You Never Stop Missing.

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.

A Short Pilgrimmage on Mother's Day Weekend.

Friday afternoon we headed north to Walkerton. Walkerton is located in the southwestern corner of St. Joseph County in northern Indiana. It's where Sharon and I both graduated from high school.

We went that way to join about 80 others in a surprise birthday party for Sharon's younger sister, Linda. The air got chilly as people partied out in a large garage on a farm between Plymouth and Walkerton. Kids played games. A fire was burning in a fire pit out near the fields. A slice of the moon appeared despite occasional clouds. It was good.

This morning I spent some time chatting with my in-laws, and then I made a solo trip to South Bend to visit my Mom's grave. Her body is buried across from the University Park Mall on the north side of South Bend. Knowing how much our Mom enjoyed "retail therapy" we all thought the setting was just right.

I stopped at a nearby store and bought one,red rose to place on her grave.

In the past I have had to search to find her grave but this time I walked right to it. I placed the red rose across the grave marker that lies flat against the grass. A marker that says "United Methodist Missionary" was half-covered so I spent some time cleaning it all off.

What do you do when you stand at the grave of someone you love? You try to pull up some memories, some mental pictures, but you discover that is too much. You can't do a life justice in a few minutes like that. I looked up at nearby trees full of spring life, and I realized how death cannot quiet the music released by a life well lived. My Mom had her share of the craziness that marks every human life, but when God gave her to the world it was a good day...a special gift. She brought joy and music and faith and passion to us. She could be distracted. Overly involved in the church. She drank diet pop and loved Twinkies. She was a gift. Death cannot silence the blessings she gave away.

I stood there looking up at the traffic passing by. I studied a nearby tree. Then, I turned away. With a heart more full of gratitude than loss.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Lingering.

This is an interesting little journey, this 12-week sabbatical experience. It is, like so many chapters in life, one of those experiences where God works around the edges. Comes at us from a direction we didn't expect.

Last week we spent three and a half days at one of our favorite spots on the southwest coast of Michigan. South Haven is a town with a lovely marina, two beaches, some nice shops and simple restaurants, a river that divides the town, a section called North Beach that has many B & B's, and it all "works" as a getaway place. We soaked up the sun, enjoyed the water, watched some stunning sunsets, and walked out to a rather pedestrian lighthouse that sits at the end of the jetty/breakwater.

These last couple of days, though, I have been hanging out at home. Taking care of lots of small things. Phone calls, doing a little writing, running errands, and stopping at the grocery store a couple of times. Just ordinary, little stuff. Tuesday I worked out at the Y, headed to Mishawaka and visited a book store, bought a pair of good walking sandals at the mall, and had a late lunch at a BBQ joint. I've been "burning" CD's to synch with the new iPod player I bought three weeks ago.

Now here is the thing: I have noticed that I am lighter. Somehow, even though I keep moving, I am lighter. And I have noticed that I am lingering with people. Slowing down. For instance, I stopped at the barber shop this morning. (I know...it doesn't take long!) Instead of paying the bill and moving out the door, I lingered. I don't know whether the guys in the shop appreciated my hanging out for a few extra minutes, just chatting, but I have noticed that I am lingering more with people. Whether at the barber shop or talking with the woman standing behind me at the post office yesterday.

Something inside me is slowing down.

As I sorted through some things today, cleaning up my part of the house, I came across a devotional reading for Christmas someone had given me months ago. It's the story of a woman in an office who gives a man a couple of small gifts for Christmas. One is a very inexpensive calculator. There is another little thing to take camping. Finally, though, she gives him a wrapped present which he opens -only to find nothing inside.

There was nothing inside! The man held the empty box up. There was a long silence. Quietly, the woman said, "It's a pause. Use it anywhere. Anytime you need it. It will always be there." The woman smiled. "I know you've been busy," she said, "and I thought you could use a pause."

I like that story in Luke 10. Where Jesus shows up at the home of his friends, Mary and Martha. He lingers. And Mary lingers with him.

Somehow I think lingering is an important part of the art of life.

Hands on the Back of the Bike.

Do you remember when you learned to ride a bicycle? Do you remember how your Dad or a big brother or your Mom or your Grandpa ran along behind you, with their hand on the back of the seat...steadying you...pushing you along...until you got the rhythm of the pedals and mastered the art of balancing a two-wheeler?

I was thinking of that as I watched Sharon holding Olivia, our 8-month old granddaughter. The two are pretty close. Olivia is a dark-eyed little girl with a sweet, almost shy smile. Who just loves to be held as she falls asleep and then enjoys falling asleep on Grandma. (And Grandma enjoys napping with Olivia on her chest!)

It all got me to thinking about how one of the gifts we give one another is to help the next generation along. We bless them. We put our hand on the back of the seat, or square in the middle of their backs, as they get started in life. Or head into a major, new stage. We encourage them. Help get them started.

Olivia will probably never remember those afternoons when she was held, rocked to sleep, and then cradled as she napped through the afternoon. She'll not remember those words of affection and love whispered in her ears. The games of "How big is Olivia?" (the answer is "SO BIG!") or "Where is Olivia?" (as she pulls a small blanket up over her face and then drops it with a delighted look so she can see you again). None of it may rise to the surface of her conscious mind but it will all be there...helping her move forward...step into the rest of her life.

We help the next generation along.

We dance at the weddings of young people and surround them with our prayers and funny stories as they begin the mysterious journey we call marriage.

Friends gather for a baby shower when someone they know is embarking on the challenging adventure we call parenthood.

And when someone we care about is dying, their bodies wasting away as their souls get ready for God's new thing (thank you, Jesus!), we stop by and visit...tell stories...tell the person how we love them...promise we'll look them up in heaven...and then we go to the funeral. Make small talk. Listen to the words of scripture. Sing a hymn of faith. Offer hugs. Go over to the house and have cold cut sandwiches and dip into the potato salad. We hold the members of the family up with our love. A widow, for example, is surrounded by women who have gone through this loss. They tell her there will be life on the other side of the grief. They tell her they play cards every other Thursday night, and are in a Christian small group on the first Monday of every month, and sometimes like to go to Branson, Missouri or to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival.

All along the way, we bless one another. Encourage one another. So a new generation can step courageously into the middle of whatever is next.

The New Testament says we are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses. That is who we are to one another in this world. A cloud of witnesses, encouraging one another, blessing one another, so we can go on...live...step into the next big thing life has for us.

The Season.

Years ago a friend handed me H.G. Bissinger's well-written book "Friday Night Lights." I read it over a decade ago, I think, and then tonight I watched -for the second time- Peter Berg's film of the same name.

It's a reminder of how we lose our perspective -too often- when it comes to sports. Adults behaving like brats if their team isn't winning.

It's a reminder about how we learn some important lessons while playing team sports. The coach's speech at half-time of the championship game is worth the price of admission. Coach Gary Gaines, played by Billy Bob Thornton, talks about perfection having nothing to do with winning and losing, but knowing yourself...loving the people around you...and living the moment. For good or bad those of us who have played sports continue to hear the voices of our coaches in our head long after we have moved into adulthood.

And the film is a reminder of how short the season is...adolescence... high school...football or basketball or cross country or wrestling. Just how brief and intense that whole chapter in life is.

The film ends with several of the players, dressed in street clothes with their gym bags over their shoulders, making their way to their cars. The parking lot is nearly empty. The coaches are already thinking about another season. The high school seniors look over at a group of ten or twelve year olds playing touch football.

I found myself remembering my two years playing high school football. Okay, I've got to be honest...one of my old teammates -now living in California- reads this blog. I practiced, I survived two-a-days, I played here and there, but usually I held down the bench. Leo would tell you that: I played left bench. My buddy says he remembers how much fun I was to have around. How I had something smart and funny to say. I remember being slow. I remember being small...I was a 165 pound guard going up against players over half again as heavy.

I've got to tell you, though, I have these memories. And they are precious to me.

I remember John Stasko, an upperclassman, who was made of steel.

I remember Craig Demeyer, our quarterback, who was bright and classy and rather reserved.

I remember Gary Trost, who was short and squat, and refused to give an inch.

I remember Mike, thin and small, who refused to give up and ended up being a good football player with a heart as big as an orange, fall sky.

I remember sweating through two-a-days in the August heat, running our laps on a cinder track laid down around a makeshift football field at John Glenn High School.

I remember our coach screaming at us...and pushing us too hard.

I remember the day in practice the second string quarterback was working our second offensive team. He wasn't paying attention and walked up to the take his place under center. Except he wasn't under the center...he had mistakenly walked up behind the right guard. Pressed his hands up against the butt of the lineman who was down in his stance. The player raised up slowly, looked back at Larry who had his hands on his butt, and said something like, "What are you doing back there?" We all came up out of our stance and screamed and hooted.

I remember Randy Williams rumbling down the sideline at New Carlisle to score a touchdown. (Randy was so slow that his Dad -with a cigar in his mouth- beat his own son to the end zone! The old man -must have been nearly 50- sprinted parallel to the field, behind the bench, all the way.)

I remember riding on the bus home after we had defeated our arch-rival, North Liberty, for the first time. The football is still in the trophy case. The final score was 14-7, I think. We nearly took the bus apart on the ride back to the school. North Liberty High School is no more...but it was a victory that marked some kind of turning point. Before that win we were hopeless...after the victory we believed there might be hope for us.

I remember late in one game, against South Central, getting into the game and driving my man back and into the ground. Again and again. He was perplexed. Wondering why I was pounding him with such intensity since the game was no longer a contest. But it felt good to hit my man and drive him back.

And then it was done. Over.

There is one picture of me in my uniform running onto the field with my teammates. I know where to find it in our yearbook.

The season ends and we walk away. And we don't even know, at 17 or 18, what we are leaving behind. We find our way to our cars, or we throw our gym bag over our shoulders, and we shout some last, friendly insults in the direction of our friends. We think tomorrow will be the same as yesterday. But it won't be. Tomorrow will never be exactly the way this season...has been.

We were so young...innocent...mean...stupid...cocky...eager...and beautiful.

Interesting, isn't it, how we take the seasons for granted? Push our way through them...endure them...complain about them. Then, when they are behind us, there is a yearning, now and again, to go back. To find yourself on that bus feeling alive and giddy...14-7...again.