Apr 29, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word
This post is part three of a wee series. Part One is here and Part Two is here. If you’re keen. 🙂
Losing someone you love doesn’t cause you to ask a question no one has ever asked before, although it can sometimes feel like it. I think most questions about God can basically be summed up in just a few, and this is one of them:
If God is good, then why do bad things happen?
And here’s my best attempt at explaining what I believe about how this bad thing has been allowed to happen inside the will of a good God.
In this case, the bad thing was the loss of my Dad just now, at the age of 64, when I wish we’d had more time, when I felt so much good stuff was still to come. When I was counting on writing the book he inspired by simply speaking words of life about my gifts to me, and when I was planning on dedicating that book to him. And when these little grandkids were just getting to know him. And I kind of felt like I was, too.
{I still will dedicate that book to him, in case you’re wondering.}
{Dad & the Bear, before my sister’s wedding in 2009}
There’s a basic building block on which a lot of things hinge for me. And it’s the belief that free will is a dignity bestowed upon us by a God who loves us enough to let us choose whether or not to love Him back. If I held a gun to your head and said Tell me ya love me, sweetheart, you’d probably oblige me pretty quickly. But the intrinsic value of your answer — my guess is it’d be pretty meaningless. Right?
Love can’t be forced.
So, in the wisdom of God, He created a world where we all have the ability to make choices. Lots of different kinds of choices. Like the choice to exercise, to eat peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese, to name one of our kids Hamish or Apple.
One of the choices my Dad made was with regard to his health. He was working toward getting healthier — trying to diet and exercise — but he didn’t really listen to the warning signs, the bells and whistles his body was sounding off to say “Things aren’t right! Things aren’t good!”
These were signs like shortness of breath and chest pains, the inability to walk uphill for an extended amount of time without losing his breath and needing to sit down for a while, issues with his blood pressure.
I guess he thought he could take matters into his own hands, and he tried hard: but counting calories and pedaling on his bike each day wasn’t enough.
There’s a very real possibility that my Dad’s decision not to go to a doctor when he was exhibiting signs of heart disease cost him his life.
Knowing this, who is there for me to shake my fist at, except my Dad, really? Yes I wish I’d said more, cajoled more, made a bigger deal about it when I was first told that he was having chest pains and I talked to him about going to the doctor and he said “He’d get around to it.”
I have regrets.
Ultimately, a 64 year old man who is exhibiting chest pains and showing other concerning signs needs to do the grown-up thing: visit a doctor. But my Dad didn’t.
He exercised free will. He made the choice to postpone, to procrastinate, to put off.
To that, I don’t feel right about saying Why, God, why?
The appropriate thing to me is more like Why, Dad, why?
For the sake of further explanation, let’s say the circumstances were different. Let’s say he was minding his own business, driving home one evening and an absentminded driver was texting instead of steering, shot through a red light, and that was the end of the story.
Well, I’d still point to choices. I’d still point to free will.
It would’ve been someone else’s free will, in that scenario — but still, I’d point to free will instead of our Maker.
Of course, your next question might be, there’s disease. There’s famine. There’s poverty. There are hungry kids dying… whose free will do we point to then?
And the thing is, if I believe the account of creation that starts with In the beginning, then I believe that God created a world that was really, very good. Paradise even.
Our own decisions, one after another, from the beginning, contributed to the fall — the change from Paradise to arguments about gun control, hunger, disease, a bomber at the Boston marathon.
It all started with one big word I can’t escape using: Sin.
The decision to deliberately choose something other than God’s goodness completely changed the game. Changed the world forever. Introduced not good into a world that had previously been always only ever wholly good.
And our individual, daily decisions affect each other more than we realize. We want to buy clothes at a good price, so manufacturers look for cheap labor to fit the bill. Sure, you and I don’t want children in Thailand to head to a sweat shop for the sake of our cheap t-shirts. But, we’re more connected than we think, and in a way, we’re all partly to blame.
Our individual decisions to use disposable diapers for decades could mean a world-wide problem for centuries. Our individual decisions to vote like this or like that have consequences that affect us all.
And for a very long time, the world has been full of people, making their own choices. Our choices are often not good, and the consequences, well, they naturally follow suit.
I hope you hear me. I think this is big.
So now, I sit on the other side of this loss, and this experience like nothing I’ve ever felt before. But I don’t see God as the problem — I am certain He is the place from whence come the solutions.
Am I disappointed a miracle didn’t happen the way I hoped?
For sure. I really loved my Dad. I don’t want to live the rest of my life without him.
And there is still an unresolved why? I think there always will be. Why did I bump into an old friend at the hospital whose Dad had a heart attack the same day? Why did she get a miracle… and why didn’t I?
But I have tasted the sweetness of redemption before. I know the Redeemer, and I picture Him at the loom, already weaving this dark, harsh thread into a bigger tapestry, and it’s something beautiful.
He didn’t cause this. In infinite wisdom, He did allow this. He can use this to create something beautiful.
This morning I danced in the living room with my boys. And when I say I danced I mean I all-out danced. Like no one was looking. Hair-flying, kid spinning, air guitar rocking, sore-cheek grinning.
I breathed deeply, excited about the possibilities of life that lay before my little family.
I will cry some more. But I will laugh more, too.
From loss I already see so much gain — there’s fresh purpose in my heart to guard the relationships with my Mom, my siblings, my husband, my precious kids, recognizing we will only walk the road together for so long.
I am hungry again to refuse a faith that goes through the motions, to plunge deep into the bottomless well of God, to drink deeply and to love the world around me fully again.
It’s as if this cloud descended, and I got wrapped up in the minutia of life, returning to North Carolina and trying to figure out how to do life again here.
But as the grief lifts, little by little, so the clouds lift with it. I’m looking up more than down.
And with wholehearted assurance my Dad is in a better place, I look forward to the day when I see him again, the day when there are no more whys for asking.
For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. {I Cor. 13:12}
If you’re reading this, and you’re also grieving, I hope you believe me when I say life is still beautiful. Hold on to the things that are truly valuable — and take the time to figure out just what those things are. Guard your heart, put your hope in the right place — let it anchor your soul through the storm.
xCC
Apr 25, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word
This is the second post of a wee series discussing the recent loss of my Dad. You can read the first post here.
I’ll be honest with you. The unexpected loss of my Dad felt like a suckerpunch to the gut. I was looking the other way. I didn’t know I was in the ring. I didn’t know I was in a fight.
Wham.
And grief is this spiraling, strange whirlwind of the mind. You begin to feel a little better, and then you feel bad for feeling better. You aren’t sure which emotions are valid, you aren’t sure where irrational departs from rational. You secretly want to punch people for telling you they know exactly how you feel, but you’re not a violent person.
And yet, death has this way of making your entire life seem clear as an empty wine glass — even just for a moment.
Do you know that moment, when you walk on the beach, and past a pier? You look out towards the ocean while you’re under the pier and all the pilings line up, and the moment seems clear. Everything makes sense.
This is why we left South Africa sooner than we thought we should have.
This is why the gift of our third child being born right when she was makes so much sense.
And wow, when she arrived, my Dad was several states away — he returned to visit his birthplace for the first time in his life. A few months before he died.
What a gift that our finances were so tight, and we were offered this place to stay in Washington, and we didn’t decide to move to Greenville. Wow, wow, wow.
Life lines up, and there’s a lot of stuff you just ‘get.’ Instantly, you see the wisdom, the structure, the logic. It builds your faith and gives you hope.
But the grief journey continues. When you walk out from under the pier, the pilings don’t look perfectly organized anymore. The waves are crashing, surfers are scattered about, dropping in on each other’s waves. Seagulls are squawking. The glare from the sun is bright. You’re squinting, wondering, wishing, thinking.
If I’d really, really made a big deal out of the fact that he needed to go to the doctor, would it have made a difference?
Why couldn’t we have come back sooner?
Why did I say “no” so many times when Dad asked me something? Let’s garden together… Let’s decorate the tree at my house… Should we do twice-baked potatoes?
You struggle to form complete sentences in your own thoughts. You absent-mindedly stare into the distance. You get into your Dad’s car, and the smell reminds you of him. You listen to the voicemails he left you last month.
You cry. At the drop of a hat.
That’s the journey. Those are the cards in my hand.
I’m going to do my best to explain how I’m making sense of all this in my mind, how I’m dealing with it. Because I think it matters.
Even if it doesn’t matter to you, per se, it is an exercise in processing through grief for me. When I have little else, most times, I still have words.
And I want you folks, new and old, who read here to know that I stand on the other side, more confident than ever that what I’ve been saying about this Jesus guy is true.
I’m certain God is good. I’m certain there is hope, there is good ahead of me.
And I’m certain, thanking Jesus as I type, I will see my Dad again.
More soon…
Have you ever had a pier moment? Are you trying to make some life-sized decisions and struggling to figure them out? Try thinking about what would be most important to you if you lost someone close to you today. Death has an amazing way of putting life into better perspective.
xCC
Apr 24, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word
I imagine the time has to come, at least once, in the life of any person who professes that Jesus was Who He said He was and is Who He says He is. It’s the time when the Theology you’ve been studying and thinking and believing and writing about and talking about has to either be the Truth you cling to in the fire, in the storm, or else it becomes the curtain that gets pulled back to reveal a poor, tired soul whose only hope was placed firmly in something akin to smoke and mirrors.
My Dad meant a lot to me. And in our last few years together, I felt like I was getting to know a man I’d never really been acquainted with. Sure, I have great memories from my childhood, of a Dad who loved his Miller Light with a slice of lime, would rather have been at the beach than anywhere else, who sang along, just a little, to Beach Music on the radio and wore RayBan Wayfarers long before they a throwback making a comeback.
I also remember a Dad who could get pretty angry pretty quickly. Who I was a little scared of. Who sent my childhood best bud running home for supper when we heard his car coming up the driveway. I think I hear my Mom calling…
But the man I met when I came back to North Carolina was not exactly the same man. This was the Dad who held onto a pen from the days when I worked at a Pawn Shop so that he could stick it in my Christmas card one year, a card filled with life-giving words about my ability with words, his belief that I would write words that would matter. He became a cheerleader, an advocate, an encourager.
And one hot summer day when we were overwhelmingly busy with trying to start our photography business, trying so hard to get things off the ground, juggling life and kids and transition, I heard a big noise, and looked out the window to see that my Dad had towed his lawnmower over to our house — we didn’t have one yet — and there he was, in the heat of the day, riding his lawnmower back and forth to cut our grass for us.
The Renaissance Man was cutting my grass. He was a different Dad. I loved him more than ever before.
And that last day came, when he bounced the baby on his lap while I typed away at the keys of the computer for him. And I can’t explain it, but my heart was so happy that day. And I told him I loved him and he left and I remember thinking about walking outside just to tell him again how much I loved him, how thankful I was for him. I sure do wish I had.
Stuff was just happy. I was so thankful.
HH came home that evening, and I looked around our mess-of-a-house with a smile. And, beaming, I said something like this: “Even though our house is a mess, and Blakey had a poop accident that went everywhere, and I don’t like where we live, and everything feels crazy and today was really frustrating, I think I’m finally content. I think I’ve finally found contentment.”
And four hours later, while we sat and ate some ice cream together, children asleep down the hall, my phone rang with the news.
It was the beginning of the end.
So the question has to be asked. The Why question.
Why now?
Why my Dad?
Why when I think I’ve finally learned contentment, finally discovered so much peace and joy nestled inside a heart so grateful for the love and support of being near my Mom and Dad again?
If God is X then Why?
And this is where the testing happens, where you find out if that faith you’re claiming to hold onto gets tossed in the fire, and you find out whether or not it’s fireproof.
My endeavor for the week in the hospital was to stay fully present. To honor my Dad by not just physically, but also mentally, emotionally, staying present in everything that was happening. Not to let go of hope if there was hope to hold onto. Not to check out at the register when I was still supposed to be on Aisle 3.
My best efforts were symbolic gestures — the things that work in my mind, that make sense to me, that say “I’m still here” inside my head. I wore a purple dress on the day we said goodbye. I wore it again to the funeral. I brought yellow flowers to the hospital that day. I made sure I got the chance to stroke his head one more time. I spent ages trying to make choices about the funeral service.
I sensed an abiding Presence through it all. I might do my best to try to explain that another day.
Once the week was finished, the funeral and the celebration of life all gone, I began to face reality without my Dad. And the real testing began.
My longwinded explanation of how I’m handling the “Why” might take a bit, so bear with me…
To be continued with love,
xCC
Has life ever forced you to find a Z at the end of a big Y? Do you think you managed to find one?
Apr 5, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Parenthood
Seems I’ve gotten a little behind on sharing the monthly photos of the new addition around here. I keep on keeping on (with the photos) because I love knowing our precious family further away enjoys seeing the month-by-month progress of our sweet small people. Love you folks… thank you for your patience… I tell you, I understood and believed before, what Psalm 127:3 says about children:
“Children are a gift from the Lord;
they are a reward from Him.” {NLT}
But after walking through the hardest month of my life last month, I just had no idea how much of a gift they could be.
I took these pictures of this little girl in February, when life seemed a little simpler. The task fell to me again, though I’d always defer to the Hubs’ superior camera skills, because he was out of town for a few days. Perhaps since things went will with the two months photos, the Belle trusted me this time, and things continued to go well…
The thing I learned about children being a gift, in the time that followed this picture-taking session, had a lot to do with appreciating for new reasons that irresistible joy that comes so naturally to children.
On those long, sad days in the hospital, while I was just waiting and hoping I’d get to see my Dad again this side of heaven, this little girl was a very visible and constant reminder that life does keep going, life will keep going, even if there is loss.
She brought joy to other people in the hospital, perhaps in similar positions to ours, waiting and wondering.
She already started living up to the things I said before about her name. Meaning “Beautiful Altar,” I was hoping she would be a place where heaven and earth collide.
And in that week of heavy grief, where I was weighed down with emotions I didn’t know my soul was capable of enduring, leaving the room where my Dad was dying, returning to the lobby, where she was learning and smiling and growing and beginning… it was hard, it was beautiful.
It was like seeing all of time in a single moment, like watching a drop of water fall to the ground in slow motion. This life and my Dad’s collided for such a brief period of time. He bounced her on his knee, made her giggle and smile. She returned the favor with peals of laughter and grins, her gift to him was joy. I thought about whether he’d be able to dance at her wedding.
And the gift that children are has everything to do with hope, hope for the future. When times are hard and people are discouraged, they often say “I don’t want to bring children into this world.” Children begin to be seen as burdens to bear, small people who will soon need college educations and car keys.
But an aging society is not a healthy one. Kids are the future innovators, the brave ones who’ll plow forward when we’re gone. They’re a gift to us, and we love them and teach them and grow them and then give them as gifts to the world, in hopes that by being here, they’ll make it a better place.
Heaven touched Earth as this precious little girl looked up at me with smiles, with trust, with the kind of faith that I want to have. Sure she cried some in that lobby, fighting falling asleep in a new environment, waiting for me to come back from a conversation with doctors when it was time for her to eat.
We all cry sometimes.
But that irresistible joy, her peaceful nature, her happy hope, were a gift to my soul to remind me there’s still so much good ahead. Somehow, just maybe, the best is yet to come.
I didn’t know when she arrived last November, full of need, to be fed and held and changed and clothed and loved, that I might turn out to be the needy one sooner than I expected. And she became a gift from God at a time when I needed Him to touch my life in the most tangible, physical, I can hold onto this until I can hold onto hope again way.
For all these months I might not have thought too much about it, might not have observed. But how fitting, all along, I have been receiving this unwrapped gift from heaven, and adding my own bow.
To God be the glory.
xCC
Mar 26, 2013 | In the Name of Love
The time finally came, when that last breath was breathed, and the next moment I had feared the most was upon us.
We sat all four years of him down, on his Da-da’s lap, on the couch. Three of us together – sit down your cars sweetie and let’s talk for a little while.
I heard the words I never wanted to say come out of my husband’s mouth, tears on his cheeks, tears on mine.
The Bear listened quiet, intense. Turned away slightly, leaned his curved back deep into HH’s chest.
We saw a face on him we’d never seen before. He was deep in a far-away land, the synapses in his brain weaving together an understanding of what all this really meant.
They tried the best they could, but G-pa’s gone.
Based on what we’d read and heard, we did our best not to be confusing – to say it all straight. Using real words like “death” and “died” instead of “passed on” or “no longer with us.” Strange how simple words just made of letters can feel like sharp swords on a tongue. Especially if you have to say them to ears so small, ears so young.
He thought for a long time. We tried to do more to explain, we stayed quiet, three of us together.
He turned, resolute, but gentle, faith like a child said, “But, I’m going to save the day.”
If only. If only.
My heart swelled, proud, blessed, sad, sad.
Trying to explain my tears a little later on I offered, “G-pa was my Da-da… so I am very sad.”
He took it in, straight to heart. And hope counter-offered, “Uncle Russ can be your Da-da now.”
…
I wasn’t ready to let go of the tulips in my hand at the burial – green stems and leaves, buds still closed so tight I don’t know what color they were going to be. He turned and said, “You can put your flowers up there, Mama.”
“Will you do it for me, my boy?” I asked.
Gently, careful, there he laid them with Aunt Dodi’s, Uncle Russ’s.
I stared for a long time, stayed still and wiped tears.
…
Here we are with a new day, a new week, and there is hope. Always.
We talk of Easter, and he comes home from church with brightly coloured eggs in a carton, numbered to stay in order, each symbolizing a moment of the Easter story. I’m trying hard to re-engage. We rehearse what the things inside mean – the donkey, because Jesus rode one into Jerusalem, the cup, wine from the passover meal, a thorny branch, the crown of thorns.
Gloriously beautiful – number 12 is empty.
I’m surprised to see a toothpick-sword, and stumble to explain Jesus on the cross. How the blood and the water flowed from his side — a mighty declaration: we are forgiven, our debt is paid, we are free, we are clean.
It’s only later he stops me with the question: Did they poke G-pa’s side when he died?
Oh, no, I’m eager to explain. Looking for words, think quick, think quick. When G-pa died, it was very peaceful. I breathe slowly. In—out—in—-out—-. I close my eyes. It was just like falling asleep. A few more breaths, eyes still gently shut, I smile.
So dying is like going to sleep?
Kind of, yes. It was very peaceful.
…..
Not long after, some words found me. About a man and his wife, at the hospital and all was well. She’d given birth the day before to their first, precious baby girl, and she’d rested from her c-section and twenty-four hours passed, and the time came, joy of joys, the wheelchair came to take her to meet that face she’d probably dreamed of. She stood to take the seat, complained of being dizzy, passed out and was gone. A pulmonary embolism, and that was it. He was left to head home from the hospital, precious baby girl, Mama gone.
He says he used to be a cynic, but he’s not anymore. He finds himself giving motivational speeches to bank tellers.
And all of this swells my heart, near breaking to say: Hope, there you are. Hope, you keep on finding me. I could sit right here and count 10,000 gifts in those 64 years. Oh the stories I will tell — there was lots of time, and a lot of it was spent well. I have less regrets than many, maybe more hope than many more.
This is life and there is loss, but gosh, if you can frame it all with thankfulness, then you’ll see hope, then you’re see the whole picture.
xCC
……
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