From the Archives ~ February 7th, 2016

It is a sad day.  It is a day filled with waiting out the end of a life -- a life that rippled and trickled and flowed with implication.  And in the heaviness of last visits, last words, last breaths come the echoes of all the endings that entered abruptly and seemingly early in other lives.  Memories of bedsides, hospital smells, desperate hope ...then resignation, flood back.  Even so, these are recollections of other pain: not today's story.  They draw me to the sorrow, and they close my mouth. 

Words are weak --too empty, too abrasive with their very sound in times like this. What is there to speak to impossibly looming separation?  How express the priceless hours and minutes weighted by these dwindling moments?  Countless messages are sent out, grasping for some way to articulate the thing to say; most summarize with the only not-wrong word, "praying".

"Healing, restoration, strength, wholeness" -- these fit my definition of answered prayer. They serve for most people, I suspect.  Still, despite the petitions of many, crucial and beneficial relationships are destroyed by death, disease and sin.  Words recited in morning worship affirming God's goodness and mercy and faithfulness and love, were juxtaposed with news of this downturn (a ventilator and efforts to make the patient comfortable).   Maybe "praying" isn't the right thing to say...

Other instances of cancer have similarly brought mothers, fathers, spouses, children, grandchildren and friends to this place of final moments.  And while each story is unique, God has shown the sameness of His faithfulness to those who have been in the fiery furnace, who have emerged without a scorch mark or the smell of smoke on them.  Like Moses, their faces are radiant from the presence of the One who revealed Himself -- the One who walked with them through the flames.  While these are not words I will say to the grieving, they are the testimonies that encourage my heart, encourage my prayers on their behalf. 

On this sad day, I am praying for Grace that confounds a wife, a daughter, sons, and siblings with comfort and peace...that can only come from a God who loves.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. 

For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. 

So Loved

This tends to be the time of year for a calendar replete with social events, and I have been honored to attend many these summer months.  But often, between gifts and hors d'oeuvres, there are glimpses of grief.  With each celebratory occasion, there seems to be someone joining in, despite their own heartache.  Babies are welcomed by the barren, couples are toasted by the lonely, and friends are congratulated for successes by those mired in failure.  Bravely, folks put their own sorrow aside to enter into the happiness of another.  Sometimes it brings a rest from the burden; sometimes the observance of joy blesses if it is at least in the life of someone near and dear.  From whatever motivation, showing up is often devotion of the most selfless sort. 

Recently, there was sadness in the eyes of a wedding guest who greeted and smiled and danced -- despair so deep that I couldn't help but wonder at the magnitude of pain contained in one so young.  And I admired the friendship she was living as she twirled on the outside.  Between toasts she entrusted me with a small portion of her story -- echoing with abandonment, isolation and the resultant deadness of heart.

On the way home from a together time that beautifully reflected the couple who stood before an altar reading vows of fidelity and faith, a song played. 
"Ocean" was vibrantly cascading through 12-string steel guitar sound, and the car and our heads were filled, filled, filled by the abundance of rhythm.  "That," I thought, "is the sound of life."
I wanted to give it to the girl who says she no longer believes in love, or happiness, or marriage, or religion.  I wanted it to beat and pulse and lift her -- all the way to feeling, all the way to being alive.  And I wondered that in a room replete with Christianity she could have felt so alone.  What do we who claim to know Love Incarnate -- what do we reflect?  Is it a willingness to go into the stormy, messy, dark places seeking after one small lost one, or a careful allotment of approval proportionate to behavior?  Do I live a gospel that is risky and exposing, or do I pare my world to prudence and safety?  Unfortunately for my comfort levels, "binding up the brokenhearted" will seldom be clinical and sanitary.  It is more likely to involve getting a close enough look at my own unworthiness, my glaring insufficiency that I am overwhelmed by the staggering magnitude of grace until I can't contain the rhythm.  Look up!  Listen!  There is belonging, healing, love -- for me.  For you. 

Sending a link to a tune will not convey this.  I know.  And I can't puzzle out how to reach her, anyway. 
So... I am praying. 
I'm praying for that girl, and for so many others in this world crammed to the gills with brokenness and pain.  That she would meet, face-to-face, the Lover of her soul.  And, please God, that she would be drawn inescapably through us who claim to have looked full in that wonderful face.

In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us.

Half Past Six

"There's something missing in this picture," a voice called out from behind the wall of a front screened porch, and I peered through the grayed barrier to discern the forms of a man and a woman with their morning mugs of tea or coffee.
My response was filled with a smile. "She's taking the day off."
It was just the note to keep me grinning through the steep uphill stretch that winds over the creek before bisecting corn fields.
I love this walk.  Every single morning it is work to get up and get out and begin moving.  For three years I have been rehabilitating with a faithful training partner and excepting the icy mornings, this is the route we take.
We are like clockwork.  And the world around us is moving on a daily pattern as well -- and we all fit together in coordinated community. 
At the start of our trek, the public bus slows in its approach and veers across the double yellow line, allowing safe passage on the 100 ft. stretch of state highway.  We can tell when the driver is on vacation because his young replacement doesn't know to expect us and whooshes past with a wake that nearly pushes us over.  But we are off that road almost as soon as we've begun, and the new one climbs with trees and rocks on both sides.  The occasional township pick-up winds carefully, watching for us beyond each curve and lifting a hand in greeting.
In all, five different vehicles usually pass.  Each one slows, moves to the opposite lane (more to demonstrate respect than a commentary on our girth) and gives that same morning salute.  One beat-up dark green truck is always barreling along until its owner spots us.  It often appears as if he is running late, but we are smiled and waved at just the same.  A white minivan passes both ways, and we have deduced that it is a short run to pick up a health care worker, since the passenger on the way back seems to always be wearing the same odd shade of green. 
Regularly, there is a banana peel lying at the broad curve just before the houses come closer together.  I've tried to guess whose breakfast was eaten "on the run" again.  The minivan owner does not seem the type to litter, even if it is biodegradable.
In addition to the motorists, a homeowner lets his yellow lab roam in the yard while he collects the morning paper.  The dog's name is Sparky (or something similar) and he won't bite, we've been assured.  The retired gentleman at the top of the hill just happens to be at the end of his driveway and lets us know if we're running late.  Over the course of three months we have seen the abandoned house renovated, and have congratulated the new owners on the spruced up yard, windows, shutters and front door. 
Today I needed to walk before sitting through church.  As I hiked the first mile and a half alone, I gratefully visualized my legs as strong machines that were propelling me upward and onward.  I distracted myself by following the antics of the bright golden finches among the brown stubs of last year's harvest.  No cars were out today and no one made conversation to ease the work load.  I internally negotiated turning around at different points, shortening the duration on this day so heavily overcast that it made my bones ache.  Then, at the three mile mark, that voice called out to me -- reminding me of my context on Walters Road in the early morning hours. 
Such a funny thing -- our regular lives, intersecting with other regular lives, are causing an impact.
I affect, just by living.  Each human being, whatever level of interaction they choose or eschew, is in community with their part of the world. 
And that thought makes me smile.