Just over a week ago I took a road trip north to the lake country of Indiana. Our extended family has a lake cottage at Webster in Kosciousko County and Sharon's folks live on Koontz Lake in Marshall County.
On a ferociously hot Thursday afternoon I climbed in the Miata, kept the top up and the AC, and headed north. Just north of Indianapolis I stopped for fast food and put the top down. Turned off the AC. And listened to songs like "In the Still of the Night" and Jerry Butler's "For Your Precious Love."
As the air began to cool and the sun disappeared, I found myself thinking of my brother Eric. We were about two years apart in age. Close as two peas in a pod. Thick as thieves. You get the picture. We'd begin most days by strapping on our pretend six-shooters. (These were the days when Roy Rogers and Gene Autry were cowboy heroes to most young boys across the United States.)
On his 5th birthday Eric was being taken to the Hershey chocolate factory on an outing. The road was wet. The car slid. In those days before seatbelts and airbags his head tapped the dashboard and he was killed.
I heard, as my Dad drove me home from school, that Eric had been killed.
I've never gotten over his loss. The hole in my heart has never entirely healed.
So as I was driving north through Grant County, where he is buried in the Jefferson Township Cemetery, I found myself crying. Not heavily. Not enough to make it difficult to drive. But my eyes were wet. My heart ached. My world, you know, has never felt the same since that accident...since I lost him.
There has been a lot of talk lately about Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' "stages of death" (shock, denial, anger, etc.). People are now saying the stages she identifies make it look like some process you go through and then you are finished. You get a little certificate and then go on.
The truth is the work is never done. You never stop missing.
The Bible says the Lord is near to the broken-hearted. I find that a promise that keeps me going down the road...headed north.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Love Means Showing Up.
When you're young you don't fully understand the gift of showing up. (Or at least I didn't.) We're invited to a wedding, or a graduation party, or we know someone who has lost a person they love, and we don't think it is that big of a deal if we show up -or not. They'll barely notice you stuck there in the middle of the crowd, right?
As our boys graduated from high school I noticed what it meant to us when people showed up. People drove a couple of hours, people carved out a good part of a day, and they showed up when Bryan, Nathan and Michael graduated. We noticed. It meant something. Somewhere down deep inside we felt the reality of friendship's blessing. We also, on the other hand, noticed good friends who didn't show up. Most of them had good reasons but some just hadn't learned that love means showing up.
I thought of this today as I drove north to Lebanon, Indiana for the funeral service of a colleague. David Patrick was a 46 year old United Methodist pastor who did great work mentoring young pastors and served on the Board of Ordained Ministry with me. I didn't know him well. He had served most of his ministry in the "old" South Indiana Conference, and I have always hovered around the Michigan state line. Until we came to Bloomington I had never served a congregation south of #30! So we didn't know one another all that well but David was a brother.
When you are a United Methodist pastor you are a part of something we call "the connection." As I write that it almost sounds mysterious. Or threatening (like the word is a synonym for organized crime!). Whether you like it or not, whether your theology or ministry style or political ideas match those of the pastor serving down the road in a nearby United Methodist Church, you not only belong to Christ but you belong to one another.
So I drove north on this beautiful morning with the top on the Miata down, the music of the Rolling Stones and then Joshua Bell playing on the stereo, with a cup of coffee in my hand. I sat in the back of a packed sanctuary. The family will never know I was there. I believe David noticed. I believe that love means showing up if there is anyway to do that.
Paul, in Romans 12, says if we are in Christ we are a part of one body. The apostle says love is to be genuine (not faked...not a going-through-the-motions type of love). He summarizes the commandments and then finally says love does no wrong to a neighbor (13:10) and that, in fact, love is "fulfilling of the law." In verse 15 he encourages us to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.
Love means showing up (if there is anyway to do that).
As our boys graduated from high school I noticed what it meant to us when people showed up. People drove a couple of hours, people carved out a good part of a day, and they showed up when Bryan, Nathan and Michael graduated. We noticed. It meant something. Somewhere down deep inside we felt the reality of friendship's blessing. We also, on the other hand, noticed good friends who didn't show up. Most of them had good reasons but some just hadn't learned that love means showing up.
I thought of this today as I drove north to Lebanon, Indiana for the funeral service of a colleague. David Patrick was a 46 year old United Methodist pastor who did great work mentoring young pastors and served on the Board of Ordained Ministry with me. I didn't know him well. He had served most of his ministry in the "old" South Indiana Conference, and I have always hovered around the Michigan state line. Until we came to Bloomington I had never served a congregation south of #30! So we didn't know one another all that well but David was a brother.
When you are a United Methodist pastor you are a part of something we call "the connection." As I write that it almost sounds mysterious. Or threatening (like the word is a synonym for organized crime!). Whether you like it or not, whether your theology or ministry style or political ideas match those of the pastor serving down the road in a nearby United Methodist Church, you not only belong to Christ but you belong to one another.
So I drove north on this beautiful morning with the top on the Miata down, the music of the Rolling Stones and then Joshua Bell playing on the stereo, with a cup of coffee in my hand. I sat in the back of a packed sanctuary. The family will never know I was there. I believe David noticed. I believe that love means showing up if there is anyway to do that.
Paul, in Romans 12, says if we are in Christ we are a part of one body. The apostle says love is to be genuine (not faked...not a going-through-the-motions type of love). He summarizes the commandments and then finally says love does no wrong to a neighbor (13:10) and that, in fact, love is "fulfilling of the law." In verse 15 he encourages us to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.
Love means showing up (if there is anyway to do that).
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
You Show Me Around, OK?
I have a friend who is dying.
Ron wouldn't mind me saying that.
We sat together late this afternoon and talked about living and dying. He's weaker than he was last week when I stopped by. But still Ron. Full of courage. (Not surprising to find in an ex-Marine. Who was airlifted out of Vietnam several times after having been wounded.) Full of faith.
He told me he had called the funeral home to make sure things were in order. Checked with the cemetery to see that the plots were all paid for. Ron said he wanted to talk with me soon about the service. He wondered if it would be okay to have his combat boots on display at the church. I said, "Sure!"
And, of course, he asked about my day. How things were going. Told me he knew I was too busy.
Ron is quite a guy. Decent. Not perfect. But decent and strong and courageous and positive and full of faith.
We prayed. I got up to leave. As I approached their front door I turned and told he and his wife, "You're doing this just right. Crying and laughing and living every hour of the life God has given you here."
Ron, who was sitting in a recliner, nodded. "And when your life here is done," I said, "you'll have another life with God."
"I know it," Ron said.
"When you get up there look around," I said, "check things out. Because when I get there you can show me around, okay?"
"I'll do it," Ron said with a smile.
"I've got a feeling you and I could cause some trouble," I said grinning as I opened the door to head out into the late afternoon sunshine.
"I think we could, too," Ron said with a smile.
The door closed behind me.
Jesus says, in John 7:48-51: I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down from heaven, that a man may eaqt of it and not die. I am the living bread which came down from heaven; if any one eats of this bread, he will live for ever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh.
"When I get there you can show me around, okay?"
"I'll do it."
Ron wouldn't mind me saying that.
We sat together late this afternoon and talked about living and dying. He's weaker than he was last week when I stopped by. But still Ron. Full of courage. (Not surprising to find in an ex-Marine. Who was airlifted out of Vietnam several times after having been wounded.) Full of faith.
He told me he had called the funeral home to make sure things were in order. Checked with the cemetery to see that the plots were all paid for. Ron said he wanted to talk with me soon about the service. He wondered if it would be okay to have his combat boots on display at the church. I said, "Sure!"
And, of course, he asked about my day. How things were going. Told me he knew I was too busy.
Ron is quite a guy. Decent. Not perfect. But decent and strong and courageous and positive and full of faith.
We prayed. I got up to leave. As I approached their front door I turned and told he and his wife, "You're doing this just right. Crying and laughing and living every hour of the life God has given you here."
Ron, who was sitting in a recliner, nodded. "And when your life here is done," I said, "you'll have another life with God."
"I know it," Ron said.
"When you get up there look around," I said, "check things out. Because when I get there you can show me around, okay?"
"I'll do it," Ron said with a smile.
"I've got a feeling you and I could cause some trouble," I said grinning as I opened the door to head out into the late afternoon sunshine.
"I think we could, too," Ron said with a smile.
The door closed behind me.
Jesus says, in John 7:48-51: I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down from heaven, that a man may eaqt of it and not die. I am the living bread which came down from heaven; if any one eats of this bread, he will live for ever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh.
"When I get there you can show me around, okay?"
"I'll do it."
Friday, January 1, 2010
You Came Back for Me!
Christmas Eve is never a time when pastors can lounge with the family, take a deep breath, and just enjoy the season. We're working. We're like police officers at the Rose Bowl Parade. We can't spend much time looking at the floats because we have work to do.
Our three adult sons were here over Christmas. Which was just an amazing gift! There is something sweeter than words about having your children sleeping under the same roof, at home, you know? It's like things are back where they are supposed to be.
Our two young granddaughters arrived, with their parents, after I had left for church on Christmas Eve. Right before the 9 o'clock service Ella, the 27-month old, was walking through the lobby with her Grandma. Ella looked lovely and when she saw me she leaned her head over with quiet delight, and I nearly bounced off the carpet.
That night, after worship, the family headed home. I helped shut down the church and followed. When I came through the door, Ella came to me and said, "You came back for me! You came back for me!" I smiled. Said, "I will always come back for you."
Saturday morning, after Christmas, I led a funeral service. By the time that was over, and I had returned from Goshen where the burial service had been, most of the morning was gone. When I walked through the front door, Ella came running towards me with a smile. "You came back to me! You came back to me!"
Love means we come back.
The Christian faith talks about a God who comes back. Jesus appears in the garden outside the tomb where he has been buried. He slips into a room in Jerusalem, through locked doors, to visit with his friends and followers. The risen Christ is standing on the edge of the Sea of Galilee, in John 21, and has some fishing advice for his friends. The New Testament talks at length about the return of God to begin a new age on the earth. We call this "the second coming."
Ella says, "You came back to me." But we can't always come back. I think of that, on this first day of 2010, with the news of the deaths of service personnel and CIA officers in distant lands. There are men and women who won't come back to the ones they love, but that failure to return is not a sign that the love was imperfect or partial. Things happen to pull us away from the ones we love more than words can say.
There will be a day when I won't come back for Ella. I'll leave and not come back. Time and death will do that. They'll pull me away from her.
Paul, in 1st Corinthians 13, talks about love lasting forever. Faith, hope and love remain, he says. I take great comfort in that.
"You came back to me," she says. I'll keep doing that as long as I can. And when I can't come back to you, I hope you'll be on a first-name basis with the God whose love outlasts time.
Our three adult sons were here over Christmas. Which was just an amazing gift! There is something sweeter than words about having your children sleeping under the same roof, at home, you know? It's like things are back where they are supposed to be.
Our two young granddaughters arrived, with their parents, after I had left for church on Christmas Eve. Right before the 9 o'clock service Ella, the 27-month old, was walking through the lobby with her Grandma. Ella looked lovely and when she saw me she leaned her head over with quiet delight, and I nearly bounced off the carpet.
That night, after worship, the family headed home. I helped shut down the church and followed. When I came through the door, Ella came to me and said, "You came back for me! You came back for me!" I smiled. Said, "I will always come back for you."
Saturday morning, after Christmas, I led a funeral service. By the time that was over, and I had returned from Goshen where the burial service had been, most of the morning was gone. When I walked through the front door, Ella came running towards me with a smile. "You came back to me! You came back to me!"
Love means we come back.
The Christian faith talks about a God who comes back. Jesus appears in the garden outside the tomb where he has been buried. He slips into a room in Jerusalem, through locked doors, to visit with his friends and followers. The risen Christ is standing on the edge of the Sea of Galilee, in John 21, and has some fishing advice for his friends. The New Testament talks at length about the return of God to begin a new age on the earth. We call this "the second coming."
Ella says, "You came back to me." But we can't always come back. I think of that, on this first day of 2010, with the news of the deaths of service personnel and CIA officers in distant lands. There are men and women who won't come back to the ones they love, but that failure to return is not a sign that the love was imperfect or partial. Things happen to pull us away from the ones we love more than words can say.
There will be a day when I won't come back for Ella. I'll leave and not come back. Time and death will do that. They'll pull me away from her.
Paul, in 1st Corinthians 13, talks about love lasting forever. Faith, hope and love remain, he says. I take great comfort in that.
"You came back to me," she says. I'll keep doing that as long as I can. And when I can't come back to you, I hope you'll be on a first-name basis with the God whose love outlasts time.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Love in the Ragged Places.
I enjoy being very active...working out, waterskiing, etc. But I also love to read. Over the last two weeks I have spent a lot of time reading. Some history, a silly detective/mystery novel by a Floridian, a wonderful account of the Beatles and their music...the culture of the 60's and 70's.
One book I savored was Will Allison's "What You Have Left." Never heard of Will, before, but he has some ties to Indiana and Ohio. The book is about a young girl in South Carolina whose mother is killed in a water skiing accident. Her father feels overwhelmed, and so he drops his daughter off at her Grandfather's. Says he'll come back for her in a day or two...and then disappears.
Her Grandpa loves her and cares for her (the cover of the book has a child falling out of the sky into the arms of a surprised looking middle-aged man). He hangs in there when she runs away...keeps loving her.
The girl, Holly, does okay. She says she has no expectation -or need- for her father, but there is this persistent desire to find him... re-connect with him...punish him for his abandonment. There are times when Holly is a mess. She drinks too much. She is loved by a young man who wants to marry her, but she has this way of taking the engagement ring off and throwing it when she is frustrated. Holly gambles thousands of dollars of their savings away, years after they are married.
Finally, near the end of the book, she finds her father. He is a mechanic in another town. Struggling with some health issues. And racing stock cars at a local track.
I finished the book as Sharon drove us towards home from the Indianapolis airport. When I closed the book I just sat and looked at the fields... the trees with their bright, green, new leaves...the redbuds in blossom back in the Hoosier woods. And I thought about how love is rarely simple...or easy. Love doesn't move in a straight line, but it takes off in a zag here and a zig there.
One of the life patterns I've bumped into, time and time again, is the life story of women being abandoned by their dads or grandpas. It's more common than you might think, and -tragically- more and more frequent. For some reason men step out of the lives of their daughters early on, and there is -despite the best efforts of the young women to heal and even fill their broken hearts with the love of God- always this aching, sad place in the women's lives. I'm not sure why men leave...I don't understand it. I'd like to ask men who have jumped ship, but perhaps they would all have a different story...different reasons.
So I thought about that, and I also thought about the way my Mom died just over eight years ago this Spring. She was an incredible woman. Amazing faith in God despite fearsome losses...a husband early on, multiple miscarriages, the death of two sons (one by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and the other in a car accident), losing her home in Africa, and spending 4 1/2 years blessing and giving and surviving in northwest Alaska. My mom, Anita, spoke all over America to church groups. She was an eloquent spokeswoman for the Christian faith, and led weekend retreats from her to both coasts.
When she was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer (I remember the night...Notre Dame had played a home game in the NIT basketball tournament the day she received the test results...my Dad called late at night...and I knew that wasn't good), she pulled back. She pulled in. She pulled away from me...my siblings...and into a private world that none of us were allowed to visit.
So we never had "closure," as some experts call it. We never had a chance to say what we wanted to say...needed to say...to one another. Her funeral was a gathering of lay people and church leaders from across the state of Indiana. It was a big deal...but for those of us closest to her it felt like she had slipped out the side door just ahead of us. Without saying "goodbye."
Why do I say all of this? Well, I figure when you love people you love them on their terms. Each and every one of us is a work in progress. Each and every one of us has flaws...fears...and there are some dents in our psychic "bumper" that no soul "body man" is going to knock out and smooth off.
Holly meets up with her absent father, who has failed in all sorts of ways, but there is grace in the reunion. My Mom left this world in a way that just puzzled the heck out of those of us most close to her, but she was an amazing woman. A real case. Could put words together that would fill your heart with faith, and she was always late...ate Hostess Cupcakes while drinking Diet Tab...and had a "thing" for jewelery.
When you love someone, you love them.
Even when there are ragged places. I think that may be what Paul was trying to help us see in 1st Corinthians 13: "love is patient and kind... love bears all things."
One book I savored was Will Allison's "What You Have Left." Never heard of Will, before, but he has some ties to Indiana and Ohio. The book is about a young girl in South Carolina whose mother is killed in a water skiing accident. Her father feels overwhelmed, and so he drops his daughter off at her Grandfather's. Says he'll come back for her in a day or two...and then disappears.
Her Grandpa loves her and cares for her (the cover of the book has a child falling out of the sky into the arms of a surprised looking middle-aged man). He hangs in there when she runs away...keeps loving her.
The girl, Holly, does okay. She says she has no expectation -or need- for her father, but there is this persistent desire to find him... re-connect with him...punish him for his abandonment. There are times when Holly is a mess. She drinks too much. She is loved by a young man who wants to marry her, but she has this way of taking the engagement ring off and throwing it when she is frustrated. Holly gambles thousands of dollars of their savings away, years after they are married.
Finally, near the end of the book, she finds her father. He is a mechanic in another town. Struggling with some health issues. And racing stock cars at a local track.
I finished the book as Sharon drove us towards home from the Indianapolis airport. When I closed the book I just sat and looked at the fields... the trees with their bright, green, new leaves...the redbuds in blossom back in the Hoosier woods. And I thought about how love is rarely simple...or easy. Love doesn't move in a straight line, but it takes off in a zag here and a zig there.
One of the life patterns I've bumped into, time and time again, is the life story of women being abandoned by their dads or grandpas. It's more common than you might think, and -tragically- more and more frequent. For some reason men step out of the lives of their daughters early on, and there is -despite the best efforts of the young women to heal and even fill their broken hearts with the love of God- always this aching, sad place in the women's lives. I'm not sure why men leave...I don't understand it. I'd like to ask men who have jumped ship, but perhaps they would all have a different story...different reasons.
So I thought about that, and I also thought about the way my Mom died just over eight years ago this Spring. She was an incredible woman. Amazing faith in God despite fearsome losses...a husband early on, multiple miscarriages, the death of two sons (one by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and the other in a car accident), losing her home in Africa, and spending 4 1/2 years blessing and giving and surviving in northwest Alaska. My mom, Anita, spoke all over America to church groups. She was an eloquent spokeswoman for the Christian faith, and led weekend retreats from her to both coasts.
When she was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer (I remember the night...Notre Dame had played a home game in the NIT basketball tournament the day she received the test results...my Dad called late at night...and I knew that wasn't good), she pulled back. She pulled in. She pulled away from me...my siblings...and into a private world that none of us were allowed to visit.
So we never had "closure," as some experts call it. We never had a chance to say what we wanted to say...needed to say...to one another. Her funeral was a gathering of lay people and church leaders from across the state of Indiana. It was a big deal...but for those of us closest to her it felt like she had slipped out the side door just ahead of us. Without saying "goodbye."
Why do I say all of this? Well, I figure when you love people you love them on their terms. Each and every one of us is a work in progress. Each and every one of us has flaws...fears...and there are some dents in our psychic "bumper" that no soul "body man" is going to knock out and smooth off.
Holly meets up with her absent father, who has failed in all sorts of ways, but there is grace in the reunion. My Mom left this world in a way that just puzzled the heck out of those of us most close to her, but she was an amazing woman. A real case. Could put words together that would fill your heart with faith, and she was always late...ate Hostess Cupcakes while drinking Diet Tab...and had a "thing" for jewelery.
When you love someone, you love them.
Even when there are ragged places. I think that may be what Paul was trying to help us see in 1st Corinthians 13: "love is patient and kind... love bears all things."
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