Just got home from our latest sojourn in a Seattle hospital. Hanging around hospitals hasn't never been one of my favorite activities, but we've done a whole lot of it in the last ... I was going to say year, but when I really start thinking back I realize that with G-J, parents, and occasional friends, we've had many such times. And mostly what being a visitor in hospitals consists of is waiting. Sitting around, wandering into the hallways to talk on the phone, going down the elevator to Starbucks in the lobby for an injection of caffeine at undesignated intervals--ie, when one of us grows bored with the sitting and waiting.
Oh, and there is this, innumerous logistical discussions about when to eat, what to eat, how to transport the family (especially the two senior members who need extra assistance), whether to take a car, the shuttle, a taxi, who will stay, who will go, how many coffees, "Oh wait, I wanted to talk to the nurse," "No, I told you to leave it in her room." "Hey, you need to go with them or they'll get lost." These discussions can take place in a proliferation of ways in the 21st century--by text, cell, email, and, when all else fails, in person. One of our favorite leave-taking phrases is, "We'll be in constant radio contact." Unfortunately, about half the time, Grampie has either lost or forgotten to turn on his cell-phone, though none of us would dream of texting him. Not only is such new technology beyond him mentally at this point, but his large digits at the end of his large mitts would have trouble hitting the correct tiny key. I mean, why are those keys made for seven-year-olds unless 2nd graders are actually the target demographic (and I'm assuming most parents do not want this!)?
All that waiting, all that sitting around (all that uncomfortable sleeping in chairs, if you're J or Grampie, with a little Beve thrown in!), all that passive hoping, and, in a world that has gone haywire, the quest for such information that will clear up the clouds, or at least bring a rainbow such as the one Beve and I saw on our way home this afternoon, the combination of all of this is enough to wear a body out, to weary our brains and hearts and everything between. Not to mention that the copious amounts of hand sanitizer at every door, on every wall, and the large bold signs reminding visitors about flu symptoms, coughing, remind us not that we're in a place of sickness but that we are possibly the greatest dangers to those critically ill. This is sobering, indeed.
Yet, we do it. We came home today because things are status quo at the hospital. And likely to be so for some time. This is not to say that things are good, improving or even hopeful. None of these things are near the truth. Not in the same city as the truth. But tonight as we sit in our family room with our dogs, watching football like it's a normal Saturday afternoon, we are comforted by thefact that she breathes. And that's all I can say right now.
I know--I KNOW--there's some spiritual truth about all this waiting, sitting, the sheer boredom of hospital stays such as these last three days, but really, I'm just too tired. So imagine those words here, and turn to Him, just as we had, have, will have to, in the coming days. And, maybe, live this day as if it's your last one standing, walking around and speaking the words you want your loved ones to hear. Because I can tell you, to hear one more cheerful word, one more, "Hey guys!" from G-J would mean the world to her family.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A room
Beve, E and I are lying here on our beds at the Silver Cloud, just blocks away from the hospital where Beve's sister lies deeply asleep. That's what it looks like, that she's just deeply asleep, with tubes and IVs running in and out.
I've been in ICUs or CCUs before. Twice, actually. Beve's Mom spent several weeks there before she died. And my dad spent the last two days of his life in a room very much like the one in which G-J breathes in and out, in and out, in and...well, you get the idea. To say that it's hard to be in such a room understates how it feels. To say that there's no place I'd rather be also understates it.
I wonder if it's because I have lived this before, stayed in a hotel down the street from an ICU where a loved one breathed that it shortens my breath until I'm holding it, that this hurts so deeply. Or if it's because this loved one, this woman, with her husband standing at the end of her bed, her father leaning heavily on his cane just outside the door and her brother, with tears in his eyes, sitting beside her, this woman has meant so much to me, so much to my children that they would have moved heaven and earth to also be here.
It's both, of course. I carry my past with me in every situation. We all do. Well, all except someone like my mother who no longer has a past, and only has each moment as they come, and those only tenuously, though I'd like to believe that they're there inside that Swiss cheese brain. And G-J, even in this coma, even with a radiated brain, holds within her all her own memories. They're there in the "Life is good," hat. There in the guest book quickly filling up. Those memories run rampant on the pages of her address book, so full a names, slips of papers, reminders. Her husband handed that book to me and I felt a surge of laughter at this woman, so committed to others and, I dare say, so very like her mother, whose address book long not needed, sits in a drawer in my house. I can walk into that room, where computer monitors line her bed, where needles and latex gloves are available in every size, just open a drawer, pull them out of a box, and I can look past those things, because to me, this is her room. A room where an angel sits on the window sill, a gift given by one of her myriad friends, and flowers appear from a colleague of her husband. But these are not the things that make this room hers. It's because she lies in it, deeply asleep. I look over at her and and imagine walking into that sterile, medicinal beeping place tomorrow morning and she'll be sitting up, asking for a Starbucks, with just the right amount of cream--"Do I need to give you a color swatch?"--laughing at all of us for being so worried.
But I've a night like this before. And I know how it turned out.
But until that room no longer has her name on it, one way or another, it's what I'll imagine, what I'll believe and hope for.
I've been in ICUs or CCUs before. Twice, actually. Beve's Mom spent several weeks there before she died. And my dad spent the last two days of his life in a room very much like the one in which G-J breathes in and out, in and out, in and...well, you get the idea. To say that it's hard to be in such a room understates how it feels. To say that there's no place I'd rather be also understates it.
I wonder if it's because I have lived this before, stayed in a hotel down the street from an ICU where a loved one breathed that it shortens my breath until I'm holding it, that this hurts so deeply. Or if it's because this loved one, this woman, with her husband standing at the end of her bed, her father leaning heavily on his cane just outside the door and her brother, with tears in his eyes, sitting beside her, this woman has meant so much to me, so much to my children that they would have moved heaven and earth to also be here.
It's both, of course. I carry my past with me in every situation. We all do. Well, all except someone like my mother who no longer has a past, and only has each moment as they come, and those only tenuously, though I'd like to believe that they're there inside that Swiss cheese brain. And G-J, even in this coma, even with a radiated brain, holds within her all her own memories. They're there in the "Life is good," hat. There in the guest book quickly filling up. Those memories run rampant on the pages of her address book, so full a names, slips of papers, reminders. Her husband handed that book to me and I felt a surge of laughter at this woman, so committed to others and, I dare say, so very like her mother, whose address book long not needed, sits in a drawer in my house. I can walk into that room, where computer monitors line her bed, where needles and latex gloves are available in every size, just open a drawer, pull them out of a box, and I can look past those things, because to me, this is her room. A room where an angel sits on the window sill, a gift given by one of her myriad friends, and flowers appear from a colleague of her husband. But these are not the things that make this room hers. It's because she lies in it, deeply asleep. I look over at her and and imagine walking into that sterile, medicinal beeping place tomorrow morning and she'll be sitting up, asking for a Starbucks, with just the right amount of cream--"Do I need to give you a color swatch?"--laughing at all of us for being so worried.
But I've a night like this before. And I know how it turned out.
But until that room no longer has her name on it, one way or another, it's what I'll imagine, what I'll believe and hope for.
Pile of peanuts
Just got home from the high school where Beve works. Periodically he asks me to come in and meet with students who are working on their college essays. I've been doing this for years--in fact, back in our Tacoma days, I actually got paid for this work. But that's before even E's memory (I don't want to cast aspersions, but she inherited her father's memory), and even I have forgotten what it's like to get paid for such editing. I keep doing it though. Keeps me sharp, allows me interaction with kids. Bonus, bonus. So this morning there I was, waiting for these nervous high school seniors, for whom everything in the universe rests on these two page essays. Well, that and SAT scores, GPAs, and teacher/counselor recommendations.
But this morning, only one of the three students was actually in the building. Beve tracked down their classes, one at a time (unfortunately pulling the wrong girl out of a Math class. Whoops!), but they weren't there. And the single boy who showed up simply put his essays on Beve's desk and began to walk away. "You're here to meet with me," I told him. "But I'm in AP Spanish," he answered. "Can I just come back and get it later?" I nodded. I mean, who am I to get in the way of AP Spanish? These are the things that will make or break his life, after all. Or so he thinks now. He--and all the other anxious seventeen and eighteen year olds can't imagine the day--not so far in the future--when nobody cares how they did in AP anything. And they don't understand that their college essays only count for a single day--the day they're read by those university admissions officers who decide 'yay' or 'nay'. After that, those carefully crafted essays, which I assist in perfecting (or somewhere in that vicinity, if possible) might as well be filed in the recycle bin. Done and done.
But then we're all pretty short-sighted, when it comes to that. We take ourselves and our petty concerns sooo seriously. We think that whatever we're engaged in today, this week, this month have huge implications for the world. But mostly what we do--our occupations--are, as Beve would call them, "Our pile of peanuts." This allusion comes from our two-month time in New Delhi, India back in our pre-marriage, pre-anything but friends days. Every day as we walked toward the bus that would take us downtown to our ministry sites, we'd see men sitting on the streets in front of tiny fires and piles of peanuts which they were peddling. Beve observed how seriously they took their work, how important it was that they had those piles to make their living from. I'd like to point out, though, that Beve could have called this metaphor "Our pile of ear wax," because we also saw men with small trays of said wax, along with strange retrieval devices for the procurement of such wax, but you'll be relieved to know that neither of us, nor any of our housemates never availed ourselves of this wax-removal service.
But our pile of peanuts. We all have them. The work we are called to, no matter how earth-shaking or trivial. The next step toward those jobs if we're students. But in one sense, most of our decisions aren't all that critical. Which car to buy, what to have for dinner, what to write on a college essay...yes, they matter. But no they don't. If that makes sense. They're our pile of peanuts.
However, there are also things that count. Things that are as far from a pile of peanuts as one could get. How to treat those around us, especially to those we do not naturally care for. How we respond to adversities and how we live when the chips are down. Especially who we are when we're alone in the dark and don't have our public faces on. What we hold onto when we're alone in the dark--what we hold against each other.
My sister-in-love, G-J, whom I wrote about yesterday, slipped into a coma late last night. We're on our way south in the next half an hour to be with her if this is the end. And it makes me take seriously only those things that last. At times like this, I'm ready to dump those pile of peanuts. And then it occurs to me that that's how I should live all the time--with that pile of peanuts held very, very lightly, so that I'm only serious about what lasts.
"His voice shook the earth, but now He has promised, 'Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.' The words, 'once more' indicate the removing of what can be shaken--that is, created things--so that what cannot be shaken may remain." Hebrews 12: 26-27
But this morning, only one of the three students was actually in the building. Beve tracked down their classes, one at a time (unfortunately pulling the wrong girl out of a Math class. Whoops!), but they weren't there. And the single boy who showed up simply put his essays on Beve's desk and began to walk away. "You're here to meet with me," I told him. "But I'm in AP Spanish," he answered. "Can I just come back and get it later?" I nodded. I mean, who am I to get in the way of AP Spanish? These are the things that will make or break his life, after all. Or so he thinks now. He--and all the other anxious seventeen and eighteen year olds can't imagine the day--not so far in the future--when nobody cares how they did in AP anything. And they don't understand that their college essays only count for a single day--the day they're read by those university admissions officers who decide 'yay' or 'nay'. After that, those carefully crafted essays, which I assist in perfecting (or somewhere in that vicinity, if possible) might as well be filed in the recycle bin. Done and done.
But then we're all pretty short-sighted, when it comes to that. We take ourselves and our petty concerns sooo seriously. We think that whatever we're engaged in today, this week, this month have huge implications for the world. But mostly what we do--our occupations--are, as Beve would call them, "Our pile of peanuts." This allusion comes from our two-month time in New Delhi, India back in our pre-marriage, pre-anything but friends days. Every day as we walked toward the bus that would take us downtown to our ministry sites, we'd see men sitting on the streets in front of tiny fires and piles of peanuts which they were peddling. Beve observed how seriously they took their work, how important it was that they had those piles to make their living from. I'd like to point out, though, that Beve could have called this metaphor "Our pile of ear wax," because we also saw men with small trays of said wax, along with strange retrieval devices for the procurement of such wax, but you'll be relieved to know that neither of us, nor any of our housemates never availed ourselves of this wax-removal service.
But our pile of peanuts. We all have them. The work we are called to, no matter how earth-shaking or trivial. The next step toward those jobs if we're students. But in one sense, most of our decisions aren't all that critical. Which car to buy, what to have for dinner, what to write on a college essay...yes, they matter. But no they don't. If that makes sense. They're our pile of peanuts.
However, there are also things that count. Things that are as far from a pile of peanuts as one could get. How to treat those around us, especially to those we do not naturally care for. How we respond to adversities and how we live when the chips are down. Especially who we are when we're alone in the dark and don't have our public faces on. What we hold onto when we're alone in the dark--what we hold against each other.
My sister-in-love, G-J, whom I wrote about yesterday, slipped into a coma late last night. We're on our way south in the next half an hour to be with her if this is the end. And it makes me take seriously only those things that last. At times like this, I'm ready to dump those pile of peanuts. And then it occurs to me that that's how I should live all the time--with that pile of peanuts held very, very lightly, so that I'm only serious about what lasts.
"His voice shook the earth, but now He has promised, 'Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.' The words, 'once more' indicate the removing of what can be shaken--that is, created things--so that what cannot be shaken may remain." Hebrews 12: 26-27
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
G-J
A long time ago in blog time, when I first began this blog, I posted about a woman I know who has more physical problems than all of the rest of us combined. This unidentified person, it turns out, is Beve's only sister. G-J, as I'll call her, grew up the only daughter in a family of giants. Beve, who is her one younger brother, used to call her a six-foot midget, which she was...in his world. But then, most of us can only wish we were six-foot midgets. I know E does, and blames me every time she thinks of it that she's no where close. Ah, the things to blame your mother for.
Anyway, Beve and his sister have always been very close. So close that when Beve was given boxing gloves one Christmas as a kid, he and G-J would tie them on...and she'd punch the stew out of him. While it's true that G-J was a husky girl, her biggest advantage came from Beve doubling up in laughter as she started pummeling him. And that's an image I've always loved--Beve laughing because his sister did something he found hilarious--with boxing gloves, no less.
By the time I entered the picture, G-J and Beve had been close for a very long time. 27 years, to be exact. G-J thought of Beve as hers in a way. She leaned on him, and he was always there for her. And, to be honest, G-J knew me too, but probably not my best self. Certainly not a very current one. She graduated from high school when I was a freshman, and I don't believe I had a single conversation with her after that. So her impression of me was more than a decade old by the time Beve and I returned to the states, engaged and planning a wedding in six weeks. G-J, I've come to know, is not a person to mince words. If she struggles with something, she lets them know. And she let Beve know that she had some concerns about me. Beve, with his patience and ability to laugh, told her to wait and see, that I was exactly right, and wouldn't take anything away from her.
It was well said by the Beve. In fact, G-J and I became fast friends. Sisters of the heart, one might say. We laughed together many times, at the most ridiculous moments--at dinner tables, and hot tubs, watching movies, or watching our children, like when E was flower-girl at her wedding, a darling little princess dressed up in satin. And we've cried together too, the day their mother died, the day we cleaned out that mother's closet, the day we heard their dad would marry again. And I've sat with her through some terrible struggles, been there when her son was born and there when she practically didn't come out alive from one of her many surgeries. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
See, G-J has struggled with illness for a long time. But for the first part of that long time, she didn't want anyone to know about it, treat her differently. She didn't want disease to define her back then. But eventually she stopped having a choice. Her health failed more and more, and the world crept in to know it. And it was in that creeping, I think, that she discovered the richness of the body of Christ, the best of what the Body can be. More recently she's come to see a different side of being so sick. I asked her once if I could use her as an example, and her answer was, "Of course, what is this all for, otherwise?"
G-J was diagnosed with diabetes at the age of 20, and lived with that for a long time. By the time she wanted to have a child, doctors were hesitant to allow the strain on her kidneys. But she persisted, had her beloved son, and has never regretted it. The doctors were right, though, and her oldest brother flew across the ocean to give her a kidney the same summer my dad died. Beve and I played caretakers--he of oldest brother, me of her son. Alas, that kidney scarred, so about five years later, she got another kidney, this time with a pancreas thrown in, creating what she laughingly calls her 'used parts store' within--4 kidneys and 2 pancreases. Such humor, I have to say, is typical of the giants I married into.
About three years ago, after eye problems left over from the no-longer-present diabetes, a broken foot on a leg she couldn't feel, G-J began to have debilitating headaches. When she went to the doctor (practically a hobby for her!), she was sent immediately to the hospital, and from there to ICU, which is where Beve and I found her the next day. Just about the time the neurologist showed up. This unknown woman was struggling with tears, could barely speak. It was a moment when a life flashed before our eyes. For Beve and me, it was G-J's life. For her, it was the life of her son. That afternoon counts as one of the privileged moments of my life, watching my Beve cry with his G-J, his first best friend. I cried my own tears, but really the sacred moment was theirs. We spent a week in that hospital with G-J. A week in which Beve rode herd over his dad, we stayed at my aunt and uncle's house, a week in which we sat in G-J's room, and I took copious notes every time a doctor (and to be clear, she had no less than 5 doctors caring for her various issues) walked into the room. The surgery went well, God be praised. And G-J went home to full-head radiation treatment that burned her hair permanently off her head, but saved her life.
And, burned her memory to a certain degree. She knows it, but those lapses are hard for her. By the next summer she was mostly well, though she'd had more than a few hospital visits for infections, and the like, always staying on 11E, where the nurses all know her. All love her. But really, who couldn't. Self-effacing good humor, a deep well of grace, and compassion for others. She's amazing, really she is. She got sepsis that summer, another thing that almost killed her, but didn't. Just plain didn't. Then a year or so later, after another broken leg, that septic infection which never really goes away, cause such havoc in that leg, it was amputated below the knee. And still she kept sending cards, making phone calls, loving people from her completely reduced life. Orchestrating family get-togethers, being Grampie's chief cheerleader, long-distance care-giver.
But now she's back on 11E, has been having TIA's. Little strokes to us lay-people. Nobody knows why. Every one of them leaves her a little more forgetful, a little more reduced in abilities and faculty, less able to communicate or laugh. It leaves one wondering how much a body has to take. But when I think of her, think of the incredible ministry she's had to her family, her church community, her large circle of friends near and far, I am awed by her. Completely awed. And this I know, if she had merely been healthy, merely been strong and funny and bright and friendly--and she is all these things--she could not, would not, have the impact on the world as she has had. Mere physical health could not do, in Kingdom terms, what all her difficulties have done.
Do I wish she'd been healed? Yes. Of course I do. It's been excruciating to watch what she's had to bear. But I've never--truly, NEVER-- heard her ask, "Why me?" and never heard her want to be anything but a light to the world. And I think God knew this about her. I think He looked down and saw that, with her large heart and large sphere of friends, He could use her in an especially hard way. He could break her body, because her soul was intact. And in her broken body, He has shone brightly, laughingly, eternally. And even now, as her life gets harder and smaller and perhaps close to its completion, He's looking down at her with love and pride at what's she'd been, who she's been, and how much brighter the world has been because of her broken, brilliant life.
Anyway, Beve and his sister have always been very close. So close that when Beve was given boxing gloves one Christmas as a kid, he and G-J would tie them on...and she'd punch the stew out of him. While it's true that G-J was a husky girl, her biggest advantage came from Beve doubling up in laughter as she started pummeling him. And that's an image I've always loved--Beve laughing because his sister did something he found hilarious--with boxing gloves, no less.
By the time I entered the picture, G-J and Beve had been close for a very long time. 27 years, to be exact. G-J thought of Beve as hers in a way. She leaned on him, and he was always there for her. And, to be honest, G-J knew me too, but probably not my best self. Certainly not a very current one. She graduated from high school when I was a freshman, and I don't believe I had a single conversation with her after that. So her impression of me was more than a decade old by the time Beve and I returned to the states, engaged and planning a wedding in six weeks. G-J, I've come to know, is not a person to mince words. If she struggles with something, she lets them know. And she let Beve know that she had some concerns about me. Beve, with his patience and ability to laugh, told her to wait and see, that I was exactly right, and wouldn't take anything away from her.
It was well said by the Beve. In fact, G-J and I became fast friends. Sisters of the heart, one might say. We laughed together many times, at the most ridiculous moments--at dinner tables, and hot tubs, watching movies, or watching our children, like when E was flower-girl at her wedding, a darling little princess dressed up in satin. And we've cried together too, the day their mother died, the day we cleaned out that mother's closet, the day we heard their dad would marry again. And I've sat with her through some terrible struggles, been there when her son was born and there when she practically didn't come out alive from one of her many surgeries. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
See, G-J has struggled with illness for a long time. But for the first part of that long time, she didn't want anyone to know about it, treat her differently. She didn't want disease to define her back then. But eventually she stopped having a choice. Her health failed more and more, and the world crept in to know it. And it was in that creeping, I think, that she discovered the richness of the body of Christ, the best of what the Body can be. More recently she's come to see a different side of being so sick. I asked her once if I could use her as an example, and her answer was, "Of course, what is this all for, otherwise?"
G-J was diagnosed with diabetes at the age of 20, and lived with that for a long time. By the time she wanted to have a child, doctors were hesitant to allow the strain on her kidneys. But she persisted, had her beloved son, and has never regretted it. The doctors were right, though, and her oldest brother flew across the ocean to give her a kidney the same summer my dad died. Beve and I played caretakers--he of oldest brother, me of her son. Alas, that kidney scarred, so about five years later, she got another kidney, this time with a pancreas thrown in, creating what she laughingly calls her 'used parts store' within--4 kidneys and 2 pancreases. Such humor, I have to say, is typical of the giants I married into.
About three years ago, after eye problems left over from the no-longer-present diabetes, a broken foot on a leg she couldn't feel, G-J began to have debilitating headaches. When she went to the doctor (practically a hobby for her!), she was sent immediately to the hospital, and from there to ICU, which is where Beve and I found her the next day. Just about the time the neurologist showed up. This unknown woman was struggling with tears, could barely speak. It was a moment when a life flashed before our eyes. For Beve and me, it was G-J's life. For her, it was the life of her son. That afternoon counts as one of the privileged moments of my life, watching my Beve cry with his G-J, his first best friend. I cried my own tears, but really the sacred moment was theirs. We spent a week in that hospital with G-J. A week in which Beve rode herd over his dad, we stayed at my aunt and uncle's house, a week in which we sat in G-J's room, and I took copious notes every time a doctor (and to be clear, she had no less than 5 doctors caring for her various issues) walked into the room. The surgery went well, God be praised. And G-J went home to full-head radiation treatment that burned her hair permanently off her head, but saved her life.
And, burned her memory to a certain degree. She knows it, but those lapses are hard for her. By the next summer she was mostly well, though she'd had more than a few hospital visits for infections, and the like, always staying on 11E, where the nurses all know her. All love her. But really, who couldn't. Self-effacing good humor, a deep well of grace, and compassion for others. She's amazing, really she is. She got sepsis that summer, another thing that almost killed her, but didn't. Just plain didn't. Then a year or so later, after another broken leg, that septic infection which never really goes away, cause such havoc in that leg, it was amputated below the knee. And still she kept sending cards, making phone calls, loving people from her completely reduced life. Orchestrating family get-togethers, being Grampie's chief cheerleader, long-distance care-giver.
But now she's back on 11E, has been having TIA's. Little strokes to us lay-people. Nobody knows why. Every one of them leaves her a little more forgetful, a little more reduced in abilities and faculty, less able to communicate or laugh. It leaves one wondering how much a body has to take. But when I think of her, think of the incredible ministry she's had to her family, her church community, her large circle of friends near and far, I am awed by her. Completely awed. And this I know, if she had merely been healthy, merely been strong and funny and bright and friendly--and she is all these things--she could not, would not, have the impact on the world as she has had. Mere physical health could not do, in Kingdom terms, what all her difficulties have done.
Do I wish she'd been healed? Yes. Of course I do. It's been excruciating to watch what she's had to bear. But I've never--truly, NEVER-- heard her ask, "Why me?" and never heard her want to be anything but a light to the world. And I think God knew this about her. I think He looked down and saw that, with her large heart and large sphere of friends, He could use her in an especially hard way. He could break her body, because her soul was intact. And in her broken body, He has shone brightly, laughingly, eternally. And even now, as her life gets harder and smaller and perhaps close to its completion, He's looking down at her with love and pride at what's she'd been, who she's been, and how much brighter the world has been because of her broken, brilliant life.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A last night
I got a phone call this evening from someone in a town where we used to live, work and worship. He called to tell me that a man I've known more than half my life is 'going home to the Lord,' probably in the next few hours. This elderly gentleman has lived a long life of faithfulness to his God. He's an engineer by profession and has approached every task very methodically and logically. An incredibly faithful man who retired from a job in California, moved north with his wife and built a geodesic dome and two guest houses from which to do retreat ministry.
His wife, now suffering from dementia, is a spiritual giant in my world, a woman with a designated prayer closet in the basement of her home where she daily spent time on her knees in the years that I lived near her. She was the heart of their large family, while her husband, the mind. They gave both of these things in abundance to their seven children, the youngest of whom was one of my college roommates (ok, just to be clear, I had eleven different roommates during the years I was in college--and that doesn't count the four women I lived with in Holland), and a dear friend. It was a boon to move, long after I lived with the woman I used to call 'Barn-head' (she called me Crain-face), to the town where her parents' 'King's Dome' was located. As I had known the daughter, so I began to know her parents. We attended the same church, the church where Mr. Barn-head was always the first to greet visitors in his light blue leisure suit he continued to wear with great aplomb into the 21st century (when he wasn't wearing the crimson sports coat with plait pants). This is a man who cheerfully did the church's book-keeping well into his 80s when he finally had to give up this service that so fit his mathematical brain. I served on a few committees with him over the years we worshipped together. Though I was often a square peg in a round hole at such meetings, being allergic to agendas, goal-setting, and the like, this man loved them, loved ticking off things from his list, seeing things accomplished.
I think Mr. Barn-head was a pretty tough dad back in the days he was working and raising them. I've heard a story or two about his discipline, his sarcasm, his temper. His sharp brain expected sharp things of his 4 sons and 3 daughters, and I think they lived up for it more than he acknowledged. Some dads can be like that. But here's a telling thing. All seven of those kids grew up to love the Lord, to live lives worthy of the gospel. Sure, they might not have done things exactly as Grandpa did, but they did do them. They are faithful, good people. Though I think the youngest is still the pick of the litter (just like I think the youngest of Beve's clan is definitely the pick of that litter!), there are things to admire about all of them. They got their hearts for the Lord from their mother, and their brilliant minds from their dad.
That dad around whose bed they are currently gathered. I know they are, because I know them. In spirit I am standing with them, praying for this old saint, a man so different from me that you wouldn't imagine us ever in the same family. But we are. We're in that 1 Corinthians 12 family of God, where I've needed him and he, oddly enough, also needed me. A family, er, a Body, where he was the hand holding the pencil, doing sums, and I...well, I might well be a little toenail, for all I know. And that's ok. Tonight, as I pray for him on what may well be his last night of breathing on this earth, pray him on his way, I'm thinking of how much I need engineers, mathematicians, those with logical brains who keep my feet to earth and my quick emotions in balance. And I'm glad God, who is also the creator of such a variety of dogs, for example, employs glorious creativity in creating us, each of us complete in His image, yet so diverse in abilities, interests, gifts, talents. Mr. Barn-head and me, both and each part of the Body of Christ. How cool is that? I will miss what he brings. I will miss who he is.
His wife, now suffering from dementia, is a spiritual giant in my world, a woman with a designated prayer closet in the basement of her home where she daily spent time on her knees in the years that I lived near her. She was the heart of their large family, while her husband, the mind. They gave both of these things in abundance to their seven children, the youngest of whom was one of my college roommates (ok, just to be clear, I had eleven different roommates during the years I was in college--and that doesn't count the four women I lived with in Holland), and a dear friend. It was a boon to move, long after I lived with the woman I used to call 'Barn-head' (she called me Crain-face), to the town where her parents' 'King's Dome' was located. As I had known the daughter, so I began to know her parents. We attended the same church, the church where Mr. Barn-head was always the first to greet visitors in his light blue leisure suit he continued to wear with great aplomb into the 21st century (when he wasn't wearing the crimson sports coat with plait pants). This is a man who cheerfully did the church's book-keeping well into his 80s when he finally had to give up this service that so fit his mathematical brain. I served on a few committees with him over the years we worshipped together. Though I was often a square peg in a round hole at such meetings, being allergic to agendas, goal-setting, and the like, this man loved them, loved ticking off things from his list, seeing things accomplished.
I think Mr. Barn-head was a pretty tough dad back in the days he was working and raising them. I've heard a story or two about his discipline, his sarcasm, his temper. His sharp brain expected sharp things of his 4 sons and 3 daughters, and I think they lived up for it more than he acknowledged. Some dads can be like that. But here's a telling thing. All seven of those kids grew up to love the Lord, to live lives worthy of the gospel. Sure, they might not have done things exactly as Grandpa did, but they did do them. They are faithful, good people. Though I think the youngest is still the pick of the litter (just like I think the youngest of Beve's clan is definitely the pick of that litter!), there are things to admire about all of them. They got their hearts for the Lord from their mother, and their brilliant minds from their dad.
That dad around whose bed they are currently gathered. I know they are, because I know them. In spirit I am standing with them, praying for this old saint, a man so different from me that you wouldn't imagine us ever in the same family. But we are. We're in that 1 Corinthians 12 family of God, where I've needed him and he, oddly enough, also needed me. A family, er, a Body, where he was the hand holding the pencil, doing sums, and I...well, I might well be a little toenail, for all I know. And that's ok. Tonight, as I pray for him on what may well be his last night of breathing on this earth, pray him on his way, I'm thinking of how much I need engineers, mathematicians, those with logical brains who keep my feet to earth and my quick emotions in balance. And I'm glad God, who is also the creator of such a variety of dogs, for example, employs glorious creativity in creating us, each of us complete in His image, yet so diverse in abilities, interests, gifts, talents. Mr. Barn-head and me, both and each part of the Body of Christ. How cool is that? I will miss what he brings. I will miss who he is.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Retreats and retreats
On the short (15 minute) plane ride that was the first leg of my journey yesterday, I had a conversation with the woman next to me. She's an administrator at Nursing Homes all around Washington, but is also a "snow-bird" with a home in Phoenix. We spoke for a while about Alzheimers, about 'sea-gulls'--the adult offspring of nursing home residents who come swooping into eastern Washington from the coast, crapping all over the place. I insisted that I am no such bird. I say hello and goodbye to the staff at Mom's nursing home, but little else. Only seeing her every couple months, I don't have the ability to tell whether they're doing their jobs or not. That's my sister's place--my sister, who sees Mom every single day! She's the one who sees changes, who knows that though Mom's hair looks greasy, it's because her shower day is Thursday. She's the one whom they call when Mom's spitting her medicine in their faces, when they have to take away the water pitcher in her room because all she does is pour it out on her bed, her lap or the floor. Me? I'm just a crapless seagull, in from the coast to sit with her a while.
Then this woman asked what I'd been in Pullman for, and when I told her my multi-prong purpose--seeing Mom, visiting RE, leading a Christian retreat--she paused a moment then asked, "So what do you think about the Sedona Retreat situation?" I knew nothing about it, having been in a news-free zone for the last week. She was stunned that I didn't know about it. Proceeded to tell me the whole gory story. A well-known "spiritual guru" who led willing participants (each of whom had paid 9000$ for the 'privilege') through 3 days of fasting then in a sweat house experience which is meant to cleanse and purify the soul. In exceedingly hot weather, in a huge tent, people who were already dehydrated, became weak and weaker. Two died on the spot, one later in the hospital. Twenty more people had to be hospitalized. A very sad situation. VERY sad.
That's terrible, I told the woman. She was very happy to tell me all the gruesome details. And I was more horrified by all of them, though how clear she was about the facts, I'm not sure. You know how these things go. "Was it a Christian retreat?" I asked, wondering what she'd say. "I think so," she answered. Instead of clarifying that of course it wasn't Christian, not as I know Christian, I retreated and murmured my abhorrance of such a thing, then the plane landed and she got off. I opened my book and didn't think about it again.
But today, as I've thought back on the conversation, I wondered how she might think I'd have any other opinion of such a practice. Or that, because I'd also led a retreat, I might somehow be connected with the kind of retreats held in Sedona. Many new age, (or old age, one might say in this instance, because sweat houses are the province of Native Americans. Many tribes had this practice; some even continue it to this day. Sweathouses are NOT the way we are purified or cleansed.
Unfortunately, to the unreligious, all religious practices look alike. And, unfortunately, many very loathsome things have been done in the name of Jesus. Just this morning, I saw a bumper sticker on a car: "I love your Christ. But I hate you Christians. Why can't you Christians be more like your Christ?"
It's a good question. A question I ask myself often. Usually when I'm looking in the mirror. I'm not nearly as much as Christ as I wish I was, as I pray to be. I'm thankful that He's changing me, that I'm in the process of growing up in maturity in Him. There are also plenty of unsavory practices that Christians en masse do. Like not loving our neighbor if they aren't exactly like us. Like paying minute attention to things that aren't important (the kind of music in the moments where we're privileged to be in the very presence of God Himself), and not paying enough attention to His mission in the world.
But now and then I am reminded that there's a whole population in the world who believe that a whole lot of practices that have absolutely NOTHING to do with Christ or being a 'little-Christ' are Christian. It breaks my heart to think this is so. It breaks His. I wish I hadn't been as tongue-tied with that woman as I was. Those people who put their lives into the hands of that "spiritualist" were looking for something. They felt a need for something they weren't going to find in a sweathouse in the desert. And that woman sitting next to me on the plane--maybe she was too. And though I can do nothing for those people who died in Sedona, I could have spoken words of LIFE to my seatmate. And I'm sorry I didn't.
Then this woman asked what I'd been in Pullman for, and when I told her my multi-prong purpose--seeing Mom, visiting RE, leading a Christian retreat--she paused a moment then asked, "So what do you think about the Sedona Retreat situation?" I knew nothing about it, having been in a news-free zone for the last week. She was stunned that I didn't know about it. Proceeded to tell me the whole gory story. A well-known "spiritual guru" who led willing participants (each of whom had paid 9000$ for the 'privilege') through 3 days of fasting then in a sweat house experience which is meant to cleanse and purify the soul. In exceedingly hot weather, in a huge tent, people who were already dehydrated, became weak and weaker. Two died on the spot, one later in the hospital. Twenty more people had to be hospitalized. A very sad situation. VERY sad.
That's terrible, I told the woman. She was very happy to tell me all the gruesome details. And I was more horrified by all of them, though how clear she was about the facts, I'm not sure. You know how these things go. "Was it a Christian retreat?" I asked, wondering what she'd say. "I think so," she answered. Instead of clarifying that of course it wasn't Christian, not as I know Christian, I retreated and murmured my abhorrance of such a thing, then the plane landed and she got off. I opened my book and didn't think about it again.
But today, as I've thought back on the conversation, I wondered how she might think I'd have any other opinion of such a practice. Or that, because I'd also led a retreat, I might somehow be connected with the kind of retreats held in Sedona. Many new age, (or old age, one might say in this instance, because sweat houses are the province of Native Americans. Many tribes had this practice; some even continue it to this day. Sweathouses are NOT the way we are purified or cleansed.
Unfortunately, to the unreligious, all religious practices look alike. And, unfortunately, many very loathsome things have been done in the name of Jesus. Just this morning, I saw a bumper sticker on a car: "I love your Christ. But I hate you Christians. Why can't you Christians be more like your Christ?"
It's a good question. A question I ask myself often. Usually when I'm looking in the mirror. I'm not nearly as much as Christ as I wish I was, as I pray to be. I'm thankful that He's changing me, that I'm in the process of growing up in maturity in Him. There are also plenty of unsavory practices that Christians en masse do. Like not loving our neighbor if they aren't exactly like us. Like paying minute attention to things that aren't important (the kind of music in the moments where we're privileged to be in the very presence of God Himself), and not paying enough attention to His mission in the world.
But now and then I am reminded that there's a whole population in the world who believe that a whole lot of practices that have absolutely NOTHING to do with Christ or being a 'little-Christ' are Christian. It breaks my heart to think this is so. It breaks His. I wish I hadn't been as tongue-tied with that woman as I was. Those people who put their lives into the hands of that "spiritualist" were looking for something. They felt a need for something they weren't going to find in a sweathouse in the desert. And that woman sitting next to me on the plane--maybe she was too. And though I can do nothing for those people who died in Sedona, I could have spoken words of LIFE to my seatmate. And I'm sorry I didn't.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Jars of clay and lit coals from a fire
I spent the last two days with a group of women my sister has been in fellowship twice most months for the last eleven years. Shoot, I can hardly think of anything I've been doing for eleven years. Oh wait, maybe writing my book (just kidding, it hasn't been that long, not a year over eight). These women are older and younger than my sister, come from two different towns here in the Palouse, and, on the surface, don't necessarily look to have much in common.
Except Jesus. The one and only reason they've come together for more than a decade is to bury their hearts and minds in the Word of God and to come up, not only smelling like a sweet aroma, but more ready to live whatever God has called them to live. And it is a sweet aroma to see how they care for each other, how they finish each other's sentences, know each other's foibles, love each other anyway. I felt privileged to sit with them. Privileged to listen to their stories, to laugh and eat, and...well, sit with them.
And, yes, privileged to get to share some words about the Word, some thought about He who thought us all up to begin with. It's a dangerous thing to handle the Word of God, to even think He would entrust it to me, and entrust me with sharing it with these women, with any group. It's something like handling a coal lit from a fire. It really is.
Except that it's what He asks us to do. This is what we talked about this week end, that He takes the clay pots that we are, and fills us--each of us--with the inexpressible treasure that is Himself. Ordinary, average clay pots filled with glorious, eternal treasure. Those women, me, each of us, just plain old ordinary pots. But what is within-- that's the lit coal from the fire of God Himself. His all-surpassing power, enough to be the Light of the World, to vanquish death itself. That's the treasure we're given. I'm overwhelmed by this tonight. Overwhelmed by the Word, by the words we shared together about the Word, and about the Incarnate Word who is always present when such a company is gathered. I know I'm gushing, but I don't take these moments lightly, or complacently. It's no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love to talk. And I love Jesus. So when the two intersect and I get to talk about Jesus, especially with people hungry and thirsty for Him, it's a balm to my spirit. An honor and a joy. To get to--to be allowed to--handle His word, to bring this lit coal to others...I'll never get used to the privilege of it.
And the responsibility. The deep, humbling responsibility. Watching women take my words seriously, write them down, ask me to repeat them. If I thought it was something I had made up or was doing myself, it would be my undoing, if you know what I mean. It's with light hands that we must handle His word, teach it to others. Only in surrender to Him should one--should I!!!--attempt it. In such set-apart moments--like Sundays, during worship-- we are the church, when we speak together, it's words of eternal value.
Yes, clay pots. Ordinary, trivial clay pots. It's only what's inside, where Christ is, that the extraordinary, powerful treasure resides. And...only in broken-ness, is that treasure revealed. Think about it.
"For we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us."
2 Corinthians 4:7
Except Jesus. The one and only reason they've come together for more than a decade is to bury their hearts and minds in the Word of God and to come up, not only smelling like a sweet aroma, but more ready to live whatever God has called them to live. And it is a sweet aroma to see how they care for each other, how they finish each other's sentences, know each other's foibles, love each other anyway. I felt privileged to sit with them. Privileged to listen to their stories, to laugh and eat, and...well, sit with them.
And, yes, privileged to get to share some words about the Word, some thought about He who thought us all up to begin with. It's a dangerous thing to handle the Word of God, to even think He would entrust it to me, and entrust me with sharing it with these women, with any group. It's something like handling a coal lit from a fire. It really is.
Except that it's what He asks us to do. This is what we talked about this week end, that He takes the clay pots that we are, and fills us--each of us--with the inexpressible treasure that is Himself. Ordinary, average clay pots filled with glorious, eternal treasure. Those women, me, each of us, just plain old ordinary pots. But what is within-- that's the lit coal from the fire of God Himself. His all-surpassing power, enough to be the Light of the World, to vanquish death itself. That's the treasure we're given. I'm overwhelmed by this tonight. Overwhelmed by the Word, by the words we shared together about the Word, and about the Incarnate Word who is always present when such a company is gathered. I know I'm gushing, but I don't take these moments lightly, or complacently. It's no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love to talk. And I love Jesus. So when the two intersect and I get to talk about Jesus, especially with people hungry and thirsty for Him, it's a balm to my spirit. An honor and a joy. To get to--to be allowed to--handle His word, to bring this lit coal to others...I'll never get used to the privilege of it.
And the responsibility. The deep, humbling responsibility. Watching women take my words seriously, write them down, ask me to repeat them. If I thought it was something I had made up or was doing myself, it would be my undoing, if you know what I mean. It's with light hands that we must handle His word, teach it to others. Only in surrender to Him should one--should I!!!--attempt it. In such set-apart moments--like Sundays, during worship-- we are the church, when we speak together, it's words of eternal value.
Yes, clay pots. Ordinary, trivial clay pots. It's only what's inside, where Christ is, that the extraordinary, powerful treasure resides. And...only in broken-ness, is that treasure revealed. Think about it.
"For we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us."
2 Corinthians 4:7
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