I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say

Today in church we sang, "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say," Lutheran Service Book 699.

I heard the voice of Jesus say,

  “Come unto Me, and rest;

Lay down, thou weary one, lay down

  Thy head upon My breast.”

I came to Jesus as I was,

  So weary, worn, and sad;

I found in Him a resting place,

  And He has made me glad.

I heard the voice of Jesus say,

  “Behold, I freely give

The living water: thirsty one,

  Stoop down, and drink, and live.”

I came to Jesus, and I drank

  Of that life-giving stream;

My thirst was quenched, my soul revived,

  And now I live in Him.

I heard the voice of Jesus say,

  “I am this dark world’s Light;

Look unto Me, thy morn shall rise,

  And all thy day be bright.”

I looked to Jesus, and I found

  In Him my Star, my Sun;

And in that light of life I’ll walk

  Till trav’ling days are done. (Horatius Bonar, 1808-89)

I think it was the first time for this congregation to sing this hymn. I heard a gentleman behind me say that he didn't know it but that he thought it was really nice. It has been one of my favorites for a while now. Three years ago yesterday, I sang it to my mom (Barbara) in the nursing home. It was just a few days before she came home for hospice care. Today I went back and found an old email that I had written to a friend at the time who was offering a virtual shoulder and ear.  It reminded me of a few things I had forgotten.

It is a rollercoaster. This morning I woke up at 4:30, couldn't go back to sleep, so went on over to the nursing home. When I saw her I thought it could be today. She just looked so drawn. :( I prayed Morning Prayer, read Romans 8, sang Jesus Loves Me and I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say, and cried all over her. And then the nurse came in to give her her pills and I told the nurse she wouldn't be able to swallow those and then she did, the stinker. :-) I was there much of the day and siblings were calling (yay) but she isn't able to talk much. She will say hello and say "I love you" when told "I love you" so we do a lot of that. :-) She did ask me repeatedly today to take her to California. I didn't know what to make of that but one of my brothers said that maybe she's remembering a time when she was still married to her first husband with her six babies and they lived in a pretty nice place in a very pretty part of California (I am not sure where). Tonight after choir I took Evan over with me to tell her goodnight and pray with her and she seemed so much more herself. She asked me, "What's this all about?" meaning, I guess, why am I in this place with all these people around. And I tried to explain why she was where she was. There are these little flashes of clarity and I think maybe we're gonna get her back. The problem is that she only weighs 74 pounds. She is too thin for an IV. So she is only getting what she can get in through her mouth. :-( :-( :-( I hated leaving tonight because I'm afraid there's going to be less of her in the morning when I go back. 

They were such hard days, but also beautiful in the way they distilled each moment, bringing into focus what was important and what was not. Less than a week after I wrote the above, my mom died in her room in our house. My husband, youngest son, and I were with her. The next day I wrote the same friend again. She had asked about sending me something to read since I was in vigil mode.

I was going to write back this morning and say yes, please send it, but last night my mama went home to Jesus and my eyes are not good for much right now. Thank you for being on call for me. It was a blessed end and I will be forever grateful for the gift of these three days with her at home and that I was able to tell what was going on to the extent that I called Phillip and Evan to her bedside and we were able to sing and pray over her in her final minutes. Well, they sang. I held her hands and felt their last squeezes this side of heaven. The strife is o'er, the battle done.   

Our former pastor's wife sang "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say" as it is in LSB, to the tune SARAH-ELIZABETH, as the Prelude at my mom's funeral. When we got home from church today I went looking for a video I thought I had of her singing it when we were first teaching it to the congregation in Oklahoma, but I can't find it. She sang it so beautifully. It's still her voice I hear in my head when I try to sing this hymn today. 

Bianca, if you're reading, maybe the next time we see each other (this summer???) you can sing it, Phil can play, and I can record it so I can have it for listening in the future because I don't know if I'll ever be able to sing it again myself. Well, maybe in heaven, when my mom is there to help. 

In the Blink of an Eye

I couldn't sleep Friday night. It was my first bad bout with insomnia in some time--the kind where your brain goes in circles and just won't turn off. I am never sure what brings it on, but in this case I think a contributing factor was news of the death of a young woman of my knowledge. I didn't know her personally, but I knew of her, as she was on staff at a news outlet for which I have written. Her death was a huge shock, as she was not only young but seemingly strong and healthy. According to what I have read, friends saw her a couple of days before she died, and she seemed fine. Early reports attributed her death to complications from H1N1 influenza. She was found, unresponsive, by a friend, who called 911. She later died in the hospital.

I am once again reminded of how tenuous is our grasp on life. It's a cliche, but it's true: at any given moment, we are only a few heartbeats/inhalations away from death. The young woman who died is the same age as my firstborn. At the age of 26, she had already achieved a remarkable degree of success, fame and respect, at a level most of us will never attain. And now, in the blink of an eye, she's gone. I think of my own children, and how well they're all doing in their respective pursuits, and how healthy and (mostly) happy they are. Could something like this happen to one of them? Could they go from peak productivity and well-being to death in a matter of two days? Could my husband or I?

The answer is terrifying to ponder. It's so easy, when things are going well, to take life and its blessings for granted. Our family has had its rough patches, but compared to what some people have had to contend with--are contending with--we have had it pretty good. As I reflect on how good--and for how long--I find myself thinking that it's just a matter of time before Something Bad happens. Why should we be free of trouble? There's no reason we should. We are no more deserving of smooth sailing than the next wretched sinner. We live in a fallen world. Death, the devil, and our own sinful natures are always lurking, plotting to snatch the joy and beauty that are to be had this side of heaven.

What is to be done? Does it help to stay awake analyzing and planning and worrying all night long? Does it make it less likely that Something Bad will happen?

Of course not. Then why do I do it? Why do you?

Because we are faithless. We don't trust that God our heavenly Father is really and truly holding us in His hands. If we did, why would we worry or fear for anything?

Thank God that when we are faithless, He remains faithful. Thank God that He forgives me for too often allowing pointless worrying and obsessing to drown out the peace and comfort that are to be found in His Word. Thank God that even when we can't seem to see, hear, feel, or find Him, He is nonetheless at work, turning all things for good for those who trust in Him.

Please say a prayer today for a family that is facing a kind of pain and loss many of us blessedly can't even begin to imagine. Lord, let them know your love, and grant them your hope and comfort.

Dreams and Memories

Weird dreams last night. First I dreamed that my mom was still alive and in a nursing facility. But when I called to talk to her on the phone they couldn't find her. Then I dreamed I was walking through the house and stepped on a child's toy. It was a little plastic figurine of the Pumbaa character from The Lion King. (We used to have one like it.) It went deep into my foot and got stuck. When I pulled it out skin and tendons came out with it and it left a hole big enough that I could see the bones in my foot. Strangely enough, it didn't bleed or hurt. I wasn't going to do anything about it until my husband suggested I might want to go to the doctor to get the hole stitched up. When I woke up we had just called the doctor but were having trouble getting an appointment.

Are the two dreams related? I don't know. I do know that I don't have a mother anymore, nor do I have children of the age to leave plastic toys lying around where I might step on them. Sigh.

I spent part of today going through some more of my mom's boxes. Odds and ends, collectibles, keepsakes. When my siblings came for my mom's funeral last year I was able to give them some things, but there was still more to be gone through. I have removed all the pictures from my mom's photo albums and sorted them the best I could. (It's hard sometimes to tell which baby it is in the pictures!) I have everyone's Christmas stocking from when we were growing up. These things will all be mailed as soon as I can finish packing the boxes.

I had another memory of my mom's last few days. When we brought her home, hospice care set up a hospital bed in her room. I slept in her bed in the same room so I could be with her if she needed anything, although by this point she was bedridden and mostly non-communicative. I remember waking up in the night and looking at her and finding her wide awake, watching me sleep. I suppose that's what I would do, too, if I knew death was imminent: stay awake and watch my daughter sleep in the bed next to me.

One of the hardest things about that last week was not ever knowing what she was thinking because she couldn't tell me.

I didn't mean for this to be a sad post. I am not sad. Or maybe I should say I am mostly happy. :-) My college kids are home. We have some great trips planned. Everyone is in good health, doing neat things, and the summer is stretched out before us. 

But I still miss my mom.

Full Circle

A little over two weeks from now, February 22, will be the one-year anniversary of my mom's death. A few weeks ago her burial marker was finally placed.

The schedule is very full right now, and my plan was to go see the marker on February 22, as my mom is buried over a half hour away from our house. But Monday of this week was lovely weather-wise as well as being my husband's day off, and he offered to drive me to the cemetery. As soon as we got there I smacked my head. Should have brought flowers for the vase! We drove to a nearby grocery store to buy a bunch.

Having been recently laid, the marker was dirty with disturbed earth. We rubbed it off as best we could. Mom was buried in a section of the cemetery where only flat markers of a certain size are allowed, so between that and available funds I was somewhat limited in my options. But I am pleased with how it came out. I have previously written about the background of the verse. I decided to use the translation from my mom's Bible (the Saint Joseph edition of the New American Bible).

Another item that may be approaching closure is a small decorative chalkboard in our kitchen. On the night my mom died, Evan wrote this message on it:

The message is still there. We decided to leave it for Evan to erase, and he has not done so yet. But it feels like we need to close this chapter, too, and we are thinking February 22 is a logical date to do it. The thing is, while Evan may be ready, I wonder if I am?

Will the Lord take you in?

One year ago yesterday, my mom took a fall from which she never recovered. She didn't break any bones, but the weakened state that she was in at the time, combined with the infection that caused her to faint, was more than she could overcome. After about six weeks, first in the hospital and then in nursing care, we brought her home to die. She left this life on February 22, 2016, at the age of 85.

I was thinking about all this yesterday, and about her, and I reshared this blog post from February 13. I think at the time I wrote it I knew deep down that she wasn't going to get better, but I wasn't quite ready to face it. I was still hoping and praying for a turnaround. It never came.

My mom died with saving faith in Jesus Christ. I had thought she was baptized as a child but in going through her things I found a certificate of both adult baptism and confirmation in the Episcopal church. She also had me baptized in the Episcopal church, but for the first 10 years of my life we didn't attend regularly. Then when I was in sixth grade we moved, and a friend of mine invited us to her church. I asked if we could go, and we did, whereby my mom discovered Roman Catholicism. It was a turning point for her. She became Catholic and so did I. From that time on we were in worship every week. I give thanks for that friend and that church, which changed the course of my mom's life as well as mine.

As I reflect on it, I think that one reason Catholicism spoke to my mom so strongly was that it offered a sense of stability that had always been missing for her. She was an only child whose parents left her to be cared for by relatives. In a life marked by abandonment and insecurity, the ancient Church presented her the opportunity to feel connected to something unchanging and bigger than herself. The liturgy, ritual, majesty and history afforded her a kind of security she had never known. Finally, she felt like she had a family. 

At the same time, though, she heard from the Catholic church that if she just tried a little harder and did a little more she could "work out" her salvation. She looked at the suffering of this life as something that got her a step closer to God, proving her worth. On more than one occasion I talked to her about the gospel as I had come to understand it as a Lutheran--something completely free and unearned, total gift. But it seemed almost impossible for her to conceive of. I wish that before she died she could have somehow found the comfort of knowing that although there was no way she could ever be good enough, she was nevertheless saved by grace through faith because Christ did it all for her.

I spent a good deal of time during my mom's last days singing, praying and reading the Bible to her, particularly the psalms. A recurrent one was Psalm 27, linked above. In her Bible it was one she had marked, bracketing off verse 10: "For my father and my mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me in." I decided to have Psalm 27 sung at her funeral and to include verse 10 on her burial marker. The marker was ordered in August but still has not arrived. Hopefully, soon.

My mom did not fully understand the gift of grace, but neither do any of us. Thanks be to God we don't need perfect understanding to get into heaven. We just need faith in Christ, however imperfect and weak that faith is. I know my mom had that and that when she departed this life she was immediately welcomed into the presence of her Savior. What a joy to know she doesn't have to try, doubt or wonder anymore! She is "in"--not because of how much she loved God, but because of how much He loved her. May all of us as God's children cling to that certain hope.  

I Threw Out the Cheerios Today

They were my mom's Cheerios, the Cheerios that have been in my pantry for about 6 months now. They were in my pantry on January 12 of this year, and Mom probably had some for breakfast. But at lunch that day she fainted and fell. I called 911, and an ambulance came and took her to the hospital. She did not get better, and on February 19 she came home so she could die in her own room. She went to be with Jesus on February 22.

I have tried on more than one occasion to throw out those Cheerios. No one else in the house eats them. They're getting stale. They're just taking up room. But each time, I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Until today. As I was putting groceries away I suddenly grabbed them off the shelf and in one motion, before I could think too much, put them in the trash.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Mother's Day

Yesterday I changed my profile pic on Facebook to this one.

Since then, I keep looking at it, amazed that there was a time my mom and I were the same height. By the time she died, her osteoporosis was so progressed that she was hardly over five feet tall. Aging is brutal and death is terrible. Time does such cruel things to the body. I'm not talking about the cosmetic stuff--the wrinkles and gray hair and such. I'm talking about disintegrating bones, organs that don't work right anymore, teeth that can't chew, failing senses, a slowing brain, and weakening muscles. As those things wreak their havoc on the body, it can be easy for others to start seeing the person differently--to think that the 85-year-old is someone different from the 45-year-old or 15-year-old. But on the inside, nothing has really changed. That soul, that precious child of God, created by Him and loved by Him, is the same as it has always been. It still gets sad and lonely and afraid. It still wants its mommy. It still needs to feel that it is loved and accepted. It still needs a Savior.

This is Babsy. She is one of Jesus' little lambs, loved by Him fully and unconditionally. She's not sad, lonely or afraid anymore.

Sympathy Letters from Kids

I finally got around to going through a bag of sympathy notes that were written to me by students at one of the schools I play piano for. I go to this school, a middle school, about once a week to attend chorus rehearsals and play for performances. I feel bad that it took me so long to get around to reading all the notes. There were over 100 of them.

Here are a few excerpts I wanted to preserve for posterity because I found them funny, touching, or unique or just because they made me smile. Enjoy. The authors are all sixth, seventh, or eighth graders. :-)

"I drew a rainbow because when my aunt passed away my mom said think of rainbows because it shows the bright side and it helps me. So maybe it will help you. My mom also tells me to think about the rainbow because my brother is in the air force and when he leaves it makes me sad."

"I will be praying for you. Thank you for being SO NICE to us even though we are crazy and loud. You are VERY good at the piano. I love you so much!"

"Thank you for being our accompanist, even though we're a band of bumbling baboons 90% of the time."

"Thank you for still coming to play with us tomorrow. I couldn't do it. I'm not that strong. My mom is still alive, but it feels like I don't know her. I haven't seen her in 3 years."

"It stinks to hear about what's happening, but for the short period of time I've known you, I think you can get through it. I know you can because I did. My brother died 1 year, 1 month, 6 days ago. You are much stronger than a 12-year-old so I know you can make it through."

"Hello. I am unsure what losing a parent feels like, but I have witnessed the death of some things. I once had a funeral for a turtle I found on the side of the road, and I remember how sad my family was when my grandfather died, even though I was not. I was five or six and I suppose death didn't really make sense to me. Or rather, I didn't really understand it enough to feel it. I'm fourteen and honestly don't know all that much, but I think that life is an incredible thing. Therefore, even though a life has been lost and I am certain that it hurts, there's still more life to marvel at. I hope that wasn't insensitive; I genuinely was not trying to be."

"I am glad you are the piano player at our school because you make us so much better than we already are."

"I love walking into choir and seeing you in the room."

"Every time I hear you play a smile will not come off my face. I also think you are very beautiful. I LOVE YOUR HAIR."

"To be honest I don't really know what to say. What I do know is that there are some days when all you want to do is be left alone. And then there are other days when all you want is a hug. I don't know what kind of day this is for you, but I just want you to know that I care, and that our entire women's choir cares! And I don't know if you're a religious person or not, but here's a Bible verse that always helps me when I'm going through a rough time: 1 Corinthians 10:13. Just always know that God will forever be by your side."

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

A Hundred Little Occasions

"Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that time could come over again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done - of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time."

Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, Chapter 33

Four Weeks Later

Last night was the four-week mark since Mom's death. Everyone is doing okay. We encounter daily reminders of her absence--bumping up against things in the pantry or refrigerator that were hers, or hearing a noise in the house and briefly attributing it to her before remembering that, oh yeah, she's not here anymore. But we know that she is TODAY in Paradise, and the comfort that brings covers all the sadness. I give thanks that she lived for 85 years and that her life was a testament to the preciousness of life and to God's care of His children. Going through some of my mom's things I found her baptismal certificate. She wasn't baptized until she was 30. I didn't know that before (or if I did, I forgot). At the time, she was living in Japan with her first husband, who was stationed there. By that time she had six children, all of whom had been baptized. But she hadn't been. I wish I knew the story there. Did she think she was baptized and found out she wasn't? In any case, it is another way her own parents failed her. But the Lord did not fail her. He claimed her and called her and made her His own. Thanks be to God.

In the last few years of her life Mom became increasingly thin. It was a major contributing factor to her always feeling cold. Lately I find myself thinking of her in her casket in the earth, where it must be cold. She doesn't have a sweater! I need to constantly remind myself she's not there. She's not cold. She's bathing in the warmth of her Savior.

Of all the old pictures I have come across of her over the past month, I think this is my favorite.

Hands

Writing this down so I don't forget it.

The pic is from last week at the nursing home, but last night I was sitting with my mom in much the same way, holding her hand, when she told me my hands were cold. (Actually they weren't--hers were--but I don't argue with my mama these days.)

I let go of her hand I was holding and put it under the blanket. A few minutes later she asked, "Where are your hands?"

I showed her. "Right here, Mom."

Then she asked, "Where are your daddy's hands?" (Earlier in the day she had asked where my daddy was. He died 22 years ago.) I told her, "Daddy's hands are in heaven, with him."

Then she asked, "Where are my [her] hands?" I couldn't help giggling a little as I showed her her own hands.

Later I was talking to Evan (my 12-year-old) and told him about the whole exchange, which I took to be indicative of her confusion. He said, "That's kind of like when I was a baby and you would ask me where everything was: Where's your nose? Where are your eyes? Where are your fingers? Where are your toes? Where are your hands?"

Oh. Wow. Confusion? Maybe. Or maybe, memories.  

Update, one year later: I just had another memory about hands that happened after this post was written. Just a little while before she died I was holding my mom's hand. Suddenly she started squeezing mine--hard! So hard! I didn't know she had that much strength left in her. I don't know if she knew she was about to go and was saying goodbye or trying to hold on. But I will never forget that squeeze. 

Keeping Vigil

My mom has come home from rehab and is now under hospice care. We have entered a time of waiting.

We grieve that it has come to this and that we were not able to bring home a healthier, stronger patient. But we also look at it as an incredible gift. We have been given the opportunity to prepare. Phone calls have been made. Visits are being planned. Most important of all, we have been provided a chance to say a proper goodbye. There are so many who don't get that.

I am not sure how long the time of waiting will be. That is in the Lord's hands. We are taking steps now to adjust our various schedules so Mom is not alone, including lining up some volunteers from church to sit with her when both my husband and I need to be at a service. With Lent upon us and Holy Week and Easter on the horizon, there are a number of times when we both have responsibilities.

If you pray, please pray for peace: peace in our home, peace for my mom, and peace at the last.

Jerry

This is my brother. His name is Jerry. He died yesterday at the age of 66.

Quick background: my father was a widower with four children. My mother was divorced with six. They married when Jerry, my father's youngest, was 14. I was born when he was 15. I don't have memories of living in the same house with him, but I do have memories of spending time with him. He loved to go fishing and would take me with him sometimes. I would hand him worms to bait the hook. When he got married he would let me come to the apartment complex where he and his wife lived and stay the night and swim in his pool. When I got a little older I babysat his daughter, my niece, sometimes.

I have several vivid memories of Jerry helping me when I was little. Once when I was swimming in his pool I panicked in the deep water. Before I even started to go under, he was there, pulling me out. Another time something started biting me inside my pants leg. Jerry was the first to hear my screams and come and help me get the pants off so as not to get more stings from the scorpion that had apparently crawled inside.

I remember Jerry's smile and his hearty laugh. He was mischievous and playful and loved to play horseshoes.

Like my dad, Jerry was a smoker and drinker. He contracted lung cancer a few years ago and underwent treatment and surgery that stemmed the cancer's progress. Last month his daughter let me know that he was going to see the doctor due to a return of symptoms. Last week he went in for a biopsy but a few days later had to be admitted to the hospital due to fluid on his bad lung. In rapid succession he was put on a ventilator and went into sepsis before dying yesterday.

My family is a patchwork. I am the only "ours" of a "his, mine and ours" family. To some extent my dad's children seemed more like aunts and uncles to me than siblings. On my mom's "side" the youngest was 7 when I was born, so I spent a good chunk of my childhood living like an only child. Once I grew up, got married and moved to another state, and my dad died, it became harder to maintain a connection with all the pieces of my family, and there have been long stretches where we haven't kept in close contact. I haven't been a very good thread to try to hold this family quilt together.

My brother Jerry is the second of my siblings to die. My father's oldest son died three years ago. I wish I had called Jerry when I first got word that he was not feeling well. I thought there was more time. There wasn't.

I have been looking through old pictures to try to find a picture of me and Jerry together. I haven't found one yet. I will keep looking.

Jerry wasn't a churchgoer but I take comfort in the knowledge that he was baptized into Jesus Christ when he was a child. I pray he was able to cling to that faith at the last. I love you, Jerry. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

God Knew Your Name

"God Knew Your Name" from Cheryl on Vimeo.

The Blink of an Eye

Yesterday my eldest child went back to college. He is a sophomore now! He came home in May and was here for three months and now summer is over. Where did it go?

The day before yesterday that eldest child's dog died. We got her for his 11th birthday. She was here, a part of our family, for 9 years, and now she isn't anymore and never will be again.

I remember a day when my oldest was only 9 and our previous dog died. She had been part of our family for 15 years and my husband's life for 2 years before that. It seems like yesterday that he got her. It has been 11 years since we touched her.

This past Sunday my husband played his last services at our former church. He began as Cantor there in January of 2000, almost 13 years ago, and now that time is done.

My youngest child is about to turn 9. He is the age my oldest was when our first dog died. I know there is going to come a day when I wake up to kiss him goodbye for his first day of college and return to an empty house (or maybe a house with another 9-year-old dog). I know it's going to come in the blink of an eye and so I try to cherish this time. And yet I don't know how. What does it mean to "cherish" one's days? It seems the best I can manage is to live them.

Besides, "cherishing time"--whatever that means--doesn't make it stop. I could wrap each day in a velvet-covered box and tie it with a satin bow and yet time would still do what time does, munching my row of pretty gift boxes like so many dots in a Pac-Man game. And once they're munched, they're munched, and before you know it, the game is over.

My Brother Died

At least I thought he was my brother. I was not listed as a sibling in his obituary, nor was I notified of his death. I stumbled on the news on Facebook today on another relative's page.

I am the youngest child of a combined family. My father was a widower with four children. My mother was a divorcee with six. They married and had me, and I am quite a bit younger than all my siblings. I grew up in a two-sided family, and I have never really known which "side" I belong to. Sometimes I don't think I belong to either. But for my whole life, when people have asked about my family, I have responded by saying that I have six sisters and four brothers.

My brother who died several days ago was my father's oldest son. I am kind of confused right now, not sure how I feel about this or how I ought to feel about this. I do not feel his loss deeply on a personal level, as I did not know this brother well. I did try to keep in touch with him over the years through Christmas cards and the like. I think when I first heard about this today I just had to set it aside for a little while. Now I find myself grieving, not so much the death of my brother, but the death of a dream of the kind of family I always wished for but never really had.

I may not be my brother's sister, but I still consider him my brother. When I die, I would like my obituary to state that "Cheryl was the youngest of eleven children."

Letting Go

Our family has experienced some pretty big losses in the last three years. It actually seems like it's been longer than that, but it hasn't been quite three years since the dominoes started to fall: first my father-in-law, then my mother-in-law, then a dear family friend/former pastor, then another friend who was also preschool teacher to two of my children. But the losses have been not only the kind that occur when beloved people die; we have also repeatedly experienced the loss of broken relationships. My mother-in-law, whose mental illness we didn't fully understand until after she was gone, left a particularly painful legacy for two of her children (my husband and his sister) in her decision to disinherit them. They were both dutiful children and there was no basis for her action. It doesn't make the rejection any less painful to acknowledge that she was not in her right mind. My husband and I have also both experienced the end of several close friendships this year. And I am realizing that in many ways I have effectively lost my mother and I have been grieving that for a while. Although she is still alive, she has become a person that relates to me no longer as my mother but instead as a child, someone that I must take care of. No, I take that back. My children look at me through eyes of love. My mother doesn't anymore. At this point I am her caretaker and nurse and not much else.

Particularly when one is dealing with personal rejection or emotional hurt, the advice that is often given is to "let it go." It's good advice. It does no good to dwell on the things that cause one pain or to continue returning to the occasion of hurt. But I have found that it is advice that I am unable to follow. I cannot by force of will let pain and grief go. Yes, sometimes I forget for a little while. But invariably I stumble upon a reminder of the past and the reality of pain and loss returns.

And yet . . . .

While I have realized that I am incapable of letting go of deep hurts, it turns out that somehow, in time, they start to let go of me. Little by little they loosen their hold, and like Jack Dawson to Rose in The Titanic, they bid me go, swim toward the light, and keep on living. And if the ocean in which I am swimming is dotted with life raft after life raft of Word and Sacrament such that I see forgiveness and reconciliation everywhere I turn, then I know without a doubt that I am going to succeed in reaching that light. In fact, it turns out that light has already sought out and found me, and rescue is at hand.

'Bye, Jack. Rest in peace.

With Boots and Singing

My husband visited a dying woman this week. She was a long-time member of our church, having belonged to our congregation for many years before we ever came. She loved music and encouraged my husband in his role as Cantor many times over the years. He relates her telling him on more than one occasion that one or more of her friends was complaining about some aspect of worship or music. She would smile at my husband, pat him on the arm, and say, "But don't worry; I set them straight."

A few days ago this saint of God went to meet her Maker. My husband was blessed to be the last visitor she had. He spent about 45 minutes with her in the nursing facility, talking to her and singing hymns ("Now Rest Beneath Night's Shadow" and "Abide With Me"), liturgy (the Nunc Dimittis), and psalmody (Psalm 121). He told me she was basically unconscious but at several times during his visit seemed to be struggling to say something and that when it came to the Doxology in the Nunc Dimittis she seemed to start singing, matching pitch a few times. Afterwards, she made a grand effort and briefly opened her eyes. Phillip got in front of her where she could see him and she tried valiantly for about half a minute to say something, whereupon she closed her eyes and then lay back very peacefully. My husband later found out that she died within 15 minutes of his departure.

This lady had struggled with her health and chronic pain for many years and her eyesight was failing (she had to use a magnifying glass with the large-print hymnal). She survived an MSRA infection about 10 years ago. She had lung cancer but she was in church as recently as two weeks ago. Her photo in the most recent church directory shows an impeccably groomed lady with a vibrant, clear-eyed, cheerful expression, tall posture, and elbows bent with chin elegantly balanced on the back of her gently folded hands. You would not know from her photo that she had been through so much.

My husband and I have seen a lot of people die or come close to death in the last few years. This is purely anecdotal, but we have been struck by a pattern in which it seems that those who continue to live to their fullest capacity, doing as much as their bodies allow them to do, are in the end taken from this world with a merciful quickness, whereas those who decide to quit this life early, in spirit at least, waiting for death to come, seem to linger on in their misery for a very long time. Last week my family and I watched a movie called Secondhand Lions. I bet many of you have seen it (we tend to be always behind the times in the movie department). It depicts two men who lived life to the full and who, when they died, died with their "boots on." They didn't stop. They didn't surrender. They went out still embracing all that life has to offer.

So did Marg. Oh, to leave this world as she did! She lived up until the very end, until she was absolutely made to stop. And then she ascended to the Father with His Word ringing in her ears. May each of us be likewise thankful for the days our Creator grants upon this earth and fortunate to depart those days in such a beautiful and blessed way.

A Grief Interred

From what I understand of grief (which is not all that much), there is no ignoring it. One way or another, where the human psyche is concerned, it will have its way. It takes a long time for the grieving heart to fully work through its emotions, and it is best if it happens a little at a time, in measurable, manageable doses rather than as a full throttle explosion after being suppressed for too long. There are as many and varied ways of processing grief as there are individuals who grieve. We are all different, and we all have our own ways of trying to make sense of the senseless. I don't know if I have ever had that truth made as clear to me as it was today.

It happened when we were sitting down to open Christmas presents. We had gathered around our fireplace that isn't a working fireplace yet due to the construction/repair our house has been undergoing the last few months. To make it seem more like a fireplace, and to give the illusion of a real tree (which we prefer but don't have this year) I had placed a votive candle holder in the fireplace and lit the pine-scented candles it held. As is our custom, we told the youngest, Evan, that he could start the present opening. But instead of heading for the tree to pick out a gift, he started to cry.

"Mommy! Mommy! My duplicate is dead!"

(For those who may not know, the word "duplicate" when used in this way comes from the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip and refers to imaginary, often multiple, copies of Calvin who assist him in a variety of ways--for example, taking the blame for bad behavior, or doing homework so that Calvin doesn't have to. Evan has embraced the concept of the duplicate and over the past year we have had our share of Evan duplicates running around the house.)

Back to the story. "What?" I asked. "What do you mean, your duplicate is dead?"

"He died! I buried him, right there in the fireplace." Evan's extended arm and pointing finger directed our attention to the place where his duplicate was purportedly buried, and we saw something we had not noticed before: Evan had picked up one of the used matches and written in front of the candles on the fireplace floor, in black ash, his name: "Evan."

The crying continued. It was not faked, but real. Horribly real. Evan was distraught.

"But Evan, duplicates are imaginary. They can't die. They're not real." This was my genius insight, which didn't help. The crying continued, and Evan continued:

"And now that he's dead he can't get me any presents!"

It was at this point that Dad stepped in.

"Evan, come here." Evan obeyed and was pulled on to his dad's lap.

Dad continued. "How did your duplicate die, Evan?"

"He fell down and hit his head very, very hard."

"I'm so sorry about that. That is very terrible. But you know what? Your duplicate will always be with you. He'll always be in your heart. You'll never forget him. Okay?"

"Okay." A few more sniffles and hugs all around, and all was well enough that the gift-opening could commence. Of course, now Evan's (and his duplicate's) mom was a basket case. Because as all this was going on, and as my husband was handling it in the right way, it dawned on me that Evan at seven years old is no different from any of us, whatever our age. When a special day comes, whether it's a holiday or a birthday or a graduation or a wedding, we look around and expect that certain people are going to be there (or if not there, within calling distance). When they aren't, we are reminded anew of the loss that we have experienced and the depth of the grief it has caused. They can't be with us anymore. We won't ever again, in this life, see their faces, hear their voices, or feel their arms around us or our hands in theirs. They won't ever be able to buy us another present. And oh, how that hurts.

Evan has attended four funerals in the last year-and-a-half, for two of his grandparents, his preschool teacher, and a beloved family friend who was once our pastor. With each of those deaths, I think a little part of Evan died, too, as it does in all of us when someone we love departs this life. Perhaps what we saw today was Evan's trying to come to terms with that loss and grief by "burying" a little part of himself. So rest in peace, Duplicate Evan. You served my little boy well. You gave your heart without reservation to those you loved, and I trust that with God's help the rest of the Evans will carry on in your stead, in turn giving their hearts to many who will be blessed by their prodigal love.

Funeral Arrangements for Louise Bolt

Visitation from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. on Thursday, February 25, 2010 at

Friedrich Jones Funeral Home
44 South Mill Street
Naperville, Illinois 60540
(In Downtown Naperville)
Phone: 630-355-0213

Directions:

From I-88 take the Winfield Rd. exit and go south to Diehl Rd.
Left on Diehl Rd. to Mill St. Right on Mill St. for 2 miles to Funeral Home on left.
(Abundant on-site parking & street parking is available)

From Washington and 75th Street take Washington north
Turn left on Aurora Rd
Turn right on Main
Turn left on Jackson
Turn right on Mill (funeral home is on right)

Additional Visitation from 12 p.m. to 1 p.m. on Friday, February 26, 2010 at
Bethany Lutheran Church & School
1550 Modaff Road
Naperville, IL 60565
630 355-2198

Funeral at Bethany Lutheran Church at 1 p.m. on Friday, February 26, 2010