In one of I. Merle Good’s musical plays there is a song with the line, “It hardly matters what I know or where I’ve been or where I go, if I have learned to live,” with the refrain, “If I have learned to live, then I have learned to die. It hardly matters how I die, or who I am remembered by, if I have learned to live.”
What makes death feel so tragic, especially that of a young person, is when a life hasn’t had a chance to be lived out, or in some case has been wasted or misspent.
Maybe we’ll never feel a life has been long enough to really be complete in the way one New Testament writer affirms, “I have fought a good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith.” With that sense of completion, one might be more nearly ready to die as one would retire at night after a full, satisfying and well spent day--tired, finished, ready to lie down and rest.
In our case, my wife and my remains are to go into an inexpensive casket and vault and buried in the cemetery of the Zion Mennonite Church south of Broadway, where I served as pastor for 20 years. But the simple memorial stone that will mark our burial site will not be our legacy. That we will be in whatever love we have managed to live, celebrate and leave behind for our children and whoever else’s lives we have been able to touch.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, March 5, 2012
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Remembering Dad
My father died on this day in 1985, after a long bout with emphysema and bronchiectasis. I had spent my last memorable twelve hours with him two nights earlier, taking my turn being by his bed at the Waynesboro, Virginia, hospital.
At age 80, dad was down to a fraction of his normal weight and strength. Sometimes disoriented, he couldn’t understand why I had to restrain him from getting out of bed or removing his oxygen tubes. In a strange reversal of roles, I was now the parent wishing I could somehow hold and comfort him in his pain and distress.
I don’t cry easily, but I couldn’t help losing it during my 45-minute ride home. Not only was I grieving the loss of my one and only dad--gentle, hospitable and generous to a fault--I was also mourning the father with whom I had never fully connected as I wished.
Financial struggles as I was growing up limited my father’s energy and time for us nine children, especially us younger ones. I realized in a new way on that long ride home how much I ached for more memories of fishing, playing ball or going for walks with my dad. I also wished I had been able to share with him more of my feelings, struggles and dreams as I was growing up. I also realized that any lack of closeness between us as adults was as much my fault as his.
Yet I was very much aware that he had given me much more as a parent than he had ever received from his own father. That truth had come to me in a new way a year earlier, when he and I had a 1 1/2 hour conversation in which I recorded many of his childhood memories. While I already knew much of the story, to have a recording of it in his own words was priceless.
A defining point in my father’s life was his losing his mother when he was three. And this was my grandfather Dan’s third time of becoming a widower. His first wife Lucy had died of measles at 23 after only four years of marriage, leaving him with a two-year-old son and nine-month-old daughter. On the day of Lucy’s funeral, daughter Anna also died of measles.
A decade later Dan’s second wife Rebecca died of tuberculosis at age 30, leaving him with five more children. Later that year their youngest daughter Mary died of the same disease, also at nine months of age.
Two years later Dan married Elizabeth, my grandmother, and had three more children, the youngest being my father, Ben. Then at 35 Elizabeth died of complications from her fourth pregnancy, leaving Dan, at 44, with nine living children.
My father has few memories of his next five years except of sometimes crying at night wishing he had a mother like other children he knew. He also wished for a warmer, more nurturing father instead of one he aptly described as a “man of sorrows.” Surely he was "acquainted with grief."
As if this weren’t enough family drama, five years later Dan married Miriam, a widow with nine children of her own. While eight-year-old Ben was glad to have a real mother again (and some new siblings) their blended family didn’t blend well, and the rest of my father’s childhood was marked by constant family tension and friction.
I’ve sometimes wondered what kind of dad should have come out of this troubled story, this mys-functional family. But instead of his becoming a highly depressed or bitter man, Ben became one of the kindest and most gracious people I’ve ever known--even though he had never learned how to hug us as children or to lavish us with praise (we did teach him to hug in his later years!).
On his deathbed he breathed the words of his favorite song, “Blessed Assurance,” the title of which appears on his tombstone, set right next to my mother’s, who had died of cancer fourteen years earlier. With her he had learned to live a new life, celebrate a new lyric, as in, “This is my story, This is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.”
He left no estate to divide among us, and barely enough savings to pay for his funeral. But we all received a much more valuable legacy, that of a sturdy faith and a graciously lived life.
Today I wish I could tell my father one more time how grateful I am for the way he turned his grief into an amazing grace. As I reflect on his life story, I am better able to embrace my own.
At age 80, dad was down to a fraction of his normal weight and strength. Sometimes disoriented, he couldn’t understand why I had to restrain him from getting out of bed or removing his oxygen tubes. In a strange reversal of roles, I was now the parent wishing I could somehow hold and comfort him in his pain and distress.
I don’t cry easily, but I couldn’t help losing it during my 45-minute ride home. Not only was I grieving the loss of my one and only dad--gentle, hospitable and generous to a fault--I was also mourning the father with whom I had never fully connected as I wished.
Financial struggles as I was growing up limited my father’s energy and time for us nine children, especially us younger ones. I realized in a new way on that long ride home how much I ached for more memories of fishing, playing ball or going for walks with my dad. I also wished I had been able to share with him more of my feelings, struggles and dreams as I was growing up. I also realized that any lack of closeness between us as adults was as much my fault as his.
Yet I was very much aware that he had given me much more as a parent than he had ever received from his own father. That truth had come to me in a new way a year earlier, when he and I had a 1 1/2 hour conversation in which I recorded many of his childhood memories. While I already knew much of the story, to have a recording of it in his own words was priceless.
A defining point in my father’s life was his losing his mother when he was three. And this was my grandfather Dan’s third time of becoming a widower. His first wife Lucy had died of measles at 23 after only four years of marriage, leaving him with a two-year-old son and nine-month-old daughter. On the day of Lucy’s funeral, daughter Anna also died of measles.
A decade later Dan’s second wife Rebecca died of tuberculosis at age 30, leaving him with five more children. Later that year their youngest daughter Mary died of the same disease, also at nine months of age.
Two years later Dan married Elizabeth, my grandmother, and had three more children, the youngest being my father, Ben. Then at 35 Elizabeth died of complications from her fourth pregnancy, leaving Dan, at 44, with nine living children.
My father has few memories of his next five years except of sometimes crying at night wishing he had a mother like other children he knew. He also wished for a warmer, more nurturing father instead of one he aptly described as a “man of sorrows.” Surely he was "acquainted with grief."
As if this weren’t enough family drama, five years later Dan married Miriam, a widow with nine children of her own. While eight-year-old Ben was glad to have a real mother again (and some new siblings) their blended family didn’t blend well, and the rest of my father’s childhood was marked by constant family tension and friction.
I’ve sometimes wondered what kind of dad should have come out of this troubled story, this mys-functional family. But instead of his becoming a highly depressed or bitter man, Ben became one of the kindest and most gracious people I’ve ever known--even though he had never learned how to hug us as children or to lavish us with praise (we did teach him to hug in his later years!).
On his deathbed he breathed the words of his favorite song, “Blessed Assurance,” the title of which appears on his tombstone, set right next to my mother’s, who had died of cancer fourteen years earlier. With her he had learned to live a new life, celebrate a new lyric, as in, “This is my story, This is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.”
He left no estate to divide among us, and barely enough savings to pay for his funeral. But we all received a much more valuable legacy, that of a sturdy faith and a graciously lived life.
Today I wish I could tell my father one more time how grateful I am for the way he turned his grief into an amazing grace. As I reflect on his life story, I am better able to embrace my own.
Friday, October 21, 2011
All We Have is Love
We just returned last night from being at our brother-in-law Vernon Zehr's memorial service at the Greenwood (Delaware) Mennonite Church, a bittersweet time of remembering, celebrating and mourning. It was one of the most moving funerals I have ever attended.
On the return trip, emotions still fresh and raw, I kept thinking about a piece our singer/songwriter son Brad wrote in 2005, and which is recorded on his latest album. He had just been with us for a weekend, and on his way home reflected on what he felt for members of his family, no matter how challenging relationships with loved ones can be:
love is all I have for you,
it will have to do,
if you were looking for a miracle,
the fact that we’re still here,
well that’s miraculous as anything
that I have seen magicians pull,
but I forgot the tricks I knew,
love is all I have for you..
In the end, love is what endures. More than even faith or hope, love never dies. It's what we have left after everyone and everything else is gone.
On the return trip, emotions still fresh and raw, I kept thinking about a piece our singer/songwriter son Brad wrote in 2005, and which is recorded on his latest album. He had just been with us for a weekend, and on his way home reflected on what he felt for members of his family, no matter how challenging relationships with loved ones can be:
it will have to do,
if you were looking for a miracle,
the fact that we’re still here,
well that’s miraculous as anything
that I have seen magicians pull,
but I forgot the tricks I knew,
love is all I have for you..
love is all I have for you,
love is all that’s left after the wind has blown the chaff away,
I laugh at what I tried to save,
and disappointment’s just a lens to magnify what might have been,
but none of that was ever true,
love is all I have for you,
I close my eyes, I’m a child by the water,
casting stones so circles spread,
then blink twice, and we’re old on a park bench,
watching birds eat scattered bread,
in between we lost track of time,
but she is kind enough to remind us..
the little space between goodbyes is really only pocket-sized,
I carry you around with me in case I need some sympathy,
this fear that we’re not good enough will disappear when morning comes,
‘cause none of that was ever true,
love is all I have for you..
miraculous as anything that I have seen magicians do,
but I forgot the tricks I knew,
love is all I have for you…
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Vernon Zehr 1934-2011
Our brother-in-law Vernon Zehr died Sunday at age 77 in Greenwood, Delaware. His obituary appears in today's Daily News-Record.
One of the many blessings of being married to Alma Jean has been inheriting 14 (yes, fourteen) wonderful in-laws, and Vernon, married to my wife’s next older sister Freda, was one of our favorites. They spent most of their adult lives in Wilmington, Delaware, where Vernon served in a dual role as a pastor and a special education teacher (and later principal).
As my wife commented to me this morning, there was so much of Jesus in this man. He loved everybody, reached out to the under served and ignored, saw every human being as special, wasn't afraid to question the religious establishment, and was as friendly, open minded and open hearted a man as one could find anywhere.
One of his nieces, Mary Ann Yutzy, daughter of another of my wife’s sisters, posted this on her blog Sunday in memory of her beloved uncle. I asked her permission to share this excerpt, which captures so well the kind of person he was:
I remember one time when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Freda come to visit us, and I was in the throes of young adolescence ('Addled Essence" would be more accurate, to be sure!). My hair was a mess, and my dress was dirty. I had been trying to clean up the kitchen, and I was talking to Uncle Vernon. We stored the frying pan in the oven at our house (Still do in my house, to this day!) But I had put a cake in to bake just a little before, and it was almost done. I was talking animatedly to Uncle Vernon, who always engaged me in conversation, and without thinking, I grabbed the frying pan and put it into the oven without looking, right on top of that almost baked cake. I felt an unfamiliar thud and then I looked in disbelief at the flattened and scrunched cake.
My Sweet Mama was not happy with me for ruining the cake. We had plans to use it for a dessert the next day that is similar to Cherry Delight. The only difference is that you use the baked cake as the bottom layer instead of a graham cracker crust. It was all the rage back then, and I am pretty sure that Mama was expecting company for lunch the next day. I don't know what she must have thought, but it WAS a result of not paying attention. (Something I was, unfortunately, quite famous for. Still am.) Uncle Vernon and Aunt Freda were the current company, though and so she didn't scold me too hard. But I felt awful, and I cried. We tried hard to repair and salvage, but it was still rather sorry looking.
Later, I was back in the kitchen, and Uncle Vernon came up to me and said, "Mary Ann. Come here." He took me to where our living room and dining room met, where there was a large, full length mirror, and positioned me in front of it. "Take a good look," he said. I did. Didn't particularly like what I saw, either. "What do you see?" he asked.
It really wasn't much to look at. My hair was stringy, falling down over my face. I reached up and tried to tuck it behind my ear. My dress, made of the shirtwaist pattern of the day, was an aqua gingham, rumpled and dirty. I was dreadfully self conscious. "Um, I don't know. Me?"
"Now, Mary Ann," he instructed kindly, "I want you to straighten your shoulders. Don't slump. And I want you to smile. You can smile." He took my hands gently in his and crossed them over my tummy. "Hold your hands just so. Like that. Now look at you. I see a beautiful young lady," he said with energy, confidence and enthusiasm. "Look at you! You really are a wonderful young lady. You are intelligent and you will go far."
I looked in the mirror. I smiled at the girl in the mirror and she smiled back. I felt a surge of confidence like I had never known before. I didn't feel beautiful, but I felt capable. I knew I wasn't gorgeous. I certainly didn't have a reason to be vain, but I really did feel like I could meet the challenges of life, and that I had something to offer this old world, and it felt really, really good.
I have always blessed him for that day. It was pivotal in my life. It was many, many years before I understood how "Uncle Vernon" that was. He lived and breathed encouragement. He looked for something to praise, something to give hope, something to affirm.
I pray that part of Vernon Zehr can live on in each of us.
May he rest in peace.
One of the many blessings of being married to Alma Jean has been inheriting 14 (yes, fourteen) wonderful in-laws, and Vernon, married to my wife’s next older sister Freda, was one of our favorites. They spent most of their adult lives in Wilmington, Delaware, where Vernon served in a dual role as a pastor and a special education teacher (and later principal).
As my wife commented to me this morning, there was so much of Jesus in this man. He loved everybody, reached out to the under served and ignored, saw every human being as special, wasn't afraid to question the religious establishment, and was as friendly, open minded and open hearted a man as one could find anywhere.
One of his nieces, Mary Ann Yutzy, daughter of another of my wife’s sisters, posted this on her blog Sunday in memory of her beloved uncle. I asked her permission to share this excerpt, which captures so well the kind of person he was:
I remember one time when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Freda come to visit us, and I was in the throes of young adolescence ('Addled Essence" would be more accurate, to be sure!). My hair was a mess, and my dress was dirty. I had been trying to clean up the kitchen, and I was talking to Uncle Vernon. We stored the frying pan in the oven at our house (Still do in my house, to this day!) But I had put a cake in to bake just a little before, and it was almost done. I was talking animatedly to Uncle Vernon, who always engaged me in conversation, and without thinking, I grabbed the frying pan and put it into the oven without looking, right on top of that almost baked cake. I felt an unfamiliar thud and then I looked in disbelief at the flattened and scrunched cake.
My Sweet Mama was not happy with me for ruining the cake. We had plans to use it for a dessert the next day that is similar to Cherry Delight. The only difference is that you use the baked cake as the bottom layer instead of a graham cracker crust. It was all the rage back then, and I am pretty sure that Mama was expecting company for lunch the next day. I don't know what she must have thought, but it WAS a result of not paying attention. (Something I was, unfortunately, quite famous for. Still am.) Uncle Vernon and Aunt Freda were the current company, though and so she didn't scold me too hard. But I felt awful, and I cried. We tried hard to repair and salvage, but it was still rather sorry looking.
Later, I was back in the kitchen, and Uncle Vernon came up to me and said, "Mary Ann. Come here." He took me to where our living room and dining room met, where there was a large, full length mirror, and positioned me in front of it. "Take a good look," he said. I did. Didn't particularly like what I saw, either. "What do you see?" he asked.
It really wasn't much to look at. My hair was stringy, falling down over my face. I reached up and tried to tuck it behind my ear. My dress, made of the shirtwaist pattern of the day, was an aqua gingham, rumpled and dirty. I was dreadfully self conscious. "Um, I don't know. Me?"
"Now, Mary Ann," he instructed kindly, "I want you to straighten your shoulders. Don't slump. And I want you to smile. You can smile." He took my hands gently in his and crossed them over my tummy. "Hold your hands just so. Like that. Now look at you. I see a beautiful young lady," he said with energy, confidence and enthusiasm. "Look at you! You really are a wonderful young lady. You are intelligent and you will go far."
I looked in the mirror. I smiled at the girl in the mirror and she smiled back. I felt a surge of confidence like I had never known before. I didn't feel beautiful, but I felt capable. I knew I wasn't gorgeous. I certainly didn't have a reason to be vain, but I really did feel like I could meet the challenges of life, and that I had something to offer this old world, and it felt really, really good.
I have always blessed him for that day. It was pivotal in my life. It was many, many years before I understood how "Uncle Vernon" that was. He lived and breathed encouragement. He looked for something to praise, something to give hope, something to affirm.
I pray that part of Vernon Zehr can live on in each of us.
May he rest in peace.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Ain't Got Time to Fix The... Shingles?
For a bit of a health update (am I getting old or what?) here's part of the weekly e-blessing I sent to my adult children today:
The older I get, the more I'm grateful for how blessed I've been. Life that has been good way beyond deserving, with my wonderfully loving family and church family, good health, meaningful work and wonderful opportunities to grow and serve.
The older I get, the more I'm grateful for how blessed I've been. Life that has been good way beyond deserving, with my wonderfully loving family and church family, good health, meaningful work and wonderful opportunities to grow and serve.
All this became even more vivid in my mind when I noticed some strange, ugly looking sores on my chest and my back last Tuesday. I had been experiencing some itchiness in those areas for about a week but had never seen anything like this. I first thought I might be experiencing a recurrence of my one and only diagnosis of "cancer" twenty-plus years ago, involving a small spot on my thigh that turned out to be an easily removed case of basal cell carcinoma. But this looked far worse, and I was thinking something far more serious, like melanoma (!). Strangely enough, I found myself not only feeling the dread of a big "What if...", but a sense of peace in having enjoyed a long and truly satisfying life and feeling quite ready to go if that were my lot.
My good skin specialist, Dr. Carolyn Miller, whom I got to see Thursday, took one good look and immediately said, "Oh, you've got a case of shingles." Much as I hated to hear that (having heard all kinds of horror stories about the condition) I felt a great sense of relief as well. I hadn't expected this diagnosis, since I had gotten a shingles shot over two years before, but was told that would at least help me experience fewer and less prolonged symptoms, and was prescribed a medication that seems to be helping.
I guess it's all a part of growing older. It's life. There is spring and there is autumn, the season I'm in now.
Here's a quote by Parker Palmer, a Quaker writer I've come to appreciate. It's from his book, "Courage To Lead":
"This hopeful notion that living is hidden within dying is surely enhanced by the visual glories of autumn. What artist would ever have painted a season of dying with such a vivid palette if nature had not done it first? Does death possess a beauty that we - who fear death, who find it ugly and obscene-cannot see? How shall we understand autumn's testimony that death and elegance go hand in hand?
For me, the words that come closest to answering those questions are the words of Thomas Merton: There is in all visible things ... a hidden wholeness. In the visible world of nature, a great truth is concealed in plain sight: diminishment and beauty, darkness and light, death and life are not opposites. They are held together in the paradox of the hidden wholeness."
For me, the words that come closest to answering those questions are the words of Thomas Merton: There is in all visible things ... a hidden wholeness. In the visible world of nature, a great truth is concealed in plain sight: diminishment and beauty, darkness and light, death and life are not opposites. They are held together in the paradox of the hidden wholeness."
Love and blessings,
Dad
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Goodby, Lucy (1929-2003)
I wrote this as my quarterly column for VALLEY LIVING soon after my sister Lucy's death, and post it today in her memory:
While we were watching around her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn’t see...
She saw Old Death,
Coming like a falling star...
And Death took her up like a baby...
On to the Great White Throne,
And there he laid sister Caroline
On the loving breast of Jesus.
I thought of these lines from James Weldon Johnson’s “Go Down, Death” as we gathered around my dying sister Lucy’s bed September 15, 2003, just eight years ago. At 74, she was in what seemed like a deep sleep, each breath becoming slower and more labored.
Hers had been a 19-year struggle with Parkinson’s disease, and it was ending with her at home, surrounded by those dearest to her, her husband Alvin, her four daughters and two sons, all present to the last. There could be no more wonderful way to go, I thought.
I was only nine when Lucy, whose name means “bringer of light,” married the love of her life, Alvin Schrock, one of the most stable and gentle men I have ever known. Their children, blessed with good genes and great parents, turned out remarkably well, and were supportive and caring beyond the call of duty during their mother’s long illness.
One of my regrets is that Lucy’s marriage had her leaving home well before I was finished growing up. She was the third in our family and I was number eight, next to the youngest. As a child, Lucy didn’t thrive, health-wise, like the rest, but managed to grow up to become a hard worker and a great Mom. She always seemed a little less argumentative, less aggressive than her three brothers and five sisters, a quality I associated with her saintliness and self-control.
Life isn’t always fair, one of the ministers at Lucy’s funeral reminded us, and yet, he added, it often offers us more blessings than we deserve. For those of us left behind, Lucy was clearly one of them.
At the close of her memorial service the congregation sang together while we went to a private meeting room at the church for a last family viewing. Only Lucy’s husband and her children and ten grandchildren stood around the open casket at the end. Alvin, though an ordained minister, was now less the patriarch and pastor than the grieving husband of nearly 55 seasons. After a time of silence, he shared halting and heart-felt words of memory with his family flock, then personally arranged the cloth casket lining around Lucy’s body--as if tucking her in for the last time--and solemnly closed it for good. Our tears came freely as we heard the congregation nearby, in beautiful four-part harmony, sing “O come, angel band, come and around me stand. O bear me away on your snowy wings to my eternal home.”
At the burial site, with signs of Hurricane Isabel approaching, the pallbearers, three nephews and three grandsons, lowered her casket into the grave and lovingly covered it with Augusta County soil. Other friends, family members, grandsons and granddaughters likewise took turns shoveling blankets of earth over the grave. No professional funeral directors were present, only Lucy's loved ones surrounding the family gathered under the white canopy, singing from memory hymns of faith to strengthen the soul and comfort the heart.
A bittersweet goodbye to our Lucy.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter--weep no more;
She’s only just gone home. (James Weldon Johnson)
While we were watching around her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn’t see...
She saw Old Death,
Coming like a falling star...
And Death took her up like a baby...
On to the Great White Throne,
And there he laid sister Caroline
On the loving breast of Jesus.
I thought of these lines from James Weldon Johnson’s “Go Down, Death” as we gathered around my dying sister Lucy’s bed September 15, 2003, just eight years ago. At 74, she was in what seemed like a deep sleep, each breath becoming slower and more labored.
Hers had been a 19-year struggle with Parkinson’s disease, and it was ending with her at home, surrounded by those dearest to her, her husband Alvin, her four daughters and two sons, all present to the last. There could be no more wonderful way to go, I thought.
I was only nine when Lucy, whose name means “bringer of light,” married the love of her life, Alvin Schrock, one of the most stable and gentle men I have ever known. Their children, blessed with good genes and great parents, turned out remarkably well, and were supportive and caring beyond the call of duty during their mother’s long illness.
One of my regrets is that Lucy’s marriage had her leaving home well before I was finished growing up. She was the third in our family and I was number eight, next to the youngest. As a child, Lucy didn’t thrive, health-wise, like the rest, but managed to grow up to become a hard worker and a great Mom. She always seemed a little less argumentative, less aggressive than her three brothers and five sisters, a quality I associated with her saintliness and self-control.
Life isn’t always fair, one of the ministers at Lucy’s funeral reminded us, and yet, he added, it often offers us more blessings than we deserve. For those of us left behind, Lucy was clearly one of them.
At the close of her memorial service the congregation sang together while we went to a private meeting room at the church for a last family viewing. Only Lucy’s husband and her children and ten grandchildren stood around the open casket at the end. Alvin, though an ordained minister, was now less the patriarch and pastor than the grieving husband of nearly 55 seasons. After a time of silence, he shared halting and heart-felt words of memory with his family flock, then personally arranged the cloth casket lining around Lucy’s body--as if tucking her in for the last time--and solemnly closed it for good. Our tears came freely as we heard the congregation nearby, in beautiful four-part harmony, sing “O come, angel band, come and around me stand. O bear me away on your snowy wings to my eternal home.”
At the burial site, with signs of Hurricane Isabel approaching, the pallbearers, three nephews and three grandsons, lowered her casket into the grave and lovingly covered it with Augusta County soil. Other friends, family members, grandsons and granddaughters likewise took turns shoveling blankets of earth over the grave. No professional funeral directors were present, only Lucy's loved ones surrounding the family gathered under the white canopy, singing from memory hymns of faith to strengthen the soul and comfort the heart.
A bittersweet goodbye to our Lucy.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter--weep no more;
She’s only just gone home. (James Weldon Johnson)
Thursday, August 25, 2011
"Put Everything Back in the Box"
Some time ago I attended the memorial service of a long time friend and a former member of the church where I served as pastor for many years. As a part of his funeral message, Dick Blackwell shared the story of a child who often played Monopoly with his mom. Most of the time she was the clear winner, with her son being the sad loser.
Finally one day, as he became more savvy at the game, he had the satisfaction of coming out on top, with the most hotels, a couple of railroads, the electric company, and other properties and cash.
Then his mother said, as she always did, “Now we have to put everything back in the box.”
The boy's response was, “But I don’t want to. I want to just keep everything I’ve gained on the board.”
But she insisted, “No, when the game is over, we have to put everything back in the box.”
As I was hearing the story I couldn’t keep my eyes off of my friend’s flower covered casket in the front of us. I thought to myself, that is literally where they will put all that's physically left of us when our short time here is over. There will be no U-Hauls carrying our possessions behind the hearse that takes us to cemetery. Everything will have to be boxed up and put away.
Bottom line: The only thing we can claim as being ours forever is what we’ve given away, invested in the lives of others in need who will be blessed by how we’ve shared with them.
And through whatever legacy of influence we leave with our children and others.
It's what Jesus referred to as “treasure in heaven.”
P.S. There is book by John Ortberg entitled "When the Game is Over, It All Goes Back in the Box," where this story can be found. http://www.amazon.com/When-Game-Over-Goes-Back/dp/0310253500
Finally one day, as he became more savvy at the game, he had the satisfaction of coming out on top, with the most hotels, a couple of railroads, the electric company, and other properties and cash.
Then his mother said, as she always did, “Now we have to put everything back in the box.”
The boy's response was, “But I don’t want to. I want to just keep everything I’ve gained on the board.”
But she insisted, “No, when the game is over, we have to put everything back in the box.”
As I was hearing the story I couldn’t keep my eyes off of my friend’s flower covered casket in the front of us. I thought to myself, that is literally where they will put all that's physically left of us when our short time here is over. There will be no U-Hauls carrying our possessions behind the hearse that takes us to cemetery. Everything will have to be boxed up and put away.
Bottom line: The only thing we can claim as being ours forever is what we’ve given away, invested in the lives of others in need who will be blessed by how we’ve shared with them.
And through whatever legacy of influence we leave with our children and others.
It's what Jesus referred to as “treasure in heaven.”
P.S. There is book by John Ortberg entitled "When the Game is Over, It All Goes Back in the Box," where this story can be found. http://www.amazon.com/When-Game-Over-Goes-Back/dp/0310253500
Monday, February 14, 2011
Six Dozen Red Roses for Dawn
 |
| Dawn always loved roses like these. |
In his haste to get in his order in on one of his busy days at his Atmore, Alabama, practice, he mistakenly ordered six dozen roses instead, which meant 72 of these fragrant beauties were delivered to his awestruck wife instead of six. Dawn was way beyond simply surprised, of course, and Jon, though chagrined at what he had to pay for his extravagance, figured his beloved wife was worth every bit of that and more, so the two of them enjoyed a big laugh over his mistake.
Neither of them could have imagined that on July 6, just over five months later, 50-year-old Dawn would be fatally struck by lightning just outside their home while taking out some household trash. When a friend from her church found her lying on the ground unconscious, she was rushed to a nearby hospital emergency room, then transferred to a medical center in Mobile where she lay in a coma and on life support for two agonizing days of waiting before being pronounced dead.
In an e-mail circulated among members of the extended family, Jon described his experience during that time,.. “My heart cries out... as I see my wife, and our children's mother lying helplessly, and I ask why? But two things I know is that God is strong, and that he is loving. Dawn remains essentially in a coma this morning with only the faintest response to pain, and minimal fluttering of the eyelids. It is hard to see her like that, but we are praying for faith for a miracle... There remains a huge knot in my abdomen where my stomach used to be, and the future looks uncertain...but one thing we know is who is in control....Continue to pray.... Your outpourings of love and support for us mean a lot more than you will ever know; God is faithful...”
Dawn died on July 8, 2009, terribly missed as the wonderful mother of four young adult children, two sons and two daughters, and as the wife of Jonathan, with whom she lived and loved for 29 blessed years. She was a selfless and giving person who served her family, church family and community in countless ways, and who left a multitude of friends and family members in a prolonged state of grief and disbelief.
There is more to the story. Several years before Dawn had given her oldest daughter a rose bush to plant for her birthday, one of the unusually fragrant and rich red “Mr. Lincoln” variety. For years it bloomed faithfully every spring, but during the months following Dawn’s tragic death, it appeared to have died, resulting in Jonathan's deciding to simply mow over the remaining brown stems with his lawnmower.
Later last summer, on the July 17 morning of their oldest son Robert's wedding, Jon witnessed the resurrected plant’s first bloom of the season, an exceptionally beautiful dark red rose that reminded him powerfully of his precious Dawn.
It was as if she were saying, "I am still with you. Nothing we had together will ever be completely lost. Everything will bloom again forever. "
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)