When the time comes

My sister had her big birthday last weekend. She threw herself a 40th birthday party and asked her guests to gift her with donations to Race for Life. Over 70 people came to her party. We have a big family out there and I’ll guess half (maybe more) were relatives.

Then she emailed me about planning moms funeral.

Mama is still here. She’s not sick or showing any signs she won’t be with us much longer. Her dementia advances, tiny steps at a time it seems. Lisa and I both pray God will spare her from what we fear could come. That stage when all is ravaged. So we plan.

It’s the right thing to do. Do it now when it’s less emotional and neither of us want to admit it can possibly be more emotional. Mom has long paid for her plot and we know that much.

Several years ago when my brother and I were out there for the funeral of her husband he tried asking mama what songs she might want sung at her service and what scripture she liked. She was having none of that talk. Not then and not since.

It’s a huge burden for one just turning 40, for one who suddenly lost her father before she was 35 and now bravely emailing me about our mom’s funeral. When it comes. When it’s time.

“Do you think Paul would or could do it? I’m definitely not having a viewing or open casket. I know she would want it in the church.”

And so back and forth we went for a day or so, little snippets because more would just be too much, too hard. I would answer her note surprisingly composed and then turn to brush away the tears I couldn’t contain.

 

Not Paul, I said, but Henry. He can do this for us. He loves her and she was crazy about him. Even now we talk in past tense because mama has been gone a few years now. Her mind slipped into a place we’ve not been able to find. I read the suggestions for family with an Alzheimer’s parent. Ask them about their siblings and where they work and find out what time their mind is living in. It sounded so promising and I knew I’d learn so much more about mama’s life but she fooled me. When I asked her if she had kids, she said, “Well yes”. How many? “Too many to count” was her answer. Three has never been too many for mama to count and she talked about living in Florida where she has never lived. She loved to visit us here and it was as if she thought we were sisters and lived in Florida. Her confusion became my confusion and it was hard to go on. That was over two years ago. Now, she can’t manage that.

So we plan a little. The day comes for us all and we assume that day will come for her before us. God has that answer as He does to all things. Some answers he shares with us and others, I know I couldn’t handle so He spares us.

It’s gotten a bit easier the past few years. The acceptance has come and I thought the grief had all washed over me but it will come again. I will grieve for losing even her body. Her earthly vessel she served God with so diligently. I will grieve that part though maybe a little less. Again, God knows. Acceptance of His knowledge, His will, mostly importantly, His grace.

 

If joy comes in the morning, is it morning yet?

“Crying may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5b NCV

Are you like me and feeling the heaviness of the week? I could turn off the news but the tragedy and hate and sorrow would still be there. In our country, in our world, in our families. Not all suffering is played out on the nightly news. But when it is, when it pulls us together and we’re on our knees for strangers our hearts are worn down and out. I look for joy in the morning but find more sorrow.

our flag of freedom

Are you also like me and have this need to be happy and laugh a little but there’s this guilt, a sense of betrayal to our neighbors in TX and MA and funerals being planned and families split wide open?

The books of wisdom also tell us to cry with those who cry and rejoice with those who rejoice. Forgive me if you’re not ready for this, but I need to rejoice. I need to celebrate the strength of our people. Even in the loss we have seen incredible acts of selflessness and heroism. We can only know good in the face of bad and when it’s really bad, it’s really, really good.

It’s by the cross we are made free

“God’s law was given so that all people could see how sinful they were. But as people sinned more and more, God’s wonderful grace became more abundant.” Romans 5:20 NLT

Not all tragedy is the act of sin. Accidents, like in West, Texas cause as much sorrow. But when one of the men asked why does God allow this to happen, the only answer that offers me any sense is this: free will. That’s the gift God gave us all. He gave us the free will to choose. To choose evil or good. Right or wrong. Blue or Orange. Cold or Hot. It’s what makes us alike and different; our choices. God has given his guidelines to us through his word but he will not make us follow him. Friends, that is love.

And I choose to rejoice in that love. The grace that is more abundant in the face of sin, evil, sorrow and heartbreak. That is the joy we have with each new day. Yes, my heart aches for so many. Yet, I thank God for his free will and grace that will see us through.

 

Fighting fire with fire

I was glued to the news coverage of the most recent atrocity in our country. It was hard to escape as it blared from the networks and I didn’t turn it off as though watching the interviews and video replays would provide an answer when there is no answer for evil.

 

The winds are swirling outside our windows and the palm branches are bending to their howl. How fitting a storm would churn now. Driving in this morning the sky was dark but above the sun rays were streaming out as rays of hope. Isn’t that how it is? God sending hope in the midst of storms?

The Salvation Army Massachusetts division emergency canteen serving in Boston yesterday.

In the fiery blasts on that street in Boston people ran toward it. There are always people who run toward the blast, toward the fire, toward the dangerous unknown. They are the ones who have answered their calling. Their calling to help.

This morning I read these words in Ann Voskamp’s blog, A Holy Experience:

“Feel their flame and feel their heat and the people of God face fires. 

That’s what we do. You fight fire with fire and the people who have fire in their bones are called to fight the fires of this world.”

A friend noticed a few years ago when our babies were all grown up and looking for their place, teachers, fire fighters, health care, social workers. She said they go into those professions because they want to help people. It’s what they’ve seen their parents do. And so it was. People of God face fires.

The fires we run to aren’t played out on the evening news but often spilling from the heart of one sitting in an office chair or who lingers behind after chapel service. It’s embers from abuse that have never died but are rekindled to flames raging to be put out, to be calmed.

It’s the fire of God’s Holy Spirit inside one that runs to combat the fire in another. But I confess my fire inside is often but a flicker. I hang back while others rush to offer aid, more content to be a bystander. I’ll wait. I’ll watch. I don’t know their kind of fire and lack the proper equipment. Those words haunt me even now as I know one who reached out and I’ve yet to answer. Feeling inadequate to manage their fire. Surely another is better equipped.

We sing the words:

“Send the fire, send the fire, send fire”

pleading for God’s Holy Spirit, like fire to burn inside us, burning away the chaff and keeping aflame the desire to follow His call. Even when His call leads us to another fire. The people of God face fires.

 

April 2. I think.

I don’t know why the date eluded me for a few years and even now it sneaks up on me. While I had trouble remembering the date events of the day have always been clear.

We were stationed in Lake Worth, Florida.

It was during spring break.

We were in the corps – pastoring the local Salvation Army.

We were having a spring break day camp with the children from the church.

A friend called. He started by saying how sorry he was. What? Sorry? I think my voice might have cracked beginning to realize why he was calling. Why he was telling me he’d just heard and was sorry. Then his realization that I didn’t know. No one had called to tell me daddy died. His call, one of condolence, was the first.

My favorite best memory of daddy.

Henry heard my voice, he knew. He knew, could tell what was going on. He gathered the children in another room. The day would have to go on. There was nothing I could do at the time. Wait. It’s always waiting, even for the dead.

I went out to the children where one by one they came to give hugs and kisses as Henry had been explaining to them what was happening.

Mama and daddy at my brother’s wedding.

L-R: sister-in-law, 2 nieces, son, grandpa, dad, daughter, me (early 90′s)

The perm years 1981 with daddy and my two littles

He passed his picture-taking on to me

I guess numb is the right word. Daddy had been sick. He was diabetic and it has been stealing bits of his life and body the past few years. He’d been in hospital a few times and there’d been no reason for me to think this stay was any worse than the others. No word from his wife. No one called to say I should go. Nothing. So my friend called to say he was sorry to hear about dad’s passing only to find out he was announcing the news to me.

I called mama. They’d been divorced 25, 26 years? She cried.

It was April 2. I think. I’m pretty sure that was the day. It was muddled and muddied and grief often is.

It was 1997. I know that because it was our daughter’s senior year. Daddy was coming for her graduation. His first grandchild and even though travel would be hard and a dialysis center would have to be found he was going to come for this. Instead, we went to him. To a funeral at an unfamiliar place to a burial in a graveyard we’ll never visit again. No need. It’s in Dallas and why look for the living among the dead as the bible says. It’s just a place where his physical body has returned to dust.

His spirit and soul lives. It lives in our daughter’s crooked pinky fingers, just like his.

It lives in my ruddy Irish complexion and soft spot for corny jokes.

It lives in my brother’s type-A personality and competitive spirit.

It lives in our call to serve.

It’s been a long time. I don’t revisit that time often. There is still sorrow about that day and the last years of his life. But it seemed time. Time to feel the depths of it and own those feelings. Admit that daddy was flawed and understand the fright having a daughter gave him. Grace gives that. Grace accepts. Accepts me and my sorrow. My loss. Grace always gives.

Half-mast

Flying at half-mast too often (Deerfield Beach, FL)

O gracious light

So pure and bright dispel the darkness of our hearts

That by your brightness we may know the light

Bring your peace, hope and love

Bring your peace gracious one

 O gracious light

So pure and bright dispel the darkness of our hearts

That by your brightness we may know the light.

O Gracious Light as recorded by The Brilliance

 

Just three lines

Your griefs will turn out for your ultimate good.

Your great things can never be grabbed away from you.

The Greatest is still to come.

Ann Voskamp

Obladi olblada life goes on

Life goes on is how it is. Forward, not in reverse. There are times to pause, process, but it will come time to move on. Moving on doesn’t change things. It doesn’t change feelings, sorrow, grief or joy. It’s another step moving forward because life keeps coming and I don’t want to miss it.

 

A few months ago we were in an uncertain time. Henry and I weren’t sure of our future or decisions being made for us. My sister-in-law shared this with me. She read it on the Momastery blog.

“Continuing to do the work that one is called to do in the face of fear is so beautiful. To keep showing up, to keep making music when your ship is sinking. To add something – to offer something right up to the end. That’s the ultimate act of hope.”

If your ship is sinking – keep playing.

Not called to a work? We are all called. Called to live a life of kindness and grace. Called to care. Called to act, to pray, to love. Sometimes it’s scary and fear creeps in. Keep caring and loving. Keep playing.

The prophet Micah says this is what God requires of us:

“…to do what is right, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8

In the midst of sadness and waves of grief I keep playing. Playing my song. Often I’m blessed for others to hear it and sing along with a smile. Tonight is our monthly awards dinner and we’ll celebrate with the men their progress in sobriety. Celebrate! It’s time.

 

 

 

Are you listening?

 

Our daughter was the typical first-born: good student, a leader, listened to her teachers and all the good things associated with the leader of the family pack.

Her brother, 19 months younger, was his own person. No carbon copies here. Baskets that had been on the floor throughout Heather’s crawling and learning-to-walk days had to be moved when the boy came along. He blazed a new trail.

I remember the parent teacher meeting at the end of kindergarten . The teacher was young and new and I’d had my doubts about her. She had the standardized tests in front of her. The tests our daughter had scored off the charts in a few categories. As she handed me the paper, she said, “I didn’t think Jonathan was paying attention most of the time but apparently he was. He did fine in all areas.”

Almost every time I’m leading the big group meeting with the men in the Center, I see some faces that make me think the same. Are they getting it? Do they want to get it? The it that can possibly help them make positive changes in their life.

celebrating 22 years sobriety

Last week I wrote about one of our counselors, Geoff. He left his position as counselor a few months ago because the cancer was taking his strength. Saturday, Geoff passed away. In our faith, we believe only his earthly body is gone and we celebrate a new life he now has. One without pain as God has taken that and, we believe, fills Geoff with complete peace.

The funeral service will be in Michigan. We’ve planned to take time Tuesday night to set aside for remembering this man. But the men had a different idea. During our time of sharing in Sunday’s chapel man after man stood to tell of the impact Geoff has had on their lives. Those that no longer live at the Center have posted remembrances on Facebook. It was such a moving time with many affirmations.

The mood was solemn but not somber. Some shed tears but in the midst was a gratitude he’s no longer in pain. A deep belief from these men that Geoff is in a better place. He’s wherever heaven is with God and smiling his gracious smile.

The men knew he cared. That’s at the bottom of their stories. Keith told about Geoff inviting him to a recovery meeting where Geoff had been invited to speak. Keith rode his bike a distance, watching the storm clouds gather and hoping he’d make it before they broke open. When he got to the meeting place it was a group of chairs gathered in the open air. While Geoff was speaking the clouds opened and rained down on everyone. Keith said Geoff continued on. Sharing about recovery was more important than getting wet. Geoff put his words in actions. This message was one seared in Keith’s mind.

Geoff and his wife at the annual church in the park

To another it was about family and the lesson Geoff didn’t even know he was teaching. But the message was received and the student heard it loud and clear.

I think Geoff just may be saying to Jesus, “I wasn’t sure they were paying attention but he did just fine.”

happier times

 

Talking death

It was senior year of high school, psychology and our teacher had a unit on death. A long piece of paper was taped along the back wall and we were instructed to draw something on it representing death…burial or cremation, what would mark our memory, our existence, etc. She told us how bodies were prepared for burial. Things our parents would never talk about, if they even knew. Things parents don’t want to talk to their teenagers about – death.

We were having dinner with dad’s boss who we were well acquainted with. When asked about school I told them about this. They were near 60 if not already, and his wife was appalled a teacher would be talking about such things.

Five years ago, mama’s husband died. Unexpectedly, quickly. While we were there for his funeral my brother tried talking to her about what she wanted at her service. I’m not sure he ever got answers from her. She didn’t want to talk about this. Ever.

In the role he cherished – counselor at the ARC

It’s not easy. This death talk. The preparation for a time we know comes to all. We stood beside Geoff’s hospital bed Sunday. The hospital bed that was brought into the home he shares with his wife. It’s been squeezed into their bedroom. We’ve known, he’s known the cancer was stealing his life. Only three weeks ago he was in chapel service with the men. The one time a week he said he felt alive and that life he shared with these men who are a mess. Every week he brought candy handing out Werther’s to any takers.

Dressing up for the fall festival the men sponsor

Jeff and Geoff aka Gee’-Off

He was in and out when we saw him, unable to speak words clearly, his eyes barely open and look to be unseeing when he tries to open them. His wife smiling, loving, opening her home and heart.

I don’t like death talk. Henry and I talk in the car and he tells me how Geoff is ready, prepared, the promise we have of heaven and all this happy talk of death. I’m having none of it. I tell him to stop trying to rob my sadness. Let me mourn the loss of this man. Mourning doesn’t only come at death.

And the irony is I had to tell Henry we were going to visit. For days I’ve been suggesting it’s time for him to go. Geoff and he had a great relationship. Geoff adored him, this man’s man. They spoke long ago about his death. But he didn’t go. Until today and word came it’s hour by hour and I said, “We’re going. Now.”

“What makes it so hard for you?” I ask and he says it’s just too many. It’s a tough expectation for pastors. You’re suppose to not flinch at these times. You hold people together and you’re the strong one. But he’s seen enough and doesn’t want to see one more. It’s a luxury we don’t have. None of us.

So we stood by his bed, my hand on Geoff’s arm and he unaware of our presence. It’s okay. We don’t need him to speak or acknowledge us or remember. We just need to be there. The presence that means something. Something words can’t say.

Is anyone left?

Much like one of the steps in AA my goal in blogging about recovery has been one of honesty as long as it doesn’t harm others. I am respectful and mindful of names and specifics. This isn’t about that. That being said I’m feeling a bit more honest. I need to say it and speak plain about what this cycle of addiction does to us. To me. To my heart.

Today, he’s making it.

A transformed life

Amy Grant sings in her song, “We Believe In God”, “’cause life is tough and it might not get easier”. These have been tough days. Very tough.

June 26 we will have been here five years. Five years of developing friendships and seeing others grow in their recovery. Today, I wonder who is left? In the past six weeks we’ve lost a facilities manager, resident manager, dock supervisor and kitchen supervisor to relapse. All men had three years+ in recovery. All were friends. Ed kept me up on his Phillie’s teams and Glen on all things tech. Mark noticed every hair cut I ever got and shared his family with us. Richie was full of encouragement always. A huge heart and loved his recovery with every ounce in his small New Jersey-wrapped frame. These men we’ve laughed with and prayed with. These men have stumbled. Some fallen hard some I don’t know. Some  trying to work their back. Getting up again. And it hurts like hell. It has beaten my heart down and the fences start to emerge again. The fences that want to guard and protect it. Shield it from pain. Problem is, sometimes that protection numbs it. If my heart doesn’t feel can it care?

So proud of these two

Not a finer group of men

Danny stepped up to be our new kitchen supervisor.

There are many left to care about and attention must be turned there. I must give more hugs and smiles to John, Eric, Carson, Stephen, Izaac, Chris, Alfredo, Randall Gavin, John, Adam, Jeff, Mike, Mike, Mike and others who are still walking in recovery.

I grieve with those who’ve fallen, pray for their protection, their return to sobriety. I celebrate with those marching forward through the 12 steps. I’ll risk it again. Risk the pain and heart break. Don’t we all? Don’t’ we do that for those we love and care about? These are not my sons but they are someone’s. Someone who may have had to build that wall of protection because the pain became too great. You are who we’re loving these men for. God calls us to this task.

In Isaiah, God asks, “Whom should I send as a messenger to this people? Who will go for us?” Isaiah answers “Here I am. Send me.”