent person deserving of anything, least of all heaven. In short, having nothing to bring to the salvation table.

That thought stopped me in my tracks: they are like the most humble of little children. And what did Jesus say in Matthew 18, after calling a child to Himself? "Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore whoever humbles himself as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

So! Perhaps Christian dementia patients are most blessed of all, doing nothing but trusting and looking forward to little things in this life, while being counted among Jesus' greatest in the next. 

And the best news of all: Even if individual dementia patients have not yet received Jesus as their Savior, it's not too late. Hearing is allegedly the last or our senses to go, and the Holy Spirit is capable of reaching any soul--even those who are beyond the reach of human appeals.

Is there a dementia patient in your life who would be delighted to hear about Jesus and the gospel? Don't wait another day to share the good news with him or her!

For most of my Christian life, I’ve hung my head in shame over many things I have thought, said and done in the past. And it seems that the older I get, the more time I have to dwell on them--not a good thing!

Most of these shameful things are from my years as a feminist atheist, but I have to admit to a cringe-worthy episode or two since then – including the day a decade ago when I totally lost my temper over something that would have been easy to justify before I knew Jesus, but was definitely unacceptable in one who professed to follow Him.
 
I know the Bible instructs us repeatedly not to dwell on the past. For instance, as the prophet Isaiah quoted the Lord in chapter 18 of his book, “"Do not remember the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it?”  And in the New Testament, Jesus is quoted as saying “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:62)
 
Alas, I’ve been unable to leave some of these things behind, instead repenting repeatedly over them. After all, we can’t erase the impact of hurtful thoughts, words and deeds; our victims may forgive us, but they won’t forget. How could they?
 
But then, on a recent Saturday afternoon, I had an epiphany. It’s probably obvious to most of you, dear readers, but I’ll bet one or two of you spend more than a little time beating yourselves up for the transgressions of the past.  Maybe you’ve even popped a pill or two or downed a shot or three in an effort to silence your nagging conscience.
 
Here’s what happened. I was in my garden slaughtering Japanese beetles and singing snatches of favorite old hymns, when a favorite of my late friend Ruth H. came up on my mental juke box: “Whiter than snow, whiter than snow, now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”
 
I stopped dead in my tracks: Whiter than snow?
 
I knew that the phrase came from a psalm, but couldn’t remember which one. I raced inside to look it up in my NKJV.
 
And there it was, nestled in the first ten verses of Psalm 51, which was written by King David after the prophet Nathan confronted him for his disastrous sin with Bathsheba:
 
Have mercy upon me, O God,
According to Your lovingkindness;
According to the multitude of Your tender mercies,
Blot out my transgressions. 
 
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
And cleanse me from my sin. 
 
For I acknowledge my transgressions,
And my sin is always before me. 
 
Against You, You only, have I sinned,
And done this evil in Your sight –
That You may be found just when You speak,
And blameless when You judge.
 
Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,
And in sin my mother conceived me. 
 
Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts,
And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom.
 
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. 
 
Make me hear joy and gladness,
That the bones You have broken may rejoice. 
 
Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities. 
 
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me. 
 
And there it was: a poignant reminder that Christ died not to bury, nor cover, nor white wash, the sins of the world.  
 
He died to wash them away!
 
It’s a recurrent theme throughout the Bible – perhaps most notably in this oft-cited line from the apostle John’s first epistle: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)
 
And just think of the result. As David wrote in Psalm 103:
 
For as the heavens are high above the earth,
So great is His mercy toward those who fear Him;
As far as the east is from the west,
So far has He removed our transgressions from us.
 
As far as the east is from the west – why, wouldn’t that be infinity?  
 
I had read these passages time and time again – apparently, without taking them to heart. But now, thanks to a precious old hymn written in the 19th century by Irish immigrant and postal clerk James L. Nicholson, I was set free at last from these relentless regrets.
 
“Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.” (John 8:36)
 
Hallelujah! 

Do our minds seem to wear down as we age only because we know too much?
 
That’s what at least some research seems to say: Our brains become increasingly sluggish not because they’re deteriorating, but because we’re packing ‘em so full of experience and information.
 
So said authors Wayne D. Gray and Thomas Hills almost a decade ago in an article entitled “Does Cognition Deteriorate With Age or Is It Enhanced by Experience?” -- a review, apparently, of a landmark book entitled The Myth of Cognitive Decline.
 
At least I think that’s what Gray and Hills are saying when they claim that “our poorer memory for names as we age, over the last several decades at least, is a result of the massive cultural proliferation of novel names alongside the increasing number of names experienced over a lifetime.”
 
Right. We forget Mary’s name because of the proliferation of Kukulas and Thiagos and Zelias. 
 
“Pretty much any cognitive theory with which we are familiar would have to predict that the more things you have in memory the longer will be your search time,” write Gray and Hills. They quote Myth: “’In information theoretic terms…. a measure of processing speed that ignores information load is meaningless.’”
 
Is that kind of like our Pastor Joe says, that all the information is still there in our brains – it’s just that the librarians in charge of retrieving it are slowing down? (To which I would add: These librarians store all this information in First In, First Out [FIFO] order, rather than Last In, First Out [LIFO] order, which is why we can remember what we were doing on July 4, 1959, but don’t have a clue what we had for lunch yesterday.)
 
This fuzzy old brain of mine may be too information-packed to adequately decode ultra-smart academic language like this:
 
“Many things covary as we grow up and grow older,” they write, “and, just as in the nature versus nurture debate over childhood development, a rush to judgment obscures and confuses the search for mechanisms and for the achievement of scientific, as well as personal, understanding of the changes that we all pass through.” 
 
I think that means something along the lines of this: “Old people are encyclopedic in their knowledge rather than deteriorating mentally – so let’s not judge or disrespect them or toss them aside because they don’t seem to be as smart as we younger folks. Really, they’re practically geniuses.”
 
But you know what? These thoroughly educated researchers are missing the point. We are not valuable because of what we know. We are valuable because we are the Creator’s handiwork, because He loved us enough to die for us, and because He has commanded us to love others as we love ourselves and to care for widows in their affliction. 

Of course, such commands will only be embraced by His children – that is, the born-again who have repented and trusted in Jesus. So perhaps it’s no surprise that, in an attempt to make us act godly without bringing God into the picture, we see the world’s experts building elaborate Rube Goldberg patches and workarounds  for issues that are only problematic for those on the wrong side of the narrow gate.

Here's the truth: As the 2nd law of thermodynamics predicts, our aging brains are wearing out. But that does not decrease our value one iota in the eyes of our Creator. And His are the only eyes that matter.

Over the years, I've heard many elderly women worry aloud that they'll never again have friends like those of their younger years. And indeed, sometimes that's the case. But oh, there are some wonderful exceptions--friendships that develop among those who share themselves with complete honesty because they are no longer constrained by pride, and because they have in common the only thing that really matters in this life: the Lord God Himself. This is the sort of friendship the protagonist of The Song of Sadie Sparrow enjoyed in her last days on this earth. Here's a sneak preview:
           
Five days later, Eva slipped quietly into eternity. She had died of “natural causes,” Nurse Char told Sadie, whispering this bit of knowledge as if she’d revealed some top-secret information that would certainly lead to a law suit by Eva’s family if they found out that Char had spilled the beans. As if Eva’s four daughters, now residing in upscale towns in Washington and Vermont and upstate New York, would give a second thought to anything connected with their mother.
           
Eva had, in fact, died just as she had lived since the year she turned fifty: alone. That’s when her girls had left home, she had told Sadie, all within one calendar year, heading off to the coasts to find husbands for themselves and raise children of their own. It was the same year that Eva’s husband, a venerated English professor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, had left her for a pretty young student whose passion for nineteenth century British literature matched his own.
           
Eva had been awarded their house in the subsequent divorce—a big old stucco bungalow just north of the university, she’d told Sadie. It had lots of crown molding and built-ins and plenty of charm. But apparently that charm was lost on her girls, because they’d rarely visited even before being tied down by their families. So Eva had given herself wholeheartedly to volunteering at and through her church, zeroing in on hospice work early on in a show of solidarity with others whose lives were also ending. It was, in fact, a fellow hospice volunteer who had helped her find and settle into The Hickories once not even a walker could see her safely about the house.
           
Sadie spent much of the day following Eva’s death recalling the conversations they had had about this life, with all its joys and sorrows and disappointments. Somehow sharing those things—especially the disappointments—made everything feel all right again. That was just life, they had agreed time and time again, and a good thing because they were citizens of a better country, an eternal home, and if things had been wonderful on earth they might have resisted going there.
           
“Friends will be there I have loved long ago,” Sadie warbled. “Joy like a river around me will flow!”
           
As long as she was able to focus on these things, she felt strangely peaceful about this loss. Oh, of course she’d miss Eva. Beulah and Eva would probably prove to be her last real friends on this earth. It was just too difficult to find true soulmates in a nursing home, where so many residents were slipping into either dementia or complete self-centeredness, with every personality flaw magnified many times over.  
           
“Just to be there and to look on His face,” she sang out with gusto, “will through the ages be glory for me!”
           
Knowing that Eva would never suffer again was such a comfort. And Sadie no longer had to worry about being the one to go off into paradise first, leaving poor Eva abandoned once again.
           
All in all, it should have been a satisfying resolution to her friend’s life story, with Sadie simply feeling honored to have spent its finale with her.

--From The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages 293-294

Some years ago, a dear friend posted a link to a fascinating little article, potentially eye-opening for anyone who's trusting in diet and doctors for long life -- an article extolling the virtues of the foods our great-great-great-great grandparents ate. 

This lifespan issue has intrigued me for years. Every now and then, I spend some time looking up online mini-biographies of famous ancients, and have been interested to note that many of them lived well into their 80s. I've seen nary a mention of this being unusual -- not even a "ripe old age" comment.

The author of this article explains in very simple terms why the numbers seem to support the "miracle of modern medicine" myth; it's simply another example of lying with statistics.

Once again, we are reminded that it's the Lord who determines our individual lifespans. "And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them" (Psalm 139). 

Whether we die of cancer or heart disease, childbirth or infection, we're going to die at precisely the moment He has ordained for us; the only important question is where we will be spending eternity. Thanks be to God, that's one thing we can control, simply by repenting and trusting in Christ.  

If the statistics can be believed, they’re pretty shocking: 18% of U.S. adults reportedly suffer from anxiety disorders – including “general anxiety disorder,” characterized by persistent, excessive, and unrealistic worry about everyday things.
 
I suppose that’s understandable for secularists of all stripes, given the sad state of today’s world. But it really shouldn’t be an issue for those who profess to be followers of Jesus Christ. After all, He has commanded us not to fret 365 times in the pages of the Bible; shouldn’t we obey Him?
 
It's true that, now and then, I find myself back on my pre-salvation worry treadmill. But the Holy Spirit has given me a new line of thinking to pursue – one that almost invariably sends my fears packing.  Perhaps you’ll find it helpful.
 
Whenever I find myself worrying about a particular trial, I talk to God about the situation, casting my care upon Him because He cares for me (1 Peter 5:7). I then meditate on a few simple truths:  

1. God is sovereign over His entire creation – including every last cell in my body and every circumstance I face. He understands my situation perfectly. And He has everything under complete control, ready to serve His good and perfect purposes.
2. He has promised to make all things work together for good to all who love Him and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28) – and that would include me. I have seen this happen time and time again in my own life, and in the lives of Christian friends. It helps to review some of these remarkable events from His point of view, and to remember how disastrous they seemed initially from our limited human perspective.
3. I can’t know what blessing He has in store for me through this trial; I can be sure He does, however. So I ask Him not to remove the trial but for His will to be accomplished through it. And I try very hard to mean it every time.
4. He has already told me how to handle such fears, and I need only recall His instructions. Philippians 4:6-7 is often a great place to start: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
5. He has also shown me the big picture of His lifelong care for me, especially via Psalm 23. I love to think through every word and phrase of this beloved little chapter, drawing on the insights provided by the late Phillip Keller in his precious book, A Shepherd Looks at the 23rd Psalm.  

 
I have yet to emerge from this meditation without feeling great spiritual refreshment – and welcome freedom from whatever was worrying me in the first place.

From now on, I’m going to try to treat every parting as if it’s the last time I’ll see that person on this earth -- because it may well be.

I met R. when her husband was a resident at the nursing home where I hang out. He was a dear, and she was instantly one of my favorite people ever. She was funny, sharp, compassionate, well-informed, loving, grateful, nuts about dogs and cats, a small-business woman with a keen understanding of the challenges entrepreneurs face. All this in a tiny little 80-something frame. 

R. and I became friends, growing especially close after her husband died. We talked at great length over the phone, and saw each other every now and then – less often than I would’ve liked, but she rarely felt up to visits or outings. 

I last saw R. on a mid-July day, when I took her to see her eye doctor. As usual, we had a great time every step of the way. She was greeted with great delight by both the doctor and his staff; she always made them laugh, and that day was no exception. Afterwards, we had lunch at her favorite restaurant, the Peach Garden – a dark little place with the best (and cheapest) Chinese food I’ve ever had. She had egg foo young; I had cashew chicken; we each took half our meals home; and she insisted on picking up the tab.

When we got back to her house, she invited me in for a piece of cake that she’d bought especially for the occasion. She didn’t insist, because she knew I had work to do, but she was so hoping that I’d have time for dessert – how could I refuse? It was Pepperidge Farm lemon cake, light and delicious, and we chatted away about her beloved cat, about the feral cats outside and a tree that she wanted to have removed, and as always about the Lord Jesus Christ. I tried to put our dishes in the dishwasher but as always she insisted I leave them for her. And then I hugged her good-bye and headed back to whatever was awaiting me in my home office. 

She didn’t walk me to the door this time. I remember being glad that she was resting after what had been a pretty full day for her. 

We talked on the phone a number of times throughout the rest of that summer. We couldn’t go out; she wasn’t feeling up to it, but she’d let me know just as soon as she was back on her feet and then we’d go back to the Peach Garden. Maybe next week, or the week after. 

We last talked via voice mail in early September, playing a rousing game of phone tag. But the following week she didn’t call me back. I phoned another time or two, leaving messages, and started wishing that I had the name and phone number of the niece who was her loving caretaker.  

And then one Sunday, I picked up the local paper's death notices and instead of starting with “A” as usual, flipped to the last page – and was at once stunned and not at all surprised to see R.’s picture, and the obituary she’d had me edit for her some months earlier. 

Her niece called me the next morning. R. had suffered what sounded like a massive stroke. She’d been hospitalized for five days, unresponsive and beyond the help of medical science, and had died just three days ago.

I wish I’d known. They say people in comas can often hear, even if they can’t respond. And the hospital where she spent her final days is less than 10 minutes from here. I could have spent some time with her, talking with her about all the little things that always seemed to interest her so, and about the big things as well. I could have read her some wonderful passages from the Bible, including the one from 2 Corinthians 4 that we used to close her obituary:

“For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal.”

Imagine, a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, and dear R. is now experiencing it! And I am left to regret that we never had a proper good-bye. Which is why I’m going to try, from now on, to treat every farewell as if it’s the last one for a time, until that joyful reunion in a land where “there’ll be no parting, beyond the sunset forevermore.” 

Where will you be living circa 2040 or 2050? 
 
Okay, so if you’re a born-again believer, you’re probably happily envisioning heaven or are at least adding “if the Lord tarries” to the question. And if you’re not, and you’re over 40, you may be counting on moving in with your children or enjoying a living arrangement like the Golden Girls’ of 1980s TV fame.  
 
But just say none of these alternatives pans out, and you find yourself unable to live on your own. Will a decent nursing home be an option for you? 
 
The truth is that only God knows for sure. If our economy crashes and modern-day Huns overrun our country, all bets are off. But let’s assume that America’s still the Beautiful and we still have some viable financial resources to work with. What’s likely to be available?

It turns out to be a disturbing scenario.

On the one hand, the demand for nursing-home care is expected to more than double by 2050, according to a study released in 2013 by JAMA and the Kaiser Foundation. (I'd love to offer more recent projections, but have been unable to find any. I'd love to be able to show you even this 2013 study, but it has vanished. Perhaps this dearth of solid projections is telling.)
 
On the other hand, the supply of nursing-home beds looks like it’s destined to dwindle. Skilled nursing facilities are becoming less and less profitable. The reasons include sagging occupancy and reimbursement rates, with occupancy declines perhaps related to a boom in building for, and government funding of, the assisted-living arm of the eldercare industry.  

What's more, some state governments are stepping in to make sure that no one's making too much money from providing long-term care. (For a glimpse of what that might mean to the availability of high-quality nursing homes, consider what rent control does to the quality and availability of decent apartments.)
 
What will happen to those of us who eventually need skilled nursing care, 24x7?
 
“It’s literally schools versus nursing homes,” columnist Robert J. Samuelson wrote nearly a decade ago. “We need a better balance between workers’ legitimate desire for a comfortable retirement and society’s larger interests. Instead, our system favors the past over the future. Things could be done to mitigate the bias. None would be easy or popular. But it’s first necessary to acknowledge the bias and discuss it openly. This we are far from doing.”

I would argue that society has already turned it back on the past--i.e., the elderly. Whether it now favors the young is questionable; perhaps it simply favors the elite.

But I digress. Back to Samuelson's commentary: If you don’t find it chilling, you might want to ponder exactly what he means by "things could be done." Let's hope it won't ultimately turn into yet another case of our wanting to be "just like Europe," birthplace of a brave new world that exalts eldercare "solutions" from assisted suicide to euthanasia.  

Remember when high cholesterol was Public Enemy #1?
 
Oh, that’s right, it still is. Unless you happen to be between the ages of 85 and 94. Because at that advanced age, you’ll actually be better off with high cholesterol, cognitively speaking.
 
That, at least, is what one study reported a few years back.
 
It must be a good one, because it’s based on something called the “Framingham cohort.” (I don't have a clue what that is, but doesn't it sound impressive?)

Here’s what its authors discovered:
 
“Investigators found that cognitively intact people between the ages of 85 and 94 whose total cholesterol had increased from midlife had a 32% reduced risk for marked cognitive decline during the next decade, compared with individuals aged 75 to 84, who had a 50% increased risk.”
 
No word yet on whether we should toss the statin drugs and start pounding the eggs and butter when we hit 83.5. (Remember how eggs and butter used to be bad for us, but now they’re not? Perhaps this phenomenon is why they’ve now been given the green light. ) 
 
Nor is there any word on what happens to cholesterol-infused brains at age 95.
 
What’s more, we can’t predict what the next group of researchers will learn. As this current group reported, “an earlier study of the original Framingham cohort found no significant association between cholesterol and [Alzheimer’s disease].”
 
The best advice: Stay tuned.
 
And keep an eye out for a study that weighs that relative value of people suffering from cognitive decline, vs. those who retain all their marbles into great old age. Perhaps an enterprising future generation of researchers will find that, marbles or not, we all will die and head for eternities of unimaginable joy or suffering. Perhaps they’ll also realize that our ultimate destinations would be a far more worthy subject to investigate. This book might give them a head start on answering this most critical question.  

If you're a born-again Christian and a student of God's word, have you ever considered conducting a Bible study at a local assisted-living facility or nursing home--or asking your pastor to do so? Now that things are opening up post-covid, the opportunities for reaching the elderly are blossoming, too. There's no doubt that such sessions can have a life-changing and eternal impact on residents, even for those whose cognitive skills have seen better days. As the 86-year-old protagonist of The Song of Sadie Sparrow learned in just such a group, it's never too late to change your tune.

​
It was on this very day, under Jamie’s tutelage, that things began to click in Sadie’s occasionally befuddled brain.

The previous week, he had wrapped up his long but fascinating “tour of truth,” as he called it. He had spent several weeks on science. (Whoever would have guessed that the Bible made scores of scientific statements in passing, millennia before secular scientists made the same discoveries about everything from the sun’s own orbit to the mountains and valleys of the ocean floor? And whoever would have guessed that little ol’ Sadie Sparrow would manage to follow a fair portion of it?)

Next Jamie had walked the little class—Beulah, Charles, and Elise were now permanent fixtures, she was a little sorry to say—through the Good Book’s prophetic accuracy, focusing heavily on Israel’s rebirth as a nation in 1948. Not that she had noticed it back then, but Sadie vaguely recalled Ed talking about the situation in the Middle East with great excitement. So now at last she understood what the fuss was all about, and she regretted not paying more attention to him at the time. What fun they might have had discussing these things!
           
But what fun it was to learn about it now. It wasn’t that she really needed proof of the Bible’s authenticity as the word of God; she’d always respected Ed’s opinion on the matter. But this proof, confirmed continually by Charles’ enthusiastic “Amen!”, was making a difference in her attitude towards scripture. She was taking it very seriously now, and it was making her look at her life differently, reflect more on her blessed past, and see God’s hand in shepherding her along every step of the way.
           
And today a major piece of the puzzle would fall into place for her at last.
           
“So,” Jamie had said after they’d all exchanged happy greetings, “we’ve covered a lot of ground, especially in terms of science and history. What I’d like to talk about today is the gospel itself, and how confident you’re each feeling that heaven is your eternal destination.”
           
For some reason he was looking right at Sadie.
           
Am I supposed to go first?
           
“Why don’t we start with you, Sadie?” Jamie said cheerfully when she didn’t respond.

“Are you confident that you’re headed for heaven?”
           
“Oh yes, I think so. I believe in Jesus, and I’ve led a good life.”
           
Jamie cocked his head and looked at her expectantly, like a dog that didn’t quite understand his master’s command. She smiled at him and rubbed her hands together nervously. Of course, it was the wrong answer, and she knew it. She was just nervous about being quizzed in front of these other people, all of whom obviously knew a lot more about the Bible than she did. She racked her brain looking for the right phrase to rescue herself, but it was too late.

“So you’re a good person, are you, Sadie Sparrow?” 
           
That question she could handle.
           
“I try,” she said, smiling at the others. “I’ve learned from the best, after all—my parents, my husband, and now you!”
           
Jamie’s response was totally unexpected. “How many lies have you told in your life?” 
           
“Lies?” She was aghast. How could one even count? “Too many,” she replied, after an embarrassingly long delay.
           
“So you’re a liar.” Jamie nodded thoughtfully. “How about this—have you ever taken the Lord’s name in vain?”
           
“In vain?”
           
“Used it as an expression of dismay or anger or just as a casual exclamation?”
           
“Oh. Well, I suppose I have.”
           
So you’re a blasphemer, too. What about this: Have you ever hated anyone?”
           
“Oh no,” Sadie said, shaking her head. But immediately the image of Elsie Teckel popped into her mind—Elsie, the busybody neighbor who had repeatedly called the police on the Sparrows because of dear little Cappy’s barking. One yip was enough to send Elsie shuffling to her phone. And more often than not, the old bat had sparked the barking herself by letting her cat out when Cappy was outside with Ed.
           
“I take it back,” she admitted. “I guess I have hated.”
           
"And yet Jesus said that hating another is committing murder in your heart. So what does that make you?”
           
“A murderer?” She looked at Jamie hopefully, awaiting some reassurance. Surely a kind word was on the way.
           
“So you, Sadie Sparrow, are a liar, a blasphemer, a murderer at heart,” Jamie said softly. “Just like the rest of us. You’re not such a good person after all, are you?”
           
“No,” she said in a small voice, studying her hands. She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself, and hurt that Jamie was being so unkind to her.
           
But wait: He said “Just like the rest of us.” What does that mean?
           
“And this,” Jamie said, rising and stretching his arms out dramatically, “is why the gospel is such good news. Do you all see? When God the Son died on the cross, He died bearing all the sin this world has ever committed, and will ever commit. He took the full punishment for your sin, in other words, as well as mine—the punishment that would have landed us in hell for all eternity. And all we have to do to get our personal sins expunged is to repent of them and trust in Him instead of in our own goodness.”
           
“Amen,” said Charles, as Beulah and Elise nodded in agreement.
           
At first, Sadie couldn’t quite grasp it—it seemed almost too easy. But then something clicked in her heart.
           
“So my goodness doesn’t matter?” she asked.
           
“Not a bit, at least from the standpoint of getting into heaven.”
           
“Jesus paid it all,” Elise added, “just like the song says.”
           
“And goodness really doesn’t matter?” Sadie thought of all the hypocrites she’d known in church over the years and found herself vaguely disappointed that they might well be heaven-bound themselves.
           
Jamie sat down again and explained it all again—how repentance and trust result in being born again, and the indwelling of the Lord in the human heart, and how the new Christian then experiences growing love for, and obedience to, Jesus Christ.
           
“It just blows me away every time I think about it,” Jamie said. “It’s so simple, and yet so transforming. It was the only way the Lord could create a people for Himself, loving and obedient by their own choice. No robots needed or allowed!”
           
Sadie sat quietly, her heart pounding. It all sounded both familiar and totally new to her. On the one hand, it was pretty much what Ed had always told her. But on the other hand, Jamie’s harshness with her seemed to have opened a door somewhere deep inside, as if his explanation had finally reached beyond her brain and into her heart. If it was true—and she had to admit that it made some sort of crazy sense—then it changed everything.
           
“You’ve given me a great deal to consider, Jamie,” she said finally. “I need to spend some time thinking about it.”
           
She was uncomfortably aware that she was probably the only one in the room who hadn’t understood these things. But no one else seemed to mind; they were all smiling at her, and Elise came over to give her a big hug.
           
“I guess maybe it’s a bit of information overload, isn’t it?” Jamie pulled a couple of little brochures out of his briefcase. “Here are some tracts to help you digest it all—you can look up the verses they cite in your Bible, okay?”
           
​For the first time in her life, Sadie couldn’t wait to crack open the books.

--From The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages 190-192