Grief Notes
Being Heavenly-Minded
16 09 13 22:50
Ted achieved that status 25 years ago when my dad passed away in Scotland at the end of a wonderful anniversary trip. My brothers and I were thousands of miles away, but Ted was on site and came alongside my mother, helping to care for the necessary arrangements until I could get there just barely in time for the memorial service. Though we didn't see each other often, I will miss him, and his death has me thinking again about what is and what will be.
Such thinking, I have decided, is healthy in spite of the fact that it may be rare. My train of thought was pushed further along the track this morning when I came across a quote from C. S. Lewis (Mere Christianity) who observed that "the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next." It is an observation that flies in the face of contemporary wisdom. It is a difficult truth that I cannot fully know heaven until I get there; whatever it will be, it will be better than I can imagine. But even with an incomplete and imperfect knowledge, focusing on what will be makes me more effective in handling what is.
I don't much like funerals, but they have an undeniable value for me whether I actually attend them or not. They confront me with the need to think about what will be and not just about what is. Lewis went on to say, "It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in; aim at earth and you will get neither.
He was right. Lord, keep me aimed at heaven.
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The Inside Scoop
20 06 12 23:04
The letter began "Just for you - The Inside Scoop." It was both a letter from a youth pastor to his senior pastor and a letter from a son to his father. For four years I was blessed to be yoked to my son in pastoral ministry, a partnership that benefited both of us, and the congregation as well, more than any of us knew and one for which I will always be grateful. We shared with each other and with the Lord the joys and challenges of ministry, and Matt continued that sharing, this time by mail from the other side of the world where he was leading a youth missions team.
And so this afternoon I read again the letter I had first read fifteen years ago. Matt was discovering that the building they were constructing, while significant, was secondary because God was engaged in a major building project in the lives of his teens. I won't share the details since I don't have the permission of those now-grown teens, but a couple of excerpts will give you the flavor: "It has been an incredibly intense week for me. God has been busy and I am just trying to keep up with him..." And a bit later: "I'm just watching God do what he does - change lives."
"That's the inside scoop, Boss..." Today marked the second anniversary of the life-shattering phone call that brought Suzanne and me the news of Matt's death. Thanks, Matt, for showing up again in a fifteen year old letter and stimulating thankfulness by reminding me again that God is still full of gracious surprises.
Remembering
09 01 12 22:04
Today was a day for remembering. It’s been four years since Joan passed away, four years since she met the Savior face to face. It was a much calmer day today than it was then. We stopped briefly by the cemetery and went up to the Calcutta Grill, one of her favorite restaurants, for a “Joan memorial” lunch, and it was fun. In spite of the clouds, the view was great, in spite of the occasion, the mood was upbeat, and the food was great, too. Suzanne brought along a Joan album, and we leafed through it, looking at pictures, smiling at memories, telling a few “Joan stories,” and thanking God for her.
Remembering is a good thing. Building memories is important. I’m thankful today for the priceless memories I have -- and for the memories yet to be built.
The Journal
22 11 11 20:40
For us the trip had been one of both discovery and ministry. We had visited six countries, interacted with scores of missionaries and national believers in three of them, and I had taught for a couple of weeks in Cebu. And Joan recorded the trip in detail. I stayed up beyond midnight reading it halfway through, remembering events I had forgotten, and seeing again people and places that were burned into our hearts.
I picked it up again this morning and finished reading it, savoring every page of the journal and every day of the trip. Joan missed nothing of importance. In fact if we shared a meal with you on that trip, Joan probably recorded what we ate (and whether we needed Pepto Bismol later). I found myself joyfully thanking God for people I haven’t seen for years - and for a few who, like Joan, are now in the presence of the Lord.
Three months ago I attended a “Creating a Legacy” conference and came away convinced of the importance of telling one’s story. In the last couple of days I have experienced (again) the value of that first hand. It’s been almost four years since she passed away, and Joan is still blessing me.
Faithful
18 10 11 12:45
I had wondered why I was traveling to California. When I bought the ticket, I knew why; I was going to the fall adult conference at Mount Hermon. It would be good, though probably not quite as good as the Creating a Legacy conference a couple of months ago. At that conference I had wondered if the scheduling would impact registration for the fall conference, but nobody else seemed concerned. Then I got the letter: The fall conference had been cancelled due to low registration. It would have been good, I thought, to have that information before I bought a non-refundable airline ticket.
For the last two weeks, I waffled. Should I go and visit family, or should I pay the exorbitant change fee and go somewhere else. After all, I’ve never been to Hawaii. The Scot in me won out - just use the ticket. So there I was this morning at SeaTac, wondering why I was flying.
Just before I boarded, my cell phone rang. It was my daughter calling to pass on a sad message. Pastor Wiley Hoyle, who had married Joan and me, had died. I called his wife Cleo in Santa Rosa, an hour and a half from where I will be staying, His death was not a surprise; cancer and hospice care had become a familiar part of life. But I know too well that the awareness of the impending death of a loved one does not diminish the pain of the loss. I can sense what his family is experiencing because I have been there, and the loss of a friend scratches at the scars of my own grief.
I recall years ago talking to Chuck Swindoll, who summed up Wiley Hoyle in one word: faithful. The word fits.
The plane will be landing soon. I hope to give Cleo a hug on this trip. And I no longer wonder why I am going to California.
42 Years Later...
12 09 11 14:45
September 12, 1969 - it was a very good day! I’m marking this anniversary with memories of that day: The most beautiful bride I’d ever seen on the arm of the world’s most nervous father (by the time of the third wedding, he had it down pat, but this was his first).... The nervous but audible declaration of commitment.... The frozen facial muscles at the reception, unable to stop smiling (but who wanted to?).... The flat tire in Watts on the way to the Los Angeles airport for the last flight of the day to the San Francisco Bay area.... The Los Angeles police officer and deputy city attorney who had that tire changed in record time.... The unexpected and delightful embarrassment of being welcomed onboard Joan’s first-ever flight as newlyweds by a plane-load of amused applauding passengers (just how much of a scene did my family make trying to find out if we were REALLY booked on that flight?).... The beginning of a life together....
Quite honestly, there are parts of the day that I don’t remember. I know I went for a meditative drive that afternoon, praying about the dramatic change that was about to take place in my life, but I have no idea where I went, a memory lapse that amused Joan no end.
Our last few anniversaries together were complicated by two things. Celebrating the day after 9/11 could be a challenge and injected a sometimes muted tone to our celebration. And the annual fall school retreat, mandatory for faculty, frequently overlapped our anniversary. The incompatible retreat goals of discipleship and sleep deprivation sometimes delayed our anniversary - until my last year of teaching when I got smart enough to take Joan along. I’m pretty sure our last anniversary included a shared meal in the hospital ATU.
Til death do us part has not transformed September 12 into just another day on the calendar. Some of my friends and relatives notice the significance of this date, but most avoid mentioning it, not quite knowing what to say. Somehow “Happy anniversary” doesn’t quite seem right. However, the truth of the matter is that it IS joyful, if not happy as well.
My mind meanders through memories that trigger a marvelous mixture of smiles, tears, and gratitude. It is a very good day indeed!
A Great Relief?
11 07 11 22:41
It was watching the news that reminded me of a great Katharine Hepburn quote: Death, she said, will be a great relief. No more interviews. Of course, unlike many of today’s talking heads, Hepburn, who died eight years ago, was at least interesting to hear.
Death is an easy joke until it hits close to home as it did again this morning when I got word of the death of Joan’s Uncle Al. Death, particularly the death of someone loved and valued, scratches at the scars of previous losses and stirs afresh the strangely familiar strains of grief mingled with joyful memories.
It’s easy to respond to the idea of death being a great relief because we are used to thinking of death in terms of what it is not. For Hepburn, no more interviews. For others, perhaps no more pain. No more disease. No more-- (fill in the blank with your favorite human frustration). But I think that we often look at death backwards.
To be absent from the body (the no more view) is, Paul said, to be present with the Lord. I suppose it is harder, but more helpful, to think of death in positive terms as a great beginning rather than as a great relief. Doing so does not lessen the loss or end the grief, but it helps me understand a little more clearly what Paul’s words mean about the loved ones I have lost. Al’s experience (and Matt’s, Joan’s, and every other believer who has died) is best described not in terms of absence, but of presence. Great relief does not do justice to finding oneself in the presence of the infinitely holy and unconditionally loving Savior.
Death, Katharine, is far more than a great relief!
Death is an easy joke until it hits close to home as it did again this morning when I got word of the death of Joan’s Uncle Al. Death, particularly the death of someone loved and valued, scratches at the scars of previous losses and stirs afresh the strangely familiar strains of grief mingled with joyful memories.
It’s easy to respond to the idea of death being a great relief because we are used to thinking of death in terms of what it is not. For Hepburn, no more interviews. For others, perhaps no more pain. No more disease. No more-- (fill in the blank with your favorite human frustration). But I think that we often look at death backwards.
To be absent from the body (the no more view) is, Paul said, to be present with the Lord. I suppose it is harder, but more helpful, to think of death in positive terms as a great beginning rather than as a great relief. Doing so does not lessen the loss or end the grief, but it helps me understand a little more clearly what Paul’s words mean about the loved ones I have lost. Al’s experience (and Matt’s, Joan’s, and every other believer who has died) is best described not in terms of absence, but of presence. Great relief does not do justice to finding oneself in the presence of the infinitely holy and unconditionally loving Savior.
Death, Katharine, is far more than a great relief!
Birthday Cruise
28 05 11 22:18
Scattering in Scotland
10 05 11 13:51
The first funeral I can remember attending was for my Uncle Bill. He was a godly man who had served the Lord faithfully, but I wasn’t sure that he would actually have liked his funeral. What I later came to recognize as a fairly common temptation to excess in American funeral practices was a bit jarring to me. My mother’s response to her brother’s funeral was stronger. She expressed a firm wish that after her death, her body be donated to a medical school for the training of doctors, a commitment that only became stronger with the passing years. Mom had already taken care of the paper work so that when she passed away five years ago, it was easy for us to follow her wishes, knowing that she was joyfully in the presence of the Lord she loved, and her body went to the USC School of Medicine.
About a month before her death, she reminded us of her desire, and then added that if for any reason USC refused her body, she wanted to be cremated and her ashes interred at Grandview Cemetery in Glendale, California, where my older brother’s ashes were buried. Realizing that we could fulfill both of her requests and provide a sense of “place” since USC offers to return the cremains when they are finished, we planned accordingly.
Meanwhile, and unknown to us at the time, Grandview was immersing itself in a scandal. The woman who was operating the old family-run cemetery had been playing fast and loose with the law, including selling the same plots twice. When the state sent an investigator, he found a terribly run-down cemetery, grounds that had not been maintained, mausoleums with damaged crypts and in-use coffins left sitting in the mausoleum, and some four thousand sets of cremated remains stored in the basement with no easy method of inventorying them. The state imposed a set of mandates that the cemetery was unable to meet, and the cemetery was closed and placed under court supervision. Renovations are taking place as a result of a recently settled court action, and the place is for sale, but it remains under court supervision with limited access, and interring Mom’s remains there would have required a court order.
So when USC called and said Mom was ready to be picked up, we had a problem. As Jon and I talked over our options, we decided a wiser choice would be take her ashes back to Scotland and scatter them in Clydebank where Dad’s were scattered 23 years ago. That is how the current trip came to be, and that is why on Monday, we gathered on a green hillside at the Clydebank Crematorium, just a mile from Mom’s childhood home for the most poignant moments of the trip. It wasn’t exactly what Mom had planned; it was better, and I suspect she is smiling in heaven.
Total Loss?
22 04 11 17:42
Total loss. The words seem at first to fit the day if all one sees is today. And I readily admit that there are days when the loss of a son feels very total. It must have seemed that way to another Father and another Son who will never recover from Calvary: The resurrected Lamb that John saw in Revelation looked as if it had been slain, the wounds and effects of the cross carried into eternity.
I look beyond the grave on this Good Friday, and I know that death does not win - even when it feels like it does. The message of Good Friday is not total loss; it is Total Gain.
Dinner on the Wharf
15 04 11 22:27
Sometime next week I won’t be having dinner on the wharf.
For the last few years it has been a tradition. Father and son celebrated their birthdays together with dinner on the wharf in Santa Cruz. It was a good tradition that involved a spring trip to Mount Hermon for me and a few happy days off for Matt, who drove over from Modesto to join me. We had some great seafood dinners - and even better conversations - watching the pelicans and seals and the setting sun (but no penguins). We’d head back to Mount Hermon, and if we had saved a bit of room, stop for some 1020 ice cream on the way, and I thanked God for the family He had given me.
We didn’t know that two months after last year’s traditional dinner, Matt would be in heaven. I think it was Bonhoeffer who observed that gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. I’m still grateful - deeply so. But sometime next week, I won’t be having dinner on the wharf.
For the last few years it has been a tradition. Father and son celebrated their birthdays together with dinner on the wharf in Santa Cruz. It was a good tradition that involved a spring trip to Mount Hermon for me and a few happy days off for Matt, who drove over from Modesto to join me. We had some great seafood dinners - and even better conversations - watching the pelicans and seals and the setting sun (but no penguins). We’d head back to Mount Hermon, and if we had saved a bit of room, stop for some 1020 ice cream on the way, and I thanked God for the family He had given me.
We didn’t know that two months after last year’s traditional dinner, Matt would be in heaven. I think it was Bonhoeffer who observed that gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. I’m still grateful - deeply so. But sometime next week, I won’t be having dinner on the wharf.
A Matter of Days
22 03 11 23:36
“It could be a matter of days.” Those unwelcome words relayed by her family this morning shape the expectations for my cousin in Australia. With multiple organ failure and in need of a liver transplant for which she is not a candidate, she has exhausted the options that I wish were still there. I know the feeling too well, and I do not like it.
Among my early memories is a visit with my mother to the farm of my cousin’s family in Scotland. I was five years old; she was a couple of years older, which was old enough to convince me that an unauthorized wade in the duck pond would be a good thing. And it was - until my mother saw the soaking wet results. Sixty years later I still smile. To say that that was a lifetime ago ceases to be a cliche. It seems more like a matter of days.
And that, I suppose, is what life is: a matter of days. Moses got it right. “Teach us,” he prayed, “to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” They are numbered not to be hoarded, but to be enjoyed. Moses continued the prayer: “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.” That seems wise to me. Some days are peaceful and some are painful, but I’m with Moses. It’s a matter of days, and my prayer is that all of them, whether peaceful or painful, will be indelibly marked by God’s unfailing love.
Among my early memories is a visit with my mother to the farm of my cousin’s family in Scotland. I was five years old; she was a couple of years older, which was old enough to convince me that an unauthorized wade in the duck pond would be a good thing. And it was - until my mother saw the soaking wet results. Sixty years later I still smile. To say that that was a lifetime ago ceases to be a cliche. It seems more like a matter of days.
And that, I suppose, is what life is: a matter of days. Moses got it right. “Teach us,” he prayed, “to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” They are numbered not to be hoarded, but to be enjoyed. Moses continued the prayer: “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.” That seems wise to me. Some days are peaceful and some are painful, but I’m with Moses. It’s a matter of days, and my prayer is that all of them, whether peaceful or painful, will be indelibly marked by God’s unfailing love.
The Last Enemy
22 01 11 11:18
Most of the time I like getting mail, both e- and the snail variety. I’m not talking about spam and its junk mail predecessor, both of which should be banished to the pit. It’s real mail that I like; it keeps me in touch, even the bills. But in the last couple of days my mail, both e- and snail varieties, have brought painful news.
It began with a simple hand-addressed envelope from the mother of a California acquaintance. The envelope contained the memorial folder from her daughter’s funeral. I found and reread my friend’s Christmas letter (these annual epistles were the extent of our conversation) sent just a few weeks ago; there was no hint that death was around the corner of the new year. Then came the emailed news of a relative of Joan’s who had died after a painful experience of bone cancer. Her death was welcomed release. The same day came news of a former parishioner whose body is slowly giving up and who will likely be in the presence of the Lord within a week or two. Hard on the heels of that news came word of a friend just diagnosed with cancer.
The losses of others scrape against the scars of my own grief. Death, however it comes, is not to be feared, but it is undeniably the enemy. Death and disease leave pain in their wake. It was Paul who described death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26). The good news is that death has been defeated, the victory sealed with Easter’s empty tomb. One day, death will be destroyed as well.
The mail just arrived. I wonder if I should open it.
It began with a simple hand-addressed envelope from the mother of a California acquaintance. The envelope contained the memorial folder from her daughter’s funeral. I found and reread my friend’s Christmas letter (these annual epistles were the extent of our conversation) sent just a few weeks ago; there was no hint that death was around the corner of the new year. Then came the emailed news of a relative of Joan’s who had died after a painful experience of bone cancer. Her death was welcomed release. The same day came news of a former parishioner whose body is slowly giving up and who will likely be in the presence of the Lord within a week or two. Hard on the heels of that news came word of a friend just diagnosed with cancer.
The losses of others scrape against the scars of my own grief. Death, however it comes, is not to be feared, but it is undeniably the enemy. Death and disease leave pain in their wake. It was Paul who described death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26). The good news is that death has been defeated, the victory sealed with Easter’s empty tomb. One day, death will be destroyed as well.
The mail just arrived. I wonder if I should open it.
We Wish You a Mellow Christmas
25 12 10 20:51
Our big Christmas dinner was aboard a Waterways yacht on Christmas Eve, sailing Lake Union and Lake Washington for almost three hours. It was a delicious meal, elegantly served, that lasted almost as long as the cruise. Harp music, which both Suzanne and I enjoy, filled the boat. It got even better half way through the cruise when the harpist moved from her location in the lower salon bringing her harp upstairs and setting up next to our table. It didn’t take long for the musician-to-musician conversation to produce an invitation for Suzanne to try her hand at the harp. (Could there be a harp in her future? Maybe...)
Christmas Day was quiet and at home by choice, the wildest moments coming as the cat tried to unwrap the catnip gift that Suzanne had wrapped for her. A Christmas jigsaw is a family tradition, and Suzanne just finished this year’s version, she being much more talented than I at recognizing the relationships between the pieces. It has been an intentionally mellow Christmas, and it has been very good indeed.
Matt and Joan are with the Lord whose name Emanuel means God with us. The God that they are with is the God who is with us. Relaxing in His presence makes for a great Christmas.
Mellow Christmas, everyone!
The Annual Epistle
08 12 10 22:29
It usually doesn’t take a week and a half. Usually it’s easier. I briefly wondered if this was the year to abandon the custom of sending a Christmas letter along with the Christmas card. I’m a writer; I’ve been writing these letters for more years than I care to admit, and most of the time, I’ve enjoyed it. But something in me didn’t want to write this year’s letter.
The “something” is called grief. I’ve never much liked Christmas letters that recited a list of the year’s tragedies. Christmas, after all, is a good news time. I’ve always tried to be both honest and upbeat in these epistles, but this year I have a problem. The dominant event in the Brewer year was Matt’s unexpected death. Processing loss and being upbeat don’t always fit well together, and the memories seem too precious to reduce to paper.
I considered my alternatives. Perhaps I could simply recycle the 2007 letter, written just a month before Joan passed away. Nope; that wouldn’t work. That letter focused on “the right time,” and I’ve had a few serious discussions with the Almighty this year about timing. Maybe I should follow the example of some of my thriftier friends and simply not send Christmas cards, but then what would I do with this pile of photo cards I’ve already purchased? Besides, the postal service needs all the business they can get. Then again, maybe I should just suck it up and write the dumb letter! (Suck it up? What does that mean, anyway?)
Sometimes grief needs to be embraced, not because I like it, but because it is the only way forward. And so yesterday, I wrote the letter, and it is not dumb. It’s a bit shorter than some, but somehow there seems less to say. It will be in the mail soon. My grief, I suppose, will gently intrude on my family and friends, and I am not sorry. After all, they are my family and friends.
The “something” is called grief. I’ve never much liked Christmas letters that recited a list of the year’s tragedies. Christmas, after all, is a good news time. I’ve always tried to be both honest and upbeat in these epistles, but this year I have a problem. The dominant event in the Brewer year was Matt’s unexpected death. Processing loss and being upbeat don’t always fit well together, and the memories seem too precious to reduce to paper.
I considered my alternatives. Perhaps I could simply recycle the 2007 letter, written just a month before Joan passed away. Nope; that wouldn’t work. That letter focused on “the right time,” and I’ve had a few serious discussions with the Almighty this year about timing. Maybe I should follow the example of some of my thriftier friends and simply not send Christmas cards, but then what would I do with this pile of photo cards I’ve already purchased? Besides, the postal service needs all the business they can get. Then again, maybe I should just suck it up and write the dumb letter! (Suck it up? What does that mean, anyway?)
Sometimes grief needs to be embraced, not because I like it, but because it is the only way forward. And so yesterday, I wrote the letter, and it is not dumb. It’s a bit shorter than some, but somehow there seems less to say. It will be in the mail soon. My grief, I suppose, will gently intrude on my family and friends, and I am not sorry. After all, they are my family and friends.
Thanks Giving
25 11 10 20:36
We have so much to be thankful for. I have both heard and used those words countless times, but as I heard them again this morning, they carried a deeper than usual impact. They are, of course, true. The Giver of every good gift has given, and I have received. In abundance. But I was neither the speaker nor the subject of those words this time.
This Thanksgiving Day began with a phone call. I had officiated at her husband’s funeral two decades ago. I had tied the knot when she remarried. I had heard the stories of assorted family tragedies and walked through deep waters with her family whose waters seemed deeper than most. This morning she had called to tell me that her adult daughter had died early this morning. She asked me the obvious gut-wrenching question: Why did God take my daughter? I have asked the same question, but I cannot answer it. The only adequate answer to why is Who.
Her Thanksgiving Day had begun the same way my Fathers Day had ended, with news of the death of a child. How does one give thanks against the backdrop of such a loss? While the loss is raw and the pain is deep and the tears flow, can one give thanks? Sometimes thanks giving is easy, but not for her, not today. And yet the words are hers: We have so much to be thankful for. Such thanks are a costly gift, a gift that gives meaning to the phrase a sacrifice of praise.
I like Thanksgiving, and I like thanks giving. It is a time for counting blessings (as if they could be counted), and it is a time for counting losses. And it is a time to discover afresh the wonder that no matter how deep and painful the losses, they do not eclipse the thanks-prompting grace of God.
This Thanksgiving Day began with a phone call. I had officiated at her husband’s funeral two decades ago. I had tied the knot when she remarried. I had heard the stories of assorted family tragedies and walked through deep waters with her family whose waters seemed deeper than most. This morning she had called to tell me that her adult daughter had died early this morning. She asked me the obvious gut-wrenching question: Why did God take my daughter? I have asked the same question, but I cannot answer it. The only adequate answer to why is Who.
Her Thanksgiving Day had begun the same way my Fathers Day had ended, with news of the death of a child. How does one give thanks against the backdrop of such a loss? While the loss is raw and the pain is deep and the tears flow, can one give thanks? Sometimes thanks giving is easy, but not for her, not today. And yet the words are hers: We have so much to be thankful for. Such thanks are a costly gift, a gift that gives meaning to the phrase a sacrifice of praise.
I like Thanksgiving, and I like thanks giving. It is a time for counting blessings (as if they could be counted), and it is a time for counting losses. And it is a time to discover afresh the wonder that no matter how deep and painful the losses, they do not eclipse the thanks-prompting grace of God.
Journeys Are Good
10 10 10 22:07
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. The journey began yesterday at the rainy Tukwila Amtrak station, which is a nine-year-old temporary creation awaiting the birth of its permanent replacement that has been imagined but not yet built. Temporary is apparently a relative term; in the world of Amtrak stations, change can come slowly.
The journey is good, but getting ready for it is an irritating hassle. I hate packing. Anyone in my family can confirm that truth. Joan did the packing when we traveled, and now every trip is a reason to miss her afresh. I’m pretty sure I have packed too much stuff; I usually do. I’m also pretty sure I have left behind something I should have brought along; I usually do that, too. And before you ask, yes, I have a list, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long. I may have brought the wrong stuff, but fortunately Amtrak doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I like train travel. It avoids the hurry-up-and-wait, TSA-bedeviled atmosphere of today’s air travel and allows one time to reflect on and enjoy the journey. And I intend that this trip include time to reflect on my journey. Grief has a way of occupying the mind and narrowing one’s vision, and I need to be sure that my focus is neither too narrow nor misplaced. So I bring along the pieces of my life to listen to God; I hope I have not packed too much, but He doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. In the world of Malcolm, change can come slowly.
The journey is good, but getting ready for it is an irritating hassle. I hate packing. Anyone in my family can confirm that truth. Joan did the packing when we traveled, and now every trip is a reason to miss her afresh. I’m pretty sure I have packed too much stuff; I usually do. I’m also pretty sure I have left behind something I should have brought along; I usually do that, too. And before you ask, yes, I have a list, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long. I may have brought the wrong stuff, but fortunately Amtrak doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I like train travel. It avoids the hurry-up-and-wait, TSA-bedeviled atmosphere of today’s air travel and allows one time to reflect on and enjoy the journey. And I intend that this trip include time to reflect on my journey. Grief has a way of occupying the mind and narrowing one’s vision, and I need to be sure that my focus is neither too narrow nor misplaced. So I bring along the pieces of my life to listen to God; I hope I have not packed too much, but He doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. In the world of Malcolm, change can come slowly.
Present Tense Living
03 10 10 17:56
There is a fine and sometimes fuzzy line between living in the present and giving proper consideration to what was and what will be without being enslaved by it. That fuzzy line came crashing in on me the other day with one word: Christmas. I don’t mean to start counting the number of shopping days left or to bewail the coexistence of back-to-school and Christmas sales. Those were not the issue. I found myself pondering Christmas with Matt in heaven.
Joan’s first Christmas in heaven was wonderful, not only for her but for Matt, Suzanne, and me as well - different, painful, but still wonderful nevertheless. I suppose I should expect that this Christmas will likewise be different (no problem there) but still wonderful. But my mind, having jumped several weeks ahead, was having trouble wrapping itself around the concept of Christmas being wonderful for Suzanne and me with Joan and Matt both being gone. As I wondered how on earth we would do Christmas this year, my concern for the future began to replace my joy in the present.
I don’t know yet what Christmas will look like this year. In the days between now and then, Suzanne and I will somehow figure that out, so stay tuned. But I do know that the present tense God who is with us now will be with us then. Emanuel - God with us - that’s what Christmas is about. Meanwhile, I’m going to try to live in the present without losing hope for the future or gratitude for the past.
The Chaos of In Between
14 09 10 10:27
It turns out that it is impossible to replace carpeting that has stuff on it. We have much stuff, and since the law of gravity has not been repealed, a lot of the stuff is on the carpet. Or was. And it had to be moved; at least that’s what Rob the carpet-layer said. I take him at his word since he and his son moved most of the heavy stuff. But it’s the little stuff that makes me wonder. What is this? Why did I keep this? Remember when...?
I have a fearsome tendency to packrat-ism, and I am not alone. Getting rid of stuff is time-consuming work, and I have better things to do. Besides the disease has almost no symptoms - until it comes time to replace the carpets. Lumpy rugs are no good; the stuff needs to be moved.
I live in between, and stuff is a link to what was, but it crowds the corners of my life that could be occupied with better things. Stuff is for in between, and in between is not forever. Most stuff eventually becomes burdensome; Thoreau (great writer, lousy theologian) rightly observed that men have become the tools of their tools, an observation that is even more true in the 21st century than it was in the 19th. In between living carries with it the promise of a destination, and I will make it to heaven without my stuff and without missing it. Neither Joan nor Matt miss the stuff I hang on to. But I still live in the midst of this in between stuff, some of which, at least while I’m in between, is good. It takes wisdom to know what to release, and when. For better or worse, when Rob and his son are done later today, most of my stuff will still be here.
I live in the chaos of in between. But only for a while.
Grief vs Grief
10 09 10 13:51
I was asked an interesting question yesterday that continues to tickle my brain. The essence of the question focused on the differences between experiencing a sudden and unexpected loss of a loved one (Matt) as opposed to the loss of a loved one for whom I had cared and for whom there was the opportunity to anticipate the possibility of death (Joan). It is an interesting question, but for me it is a difficult one to answer.
There are, I suppose, some evident generic differences between those two kinds of loss. When one deals with the visible decline in the health of a loved one, grief begins before death because loss begins before death. However, stretching grief beyond the boundaries of death doesn’t necessarily make it shorter or shallower. On the other hand, the added element of shock when the death of a loved one is completely unexpected can be both a blessing of sorts and a curse as it provides both a degree of temporary anesthesia as well as an additional source of pain. But the reality of the loss and the challenge of adjustment remain. And when it is a son or daughter that has died, the loss is particularly painful.
For a couple of reasons I have difficulty answering the question. While generalizations are possible, it seems to me that grief is an intensely individual experience. Because of that, my grief journey and that of someone else who is experiencing almost identical circumstances may be markedly different. And those individual differences can be greater than the generic differences that could be noted between different kinds of loss. Those who do not recognize this truth are prone to place expectations on those who grieve and then wonder why those expectations are not met. (S)he should get over it or (s)he is handling that well can be equally inaccurate assumptions.
Additionally, I recognize that I am in the midst of processing these losses. I cannot be wholly objective in describing the journey; I can only be honest. Were objectivity possible, I’m not sure it would be either interesting or helpful. To describe the journey while one is in the maze of grief may be interesting to those outside the maze, but their own experience may be quite different. And so I am less concerned with telling others exactly where to turn left or right than with suggesting who it is they need to follow. The constant that makes joy possible in either kind of grief is knowing the unchanging, loving God of the maze. I cannot fathom how painful it must be for those who try to navigate grief, whatever kind it is, alone.
There are, I suppose, some evident generic differences between those two kinds of loss. When one deals with the visible decline in the health of a loved one, grief begins before death because loss begins before death. However, stretching grief beyond the boundaries of death doesn’t necessarily make it shorter or shallower. On the other hand, the added element of shock when the death of a loved one is completely unexpected can be both a blessing of sorts and a curse as it provides both a degree of temporary anesthesia as well as an additional source of pain. But the reality of the loss and the challenge of adjustment remain. And when it is a son or daughter that has died, the loss is particularly painful.
For a couple of reasons I have difficulty answering the question. While generalizations are possible, it seems to me that grief is an intensely individual experience. Because of that, my grief journey and that of someone else who is experiencing almost identical circumstances may be markedly different. And those individual differences can be greater than the generic differences that could be noted between different kinds of loss. Those who do not recognize this truth are prone to place expectations on those who grieve and then wonder why those expectations are not met. (S)he should get over it or (s)he is handling that well can be equally inaccurate assumptions.
Additionally, I recognize that I am in the midst of processing these losses. I cannot be wholly objective in describing the journey; I can only be honest. Were objectivity possible, I’m not sure it would be either interesting or helpful. To describe the journey while one is in the maze of grief may be interesting to those outside the maze, but their own experience may be quite different. And so I am less concerned with telling others exactly where to turn left or right than with suggesting who it is they need to follow. The constant that makes joy possible in either kind of grief is knowing the unchanging, loving God of the maze. I cannot fathom how painful it must be for those who try to navigate grief, whatever kind it is, alone.
The Other Johnny
25 08 10 21:21
We were not friends. We traveled in different circles and had different interests. He was a greaser who must have gone through a bottle of hair oil every week. The large economy size. He obviously took issue with Brylcreem’s claim that “a little dab’ll do ya.” The jingle went on to say, “The gals will all pursue ya; they’ll love to run their fingers through your hair.” Johnny obviously figured that a big dab of the stuff would attract even more gals. He was not what I would call an academic success. As I remember, he gained the distinction of being named the student least likely to succeed.
That, of course, is the trouble with drawing conclusions too soon. Making final judgments before things are final is dangerous business. The reason I ran across Johnny’s name the other day is that he has become one of the richest men in America. He ultimately turned what some of us regarded as a hair fetish into a wildly successful business developing and marketing Paul Mitchell hair products. (Would anyone have bought Johnny DeJoria hair products??)
I thought of the other Johnny again this morning as I had breakfast with a friend who reminded me that the fruit of Matt’s ministry would continue to blossom in the years ahead. He is right. I doubt if any of the kids with whom Matt worked will become as financially rich as the other Johnny, but I’m blessed to have seen and heard already the evidence of growing spiritual riches in young lives. And I’m reminded of how foolish it is to hang a loser label on those the Lord loves before He is done.
Foundations
19 08 10 14:10
Bit by bit I’m meandering though Matt’s papers. I sort slowly. I don’t want to miss anything, and so I tend to read almost everything. That tendency, along with my grief-limited tolerance for sorting stuff, slows the process down, but occasionally there are rich rewards along the way. In a notebook that almost got tossed was a Matt-generated list of foundations for his ministry that came out of a day of prayer. (There was also a collection of fascinating TAG quotes that some TAG alumni would just as soon I don’t share, but that’s another topic....)
Whether written or not and whether consciously decided or not, most of us involved in ministry accept the constraints of some set of principles that guide our ministry and by which we evaluate our success. Matt’s seems to be the kind of list that creates a foundation for effective and principled ministry. How do you think he did?
Hmmm, maybe I need to edit and revise my own list . . . .
Whether written or not and whether consciously decided or not, most of us involved in ministry accept the constraints of some set of principles that guide our ministry and by which we evaluate our success. Matt’s seems to be the kind of list that creates a foundation for effective and principled ministry. How do you think he did?
- God will be in absolute control of all ministry decisions.
- I will spend required time before Him to seek His face and will.
- People are more important to me than programs; therefor I gladly alter programs as God works in people.
- I will be a God-pleaser first, man-pleaser second, and pray I do both lots.
- Ministry will never be limited to my strengths or abilities but blessed by His infinite resources.
- People will see Jesus Christ at all events - not optional - not a sermon but His love.
- Advancing the kingdom of God is more important than the numbers of any group or church.
- My spiritual walk will take precedence over ministry stuff because that’s how tone is set.
- I will commit to and pour into the lives of a ministry staff; I can’t do it all by myself.
- My foundations of ministry are non-negotiable with man but open to direction from God.
Hmmm, maybe I need to edit and revise my own list . . . .
Getting There
14 08 10 22:14
There was time in my life when the journey was as good as the destination, particularly if it involved traveling. When I was a kid, I mastered public transportation not so much to go somewhere as for the joy of the journey; where was almost irrelevant. But now four hour drives are less fun than they used to be. The body gets stiff and the bladder gets full. There (wherever there might be) has become more important that getting there.
I’m not sure that that is all good. The destination is important; Paul had something to say about that (I press on toward the goal....) But the journey is also valuable. And this journey had some wonderful moments. Because the Christian life is a relationship with Christ, whatever I experience on the journey I experience with Him. And in the process of the journey, before I arrive, I get to know Him better.
It is a reality that is important as I walk through the adjustments of grief. Matt is there and so is Joan. Suzanne and I are still getting. While it may occasionally be difficult, the journey is marked by joy.
Matt's Testimony
30 07 10 14:47
Cross-cultural mission involvement has impacted every member of our family. For Matt, that involvement included leading two outreach English camp teams to Hong Kong and leading a group of teens on a Youthbuilders adventure in Poland. I was along on the first Hong Kong trip in 1994, a dad privileged to follow the leadership of his son. Each evening of the camp included a fun program into which were woven testimonies of us “foreign tutors.” For some of these, Matt had interviewed the participants; on the final evening he shared his own story. The testimonies needed to be simple, brief, and easily translated; to avoid misunderstanding they were translated.
About a week ago I was surprised and blessed to come across a written version of the testimony Matt shared in Hong Kong. He had kept it along with a longer (and later) outline version of his testimony that focused on God’s grace. Twenty-four Chinese students were present. That night six of them indicated they were making a first-time commitment to Jesus Christ; another twelve indicated some other significant spiritual decision. The simple truth from transparent lives makes a powerful impact. There is for me something wonderful about hearing his testimony again, as it were, from heaven. Here is what Matt shared sixteen years ago with students in Hong Kong, and, by the grace of God, with me again last week:
Tonight you have learned a lot about the foreign tutors. I would also like to talk to you.
In high school and at university, I worked on a school newspaper writing stories about politicians, professional athletes, and university officials. Like last night, I would sit and talk with them to learn more about these important people.
Many years ago before I worked on the newspapers, I met someone who was more important than any other famous person I have talked to. His name is Jesus, and he changed my life. When I was younger, two men came to my church and shared about God. They told me that God loves me, but that I was separated from him by sin - doing things that are not right. There was a gap between God and myself. Jesus is the way to cross that gap. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one can go to the Father except by me.”
That night I invited Jesus into my life, and that changed me forever. Now when someone asks me if I have ever talked to or written about an important person, I say, “Yes – his name is Jesus, and he changed my life.”
About a week ago I was surprised and blessed to come across a written version of the testimony Matt shared in Hong Kong. He had kept it along with a longer (and later) outline version of his testimony that focused on God’s grace. Twenty-four Chinese students were present. That night six of them indicated they were making a first-time commitment to Jesus Christ; another twelve indicated some other significant spiritual decision. The simple truth from transparent lives makes a powerful impact. There is for me something wonderful about hearing his testimony again, as it were, from heaven. Here is what Matt shared sixteen years ago with students in Hong Kong, and, by the grace of God, with me again last week:
Tonight you have learned a lot about the foreign tutors. I would also like to talk to you.
In high school and at university, I worked on a school newspaper writing stories about politicians, professional athletes, and university officials. Like last night, I would sit and talk with them to learn more about these important people.
Many years ago before I worked on the newspapers, I met someone who was more important than any other famous person I have talked to. His name is Jesus, and he changed my life. When I was younger, two men came to my church and shared about God. They told me that God loves me, but that I was separated from him by sin - doing things that are not right. There was a gap between God and myself. Jesus is the way to cross that gap. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one can go to the Father except by me.”
That night I invited Jesus into my life, and that changed me forever. Now when someone asks me if I have ever talked to or written about an important person, I say, “Yes – his name is Jesus, and he changed my life.”
Hidden Treasures
20 07 10 22:06
As we were walking by, we caught a glimpse of what looked like an old fire engine through the windows in the doors. We peered through the window and discovered it was one of several vintage fire engines inside. We eventually found a door (locked) that identified the Last Resort Fire Department, a Seattle Fire Department museum that opens for a few hours on Wednesdays and Thursdays. It was Monday, and we were out of luck. Or so we thought until a fire department official took pity on us and graciously offered to let us in for a private viewing. It is a fascinating display and an unexpected blessing.
Hidden treasures like the Last Resort Fire Department seem an appropriate metaphor for the last several days as we marked Matt’s passing with a graveside service and a barbecue. I have been blessed to hear wonderful stories of Matt’s impact. Some have brought laughter, some have brought tears; all have brought joy and made me hungry to hear more. Like a gracious fire department official who got out of his vehicle and unlocked a door, friends have opened their memories and let me in to see hidden Matt treasures worth sharing. Thank you!
Mysteries
11 07 10 13:49
For example, I don’t understand how it is that I can miss so deeply and constantly someone whom I only saw for a few weeks each year. Thirty months ago when Joan passed away, I was suddenly separated from someone with whom I had shared everything; the depth of loss was no mystery. But for the last decade, Matt has lived and ministered almost a thousand miles away. We were, at least theoretically, independent. Email and cell phones made communication easy, but days often passed without our talking or needing to. It makes no rational sense that I should miss him constantly. Love, of course, is not moderated by miles or contained by reason; still, it is a mystery that I experience without needing to understand.
The seemingly oxymoronic coexistence of sorrow and joy in our lives these days is another mystery. This one I think I can explain - at least I have tried on other occasions to explain it. But even though I know that both sorrow and joy are appropriate, sorrow because of loss and joy because of my relationship with Christ, their coexistence feels counterintuitive. It is a mystery in which I live.
I am exploring yet another mystery. Paul expresses his desire to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and fellowship of his sufferings. It seems to me that there is a mysterious connection between experiencing loss and knowing God. Perhaps it is simply a reflection of a loving God’s unwillingness to waste anything in my life; however, that grief should become a catalyst for growth is a mystery that I’m not sure I like.
Hands
04 07 10 19:43
It was the right place to be, but I almost didn’t go. Did I want to expose the fresh wounds of grief? (Not particularly.) Could I experience the words and music of worship without creating a puddle of tears? (Probably not. Thank God for Kleenex in every row; I have trouble making it through communion dry-eyed even when life is normal.) Did I want to worship? (More strongly than usual; I wanted to do what Matt was doing.) So I went to church this morning even though I didn’t have to. And I’m glad I did.
God is worthy of whatever worship I can give Him, and my fellow-worshipers help me handle the handicap of grief. It was not just handshakes and hugs before and after the service, it was hands during the service as well. Amazing grace... my heart was too full to sing aloud, and my leaking eyes were closed in prayer when I felt the hands of others on my shoulders. I’ll take your burden, you take My grace... There are times when I need to be alone; this morning was not one of them. Their hands said what my heart needed to hear.
It is of grace that God should delight in what broken worshipers can offer. This morning, this broken worshiper was blessed to be helped by the hands of others.
God is worthy of whatever worship I can give Him, and my fellow-worshipers help me handle the handicap of grief. It was not just handshakes and hugs before and after the service, it was hands during the service as well. Amazing grace... my heart was too full to sing aloud, and my leaking eyes were closed in prayer when I felt the hands of others on my shoulders. I’ll take your burden, you take My grace... There are times when I need to be alone; this morning was not one of them. Their hands said what my heart needed to hear.
It is of grace that God should delight in what broken worshipers can offer. This morning, this broken worshiper was blessed to be helped by the hands of others.
One Week
28 06 10 21:38
There might actually be words to adequately describe this last week, but I don’t know what they are. The words seem too diluted and impotent. Perhaps I am too weary with grief, and one day, the words will do. Or perhaps not.
Has it only been a week since that terrible phone call injected the death of a son into what had been a happy Fathers Day? I have functioned in a frustrating fog, and were it not for the graciousness of a lot of loving people, I might well have not functioned at all, lost in a paralyzing labyrinth of grief. They have cleaned an apartment, distributed furniture, planned a memorial service, dealt with the coroner, packed a car, cared for a cat, invested time that they could ill afford to lose; they have found more ways than I can list to say I love you. How will I ever find enough ways to say thank you?
The Modesto memorial service captured well Matt’s uncompromising commitment to the Lord and the truth of His Word. It was painfully joyful - and joyfully painful. My son enjoyed a deep and intimate relationship with the Lord, and his impact on the lives of others has been profound. Seeing the evidence of that again has been one of the great joys of this week.
How are you doing? People who love me keep asking that question, though I suspect they know the answer better than I. I hurt. I’m home now, and the house is quiet. The joyful reminders that Matt once lived here are also the painful reminders of his absence. Doing is probably the right word; I’m pretty sure I’m not done.
Has it only been a week since that terrible phone call injected the death of a son into what had been a happy Fathers Day? I have functioned in a frustrating fog, and were it not for the graciousness of a lot of loving people, I might well have not functioned at all, lost in a paralyzing labyrinth of grief. They have cleaned an apartment, distributed furniture, planned a memorial service, dealt with the coroner, packed a car, cared for a cat, invested time that they could ill afford to lose; they have found more ways than I can list to say I love you. How will I ever find enough ways to say thank you?
The Modesto memorial service captured well Matt’s uncompromising commitment to the Lord and the truth of His Word. It was painfully joyful - and joyfully painful. My son enjoyed a deep and intimate relationship with the Lord, and his impact on the lives of others has been profound. Seeing the evidence of that again has been one of the great joys of this week.
How are you doing? People who love me keep asking that question, though I suspect they know the answer better than I. I hurt. I’m home now, and the house is quiet. The joyful reminders that Matt once lived here are also the painful reminders of his absence. Doing is probably the right word; I’m pretty sure I’m not done.
I Know...
21 06 10 18:56
I know Matt is now freer than he has ever been. I know his wonder at God’s grace is growing in God’s presence. I know his pastoral heart that wept with those who weep is weeping no more. I know that his outrageous sense of humor has blossomed into unfettered joy. I know that his Redeemer and mine lives. I know that the Lord he loves has welcomed him home.
And I know that what I know, and what I don’t know, doesn’t erase the pain now that will become joy then.