After a couple of weeks of re-processing the death and grief of my Dad's death, I wrote this Sunday night in celebration of the anniversary of his passing.
_____________________
At 10:15 am Central Standard Time, on Sunday, January 20, 1963, my Dad
died. I was 12. My sister and I came home from Sunday School (he hadn't
felt well enough to go to church - which was rare we didn't attend as a
family); he hollered "Mama" and breathed his last. That was before dial
phones in our town, so mom had me ring O for operator and she gets the
doctor, the mortician and the pastor at our house. In 1957, Dad had
underwent two experimental open heart surgeries for his rheumatic heart
disease that added five and a half more years to his life. I remember
hugging him and having to be careful where I hugged because they didn't
get his ribs wired back together properly and if I'd squeeze in one
place, the wire that held him together would puncture the skin from the
inside and cause him pain. I remember the daily Quinine he took because
of the malaria he got from tainted blood.
He was born in 1916
the next year John F. Kennedy was born; they died the same year (1963).
I remember feeling sad there was so much national television about his
death and burial. I thought my Dad was just as special and yet family
showed up and the town stood behind us but no tv cameras or even radio
announcers. Walter Cronkite didn't even mention Dad. Now I can be
grateful we could grieve more naturally without having to put on the
proper performance for the media.
Now from my advancing age and
diminishing health, I can put his death into a different context and
count my blessings. Knowing he was dying had catapulted him into what
Father Richard Rohr would call the second half of life. The first half
is building the container (material wealth, belongings, community,
education, job, etc.) and the second half is letting go of those things
because they aren't eternal; then filling the container we built in the
first half of life with spiritual wealth that goes with us when we die.
Dad was one of the most spiritual and holy men I knew/know. He came to
faith on my birth day; when the doctors said his wife and unborn baby
would die - he went to God. He told God that if God would let his wife
and baby live that he'd find out who Jesus was and follow him. God
answered that prayer and Dad was loyal to follow his vow.
I
loved the bedtime ritual I grew up with. From as far back as I can
remember until Dad went home to Jesus, I can't remember a day when Dad
didn't read us a story about nature and talk about the goodness of God
in the visible world. I love Psalms 19 because it is such a beautiful
depiction of seeing God in the first Bible - the planet we live on. Then
we'd read a Bible story and talk about it and how to apply it to our
lives at a level we could understand. Then we'd all four kneel beside
the bed and say our prayers. If we were camping, we'd lay under the
stars and Dad would tell us their names and talk about how big God was
to have created all of that and to maintain it.
Before his heart
surgery, Dad left a letter and it was a reminder to love God and love
each other and grow in faith so we could meet in heaven. I was 25 before
I came to the conclusion that Jesus was the path for me. I remember
the night before Dad went to the hospital that he prayed with tears and
no words. As a parent, I stand amazed at his spiritual strength to have
faced that time of walking out the door, leaving his children with his
brother, sister-in-law and their daughters not knowing if he'd ever see
us again but knowing the odds were great he would die in the surgery. I
understand that in part because I feel that way each time I tell my two
sons and nine precious grandchildren bye-bye and know it will be at
least a year before I see them again.
Yet, like Dad, there is
such a blessing of knowing this "earth suit" isn't going to last forever
and to find ways to become a better friend of God with the limited
health and resources I have. To wake up in the morning grateful and
joyful for another day. To learn new ways to truly have great joy in the
"dying before I die" - what Apostle Paul calls "dying to self." As I
release the material things, the fame (or lack thereof), the goals, the
ambitions, the relationship with my sons, and just sit with "what is"
and remember the Bible says in Romans 8:28 "All things work together for
good...." ALL things. ALL things. ALL things. My mind goes crazy
wondering how some of the things that have happened in my life could
possibly be part of that ALL things promise. Yet, I know each hard
thing I go through, develops a greater trust in God and helps me grow as
a person.
My two unborn babies and the second baby's daddy
waiting in heaven, my Dad and four grandparents waiting for me, friends
who have gone before are walking on streets of gold with party hats or
halos on anticipating my homecoming.
I remember Grandmother
always had a Bible by her "crochet chair" and would stop and read at
times - even when we were there. I was such a brat she obviously needed
the wisdom there to tolerate my few hours
(just kidding - she had the patience of the saint she was/is). I've
watched my mother over the past few decades move into the second half of
life and spend time learning more of God. The times she'll feel almost
angry at God that she is still here when her desire is to be in heaven
with Him and her loved ones; and her wondering why life is that way then
returning to acceptance of "what is".
Just like there is a
spark of the flame of God's life that can be fanned to flame in each
person; we each carry the seed of death - that Jesus said has to be
planted, lay dormant, then becomes the bodily resurrection. Aaah, that
gives such beautiful purpose to death. The death that will be swallowed
up in victory.
I think of the parallels between death and
birth. I remember at first wondering if I'd conceived and after so many
weeks the doctor had me pee in a cup and a few days later I got the
results (so different now). Then was the time of knowing but not feeling
pregnant. Then the middle trimester when I knew I was pregnant and
preparing for the big event. Then was the last trimester when I was
uncomfortable and I'm sure my unborn babies were getting crowded and
uncomfortable. Then was the labour and delivery and the joy of this new
person laying on my tummy and crying. Death is similar. First is the
not knowing where there are symptoms and you can't quite put your finger
on what's wrong but you know something is. Then the middle trimester
where you know and grow. Then the last trimester where the unknown and
the known collide; where you do the heavy work of coming to acceptance
(if it wasn't done prior to this later stage). Eventually hospice will
be similar to labour. I remember praying before the boys were born that I
wouldn't lose my dignity and scream or curse in pain - but as I got to
that point, I really didn't care - the important part was giving birth.
As my life ends, my prayer is dignity that I won't act foolish or let
the pain or fear of pain do my talking or thinking. At the end, I'm
born into eternal life with my new glorified body. Oh, what a wonderful
example the loving Father left for us. Maybe women have it easier
because of their experiences. Maybe that's why men go to war - to learn
the lesson in a way that touches their male spirituality with the same
lesson.
I love the story behind the hymn "It is well with my soul" by Horatio Spafford. ( a url with the story is http://www.biblestudycharts.com/A_Daily_Hymn.html
) I couldn't say it any better then this man did. It is well with my
soul. Happy "what is." It's all joy: being alive on earth or fully
alive in heaven is an amazing gift from Abba YHWH. Knowing things are
destined to get better and better is such a consolation and comfort. I
am in the path of total acceptance of what my Almighty Heavenly Father
is doing in my life. My faith has never been stronger. My joy has never
been more complete. Legalism has been left behind and I have moved to
the freedom of being in Christ knowing Christ is in me and that's the
Hope of Glory. "It is well with my soul." The "Happy what is...." It
is more then well with my soul - all of me is full of joy. I think one
night when I was sleeping, God pulled up with a 250 tonne Komatzu
haulage truck full of joy and duped it on me. I have no logical reason
to be so joyful but I can't stop having joy - I may have a few down
hours each month (full and dark of moon) and then it's right back to
being so joyful I could hardly sit still in church because I wanted to
dance around holding my lovely Saviour and rejoice because I am "in Him"
and He is "in me."
Today, on the 50th anniversary of Dad's
homegoing. I celebrated his life, my expanding understanding of death,
my joyful reprocessing of his passing over the past week or two, the
beauty of the Eucharist, the communion of saints (those on earth and
those in heaven) and my greater understanding of my future death and
especially feeling the joy that Christ showed us how to live above
life's situation while trusting God implicitly (not trusting Bible
verses taken out of context but trusting the One I love and Who loves me
so much He died to show me both how to live and how to die). With joy I
celebrated eternal life today. With elation I celebrated Sophia, the
wisdom of God. I am so very grateful for the beautiful gift of faith and
a family heritage of faith that I have been blessed with.
It is well with my soul. Nah, It is JOYFUL with my soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment