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“Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb.” Revelation 19:9

Sonia was in for a visit, and we were talking, laughing, holding hands. She had brought along my friend Michael, and we were reminiscing on 30 years of friendship. 30 years! After lunch time Michael got going to give me a couple of hours alone with Sonia. And that’s when she gave me the look. The look that something was wrong. That serious look that says she’s about to tell me something very important.
“I have some sad news,” she said. I braced myself. I don’t remember the exact words that followed. Did she say “died” or “passed away?” Whatever she said, the reality was the same. Jaime had died the previous day.

Jaime is the Rev. Dr. Jaime Potter-Alvarez, a Christian through and through. A mentor, a friend, a superintendent, an advocate, a preacher, a scholar, a pastor, a singer, a theologian who reminded
me that all of life is theology.

Jaime lived a life without pretense. I remember when we were singing in a choir together, rehearsing for the “Grace Goes Pops” choral concert in Natrona Heights. In the middle of practicing a song, a phone started ringing. It was Jaime’s cell phone. Since she was wearing a dress, she had no pockets to store a phone. She got a grin on her face as we stopped singing and the phone continued to ring. “Pardon me,” she said, “but my bra is ringing.” And she stepped to the side of the room to retrieve her cell phone from the only place that she had been able to tuck it away.

Jaime had been with me through a divorce, a marriage, the birth of my son Skyler. She’s the one who splashed his head with water claiming him in the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. She was with me in some of the hardest days of my life. Her email name was “onlyme.” And when she heard you were having a tough time, she’d send an email reminding you of the presence of God in your life, especially when walking through the dark valleys. And so “onlyme” was really a misnomer, because when Jaime wrote to you, you were really getting an email from Jaime and Jesus. I don’t think Jaime was ever “onlyJaime.” She wore her Christian faith comfortably but never casually. Jesus was in her heart, mind, soul, and strength. And the beauty of Christ shone through her like sunlight through a stained glass window, or rays of sun through a crystal cross.

When Sonia gave me this news, she kept looking at me to see if I was okay. Since I’ve been in prison, I’ve received news of many deaths. Several folks keep me informed of those who pass away out there – people I have loved, known, and admired, to borrow a phrase. I’ve received copies of obituaries, bulletins from funeral services, and the words to “Hymn of Promise,” which was sung at my cousin’s memorial service. These are reminders that although it may seem to, time does not stop while I am in here. Life goes on, and so does death.

Years ago I was at a funeral service where Jaime was the presiding minister. She talked about heaven at the great wedding feast of the Lamb, with a table that extends farther than our eyes can see. A massive table where the saints of God sit down with Jesus as they enter into an eternal experience of unimaginable joy.

Our foretaste of that heavenly banquet is the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper, Communion. We call it different names, but basically it means sitting down at the table with Jesus as we remember his sacrifice for us by sharing in bread and wine, his body and blood. I always wondered why da Vinci’s fresco of the Last Supper had the disciples and Jesus all around one side of the table. That fresco was created on the wall of a dining hall in an Italian monastery. As the monks sat to eat their meals, they could look up and see Jesus and the disciples seated at the heads of their tables. So every meal was an opportunity to gather around the
table with Christ. Every meal became sacramental, a looking back to Christ’s last meal with his disciples, and a looking ahead to the heavenly wedding feast.

One of the events I miss the most in prison is the celebration of the Eucharist, especially being able to kneel at the altar rail beside Sonia and the kids and receive the sacrament. Last fall Jaime came to visit me here in prison. She met Sonia in the parking lot, and the three of us sat and laughed and told stories of
our adventures and misadventures in life. At the end of her visit, Jaime celebrated the Eucharist with Sonia and me, right there at a table in the visiting room. She used a dinner roll from a vending machine spaghetti dinner and a plastic bottle of cranberry-grape juice. She prayed the liturgy and then shared with us the bread and juice, the body and blood of Christ. Even in this place, Jaime and the grace she exuded were able to turn a simple laminate table into the table of Christ.

Jaime sent me an Easter card this year, with a message of hope and new life. She told me of her unexpected journey back from her winter home in Mexico to her home in Pennsylvania. A pipe had burst during the cold winter and flooded her basement, so she and her husband had to head north earlier than usual. On the
way, traveling through Texas, her husband had a serious heart attack. He received immediate care and recovered well. Had they been at their home in Mexico when his heart attack occurred, she doubted that he would have survived. “I’ve never been so thankful for a flooded basement,” she wrote.

That was Jaime, always thankful, always looking for God’s amazing way of working in our lives. Her death came way too soon. She had so much left to do, so much more love to give, so much accumulated wisdom to share, so much bread to break. But as I sat at a stainless steel table in the chow hall, in a long row of
stainless steel tables, I pictured the tables continuing to join with that heavenly banquet table. The one where Jaime is seated with all the saints who have gone before us. Her life here on earth was itself one of God’s amazing ways of working in our lives. And my life, and my faith, and maybe yours, is better because of hers.