An Advent Journey: Reflections for Weary Travelers — Day Seven

IMG_5649

Micah 5:1-5a, NLT

Mobilize! Marshal your troops!
    The enemy is laying siege to Jerusalem.
They will strike Israel’s leader
    in the face with a rod.

But you, O Bethlehem Ephrathah,
    are only a small village among all the people of Judah.
Yet a ruler of Israel,
    whose origins are in the distant past,
    will come from you on my behalf.
The people of Israel will be abandoned to their enemies
    until the woman in labor gives birth.
Then at last his fellow countrymen
    will return from exile to their own land.
And he will stand to lead his flock with the Lord’s strength,
    in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.
Then his people will live there undisturbed,
    for he will be highly honored around the world.
And he will be the source of peace.

Such a lovely promise, made centuries before Jesus ever appeared on the scene. The early church poured over the scriptures we call the Old Testament, searching for connections to all that they had seen and heard when Jesus walked the earth. And this beautiful passage was tailor made! From the tiniest, most backwater town (population? about 300 souls at the turn of the 1st century), comes the promised leader of God’s people. Not at all the kind of leader that they thought they wanted. But oh! So much the one they — and we — needed. A Shepherd-Leader, one who tends and searches out the lost, who protects us from robbers and who brings us into abundant places of rest, relaxation and refreshment. Not all the time — we all know that! But maybe, in a certain way, it IS all the time . . . in our heart of hearts there are green pastures and flowing streams, always. No matter the chaos that surround us. Why? Because wherever the Shepherd is, we are safe. No matter what. No matter what.

Blessed Savior/Shepherd — thank you that you bring refreshment and nourishment with you. Thank you that we can find peace — your special peace — deep within us, even when everything around us is insane. Thank you that you came from ‘the past’ right into our present. And that you go before us into the future, too. Thank you.

An Advent Journey: Reflections for Weary Travelers — Day Six

IMG_5770

Micah 4:6-13

“On that great day,” God says,
    “I will round up all the hurt and homeless,
    everyone I have bruised or banished.
I will transform the battered into a company of the elite.
    I will make a strong nation out of the long lost,
A showcase exhibit of God’s rule in action,
    as I rule from Mount Zion, from here to eternity.

“And you stragglers around Jerusalem,
    eking out a living in shantytowns:
The glory that once was will be again.
    Jerusalem’s daughter will be the kingdom center.”

So why the doomsday hysterics?
    You still have a king, don’t you?
But maybe he’s not doing his job
    and you’re panicked like a woman in labor.
Well, go ahead—twist and scream, Daughter Jerusalem.
    You are like a woman in childbirth.
You’ll soon be out of the city, on your way
    and camping in the open country.
And then you’ll arrive in Babylon.
    What you lost in Jerusalem will be found in Babylon.
God will give you new life again.
    He’ll redeem you from your enemies.

But for right now, they’re ganged up against you,
    many godless peoples, saying,
“Kick her when she’s down! Violate her!
    We want to see Zion grovel in the dirt.”
These blasphemers have no idea
    what God is thinking and doing in this.
They don’t know that this is the making of God’s people,
    that they are wheat being threshed, gold being refined.

On your feet, Daughter of Zion! Be threshed of chaff,
    be refined of dross.
I’m remaking you into a people invincible,
    into God’s juggernaut to crush the godless peoples.
You’ll bring their plunder as holy offerings to God,
    their wealth to the Master of the earth.

Yowza. These prophets don’t pussy-foot around, do they? They tell it like it is and like it will be and sometimes, it is hard to read. But here and there, like beautiful bread crumbs, there are phrases, ideas, hope. That was one of the jobs of the prophets, you know — to be harbingers of hope to God’s people in times of devastation and loss. Yes, they also brought plenty of bad news and the despair that accompanies such news. But woven throughout, there are words of life and of promise.

The truth is, we don’t know what God is up to when things are looking bleak. We cannot see the ways in which the painful circumstances of today will be redeemed as gifts tomorrow. And yet that is what happens. . . eventually. We may not live to see that redemption. I frequently need to remind myself that there is a 400+ year gap between the OT prophets and the great good-news-gift of the gospel. There IS a big picture, a very long through line. That’s what we need to grab hold of when times are tough. Look for the seeds. Look for the seeds.

Lord, make me a seed-finder, please? Some days, hanging onto hope is tougher than others. But hope is there. It is always there! Advent waiting reminds us of that powerful truth — so . . . help us to hang on.

An Advent Journey: Reflections for Weary Travelers — Day Five

IMG_5816

Psalm 79, TLB

O God, your land has been conquered by the heathen nations. Your Temple is defiled, and Jerusalem is a heap of ruins. The bodies of your people lie exposed—food for birds and animals. The enemy has butchered the entire population of Jerusalem; blood has flowed like water. No one is left even to bury them. The nations all around us scoff. They heap contempt on us.

O Jehovah, how long will you be angry with us? Forever? Will your jealousy burn till every hope is gone? Pour out your wrath upon the godless nations—not on us—on kingdoms that refuse to pray, that will not call upon your name! For they have destroyed your people Israel, invading every home. Oh, do not hold us guilty for our former sins! Let your tenderhearted mercies meet our needs, for we are brought low to the dust. Help us, God of our salvation! Help us for the honor of your name. Oh, save us and forgive our sins. Why should the heathen nations be allowed to scoff, “Where is their God?” Publicly avenge this slaughter of your people! Listen to the sighing of the prisoners and those condemned to die. Demonstrate the greatness of your power by saving them. O Lord, take sevenfold vengeance on these nations scorning you.

Then we your people, the sheep of your pasture, will thank you forever and forever, praising your greatness from generation to generation.

These are hard words to read. As I get older and grow deeper in my own knowledge and experience of God’s goodness, I find these kinds of words increasingly difficult to reconcile with my understanding of who God is and how God operates in this world.

And yet . . . I immediately recognize the emotional turmoil behind them. Those strong feelings of betrayal, of loss, of confusion. We all want to think that because we love God, our lives will be . . . easier? Less marked by grief? And yet. . . every single person that I know can personally testify to the powerful presence of loss and grief and pain in their lives.

So . . . maybe these words are really less about God than they are about us? These wailing words somehow give us permission to rail at God once in a while — to take our angst right to the Source of Life. And then . . . to leave those feelings there, safely held by the God who is good, who is loving, who weeps with us when we suffer, the God who gets it.

Thank you, Lord, that you do get it. Thank you that Jesus came to us, lived among us, suffered as we do, died as we do. Thank you that you are the original empathizer . . . that you have been where we so often find ourselves to be. Help us to lean into you when the hard stuff happens — to know that we are safe with you, all of us is safe with you . . . even those strong, negative emotions. Thank  you.

An Advent Journey: Reflections for Weary Travelers — Day Four, First Sunday of Advent

dsc03498

1 Corinthians 1:3-9, NRSV

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

I give thanks to my God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Christ Jesus, for in every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind— just as the testimony of Christ has been strengthened among you— so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ. He will also strengthen you to the end, so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is faithful; by him you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.

I gotta tell you — finding these lovely words in the middle of a lot of readings from the prophets is like stumbling over a diamond in the desert. Yes, we need the prophetic voice. Indeed, we do. But . . . we also need these kind words of grace. I want to pray these words over my family, over my friends at church, over my neighbors. I want to pray them over my husband and myself — and over you, too. Not one of us is lacking in any spiritual gift as we wait for the coming of the Lord. Not one. It is important, of course, to remember that every good gift comes to us ‘from the Father of Lights,’ as John’s epistle reminds us. But. . . they are given to US. God IS faithful, and we have exactly what we need to get us from one end of Advent to the other. And from one end of life to the other, too.

Oh, Lord, help me to remember this powerful truth. Especially on days when I don’t feel well, or when someone is angry at me about something, or when I’m unsure about what might be the next, best thing for me to do. Remind me that I have enough, that I am enough . . . because of you. Thank you.

An Advent Journey: Reflections for Weary Travelers — Day Three

img_1390

Micah 2:1-13, The Message

Doom to those who plot evil,
    who go to bed dreaming up crimes!
As soon as it’s morning,
    they’re off, full of energy, doing what they’ve planned.
They covet fields and grab them,
    find homes and take them.
They bully the neighbor and his family,
    see people only for what they can get out of them.
God has had enough. He says,
    “I have some plans of my own:
Disaster because of this interbreeding evil!
    Your necks are on the line.
You’re not walking away from this.
    It’s doomsday for you.
Mocking ballads will be sung of you,
    and you yourselves will sing the blues:
‘Our lives are ruined,
    our homes and lands auctioned off.
They take everything, leave us nothing!
    All is sold to the highest bidder.’”
And there’ll be no one to stand up for you,
    no one to speak for you before God and his jury.

“Don’t preach,” say the preachers.
    “Don’t preach such stuff.
Nothing bad will happen to us.
    Talk like this to the family of Jacob?
Does God lose his temper?
    Is this the way he acts?
Isn’t he on the side of good people?
    Doesn’t he help those who help themselves?”

“What do you mean, ‘good people’!
    You’re the enemy of my people!
You rob unsuspecting people
    out for an evening stroll.
You take their coats off their backs
    like soldiers who plunder the defenseless.
You drive the women of my people
    out of their ample homes.
You make victims of the children
    and leave them vulnerable to violence and vice.
Get out of here, the lot of you.
    You can’t take it easy here!
You’ve polluted this place,
    and now you’re polluted—ruined!
If someone showed up with a good smile and glib tongue
    and told lies from morning to night—
‘I’ll preach sermons that will tell you
    how you can get anything you want from God:
More money, the best wines . . . you name it’—
    you’d hire him on the spot as your preacher!

“I’m calling a meeting, Jacob.
    I want everyone back—all the survivors of Israel.
I’ll get them together in one place—
    like sheep in a fold, like cattle in a corral—
    a milling throng of homebound people!
Then I, God, will burst all confinements
    and lead them out into the open.
They’ll follow their King.
    I will be out in front leading them.”

Ouch! Micah has little patience for anyone claiming to be a God-person who is not interested in justice for everyone. I like the fact that this reading has been chosen to be a part of our Advent rotation. It’s good for me to remember that not everyone in this world is as materially blessed as I am — and that my own particular set of blessings are not the result of my own ‘good’ behavior, but only of grace and circumstance.

Micah has no patience for prosperity gospel crapola, does he? He refuses to fall into the trap of believing that, “God helps those who help themselves.” No, we are called to help one another. We are called to make space for God to help us — never to ‘go it alone,’ or to ‘pull ourselves up by our bootstraps.’ There is a much-needed call in these words to balance our self-care (which is a good and necessary thing) with other-care. And to remember that our God looks on our hearts, sees our true motives, and wants to help guide us into a life of generosity, sensitivity and gracious giving.

Lord, I need help here. Open my eyes to the spaces around me that need my hands, my eyes, my attention. I don’t want to sing the blues because I have failed to ‘do justice’ in my community. Help me, Lord, to respond well to the needs of others, to resist judging anyone, and to own up to the truth that I have far more than I will ever need. Maybe it’s time to share it a little better?

 

An Advent Journey: Reflections for Weary Travelers — Day Two

IMG_5509

1 Thessalonians 4:1-18 , The Message

One final word, friends. We ask you—urge is more like it—that you keep on doing what we told you to do to please God, not in a dogged religious plod, but in a living, spirited dance. You know the guidelines we laid out for you from the Master Jesus. God wants you to live a pure life.

Keep yourselves from sexual promiscuity.

Learn to appreciate and give dignity to your body, not abusing it, as is so common among those who know nothing of God.

Don’t run roughshod over the concerns of your brothers and sisters. Their concerns are God’s concerns, and he will take care of them. We’ve warned you about this before. God hasn’t invited us into a disorderly, unkempt life but into something holy and beautiful—as beautiful on the inside as the outside.

If you disregard this advice, you’re not offending your neighbors; you’re rejecting God, who is making you a gift of his Holy Spirit.

Regarding life together and getting along with each other, you don’t need me to tell you what to do. You’re God-taught in these matters. Just love one another! You’re already good at it; your friends all over the province of Macedonia are the evidence. Keep it up; get better and better at it.

Stay calm; mind your own business; do your own job. You’ve heard all this from us before, but a reminder never hurts. We want you living in a way that will command the respect of outsiders, not lying around sponging off your friends.

And regarding the question, friends, that has come up about what happens to those already dead and buried, we don’t want you in the dark any longer. First off, you must not carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to, as if the grave were the last word. Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus.

And then this: We can tell you with complete confidence—we have the Master’s word on it—that when the Master comes again to get us, those of us who are still alive will not get a jump on the dead and leave them behind. In actual fact, they’ll be ahead of us. The Master himself will give the command. Archangel thunder! God’s trumpet blast! He’ll come down from heaven and the dead in Christ will rise—they’ll go first. Then the rest of us who are still alive at the time will be caught up with them into the clouds to meet the Master. Oh, we’ll be walking on air! And then there will be one huge family reunion with the Master. So reassure one another with these words.

Wow, this is a big chunk! And filled with good advice, wise words, and a direct challenge to live a life that looks markedly different from what many in the world around us would call living. And what I particularly love about this translation is that opening bolded statement: make good choices like a dance partner makes good choices, not like a religious wonk does.

What a lovely way to put it! Choosing to live a ‘pure’ life does not have to be coated with the harsh restrictiveness of the purity culture. At all. Instead, making good choices — taking care of our bodies, honoring the bodies of others, thinking about others before moving into their space, choosing to stay calm, and to keep our noses out of others’ business — all of these choices are the result of living a life of love.

Dancing is an exercise that requires commitment, cooperation, and thoughtfulness. So does living a life in partnership with God and with others. The analogy holds!

Oh, Lord, I am so often a really lousy dance partner, aren’t I? I forget to follow your lead, I step on the toes of others, I get distracted by the crowd rather than focusing on the music. Help me to move in step with you, will you please? Help me to hear you singing the melody of love right into my ear.

31 Days of Photo Journaling: Day One – An Introduction

At the beginning of September, I had such high hopes for this year’s 31-day series. I wrote the introductory theme piece several weeks ago and never got back to add more. So I have decided to change course! I will be joining Kate Montaug’s 5 Minute Friday 31 day group, writing on a particular theme each day of the 31 days of October. Hopefully, it will happen each and every day this month. Time will tell, right?

So here is the intro piece to the first series I planned to write. Who knows? Maybe I’ll try this series idea next year!

IMG_4616

It’s (almost!) October again, and for the sixth year in a row, I am joining Crystal Stine’s 31 Day Challenge, choosing a theme to write on every day of the month. I am trying to be just a tiny bit more intentional about this blog space again, despite the loss of subscribers I experience every time I write here!

This space has been an important part of my life for the last decade and I’d like that to continue. One way for me to do that is to be disciplined about writing short, hopefully pithy, posts on a daily basis whenever the invitation arises. And this invitation is a big one! So . . . “once more, into the breach,” right?

The theme I’ve chosen for this year is Photo-Journaling, something I love to do and can easily transfer here. I take pictures a lot. A lot. And I always have — even before the invention of phone cameras! It’s a way of documenting, remembering and reflecting on my life. My photo folders tell our story as a family, my story as a pastor and as a child of God/wife/mother/grandmother/friend. I have often used my photos to organize my blog posts or my newsletters, weaving words around the pictures as I go. Something about the combination of the photo and the words tells the story more completely.

So here are a few thoughts for day one of our journey together this year. The photo above was taken on one of the walks I take several times each week. My husband and I have headed for the marina in our town quite a lot during the last few weeks and always see something fun/interesting/educational/inspiring when we do. This particular late afternoon was an interesting one. The fog had rolled out about midday, sitting like a lurking giant just beyond the breakwater. It was a low roll, however, leaving space for the clear blue skies which had become our predominant view just a few blocks further inland.

As we walked out on that concrete barrier that protects millions of dollars worth of yachts and fishing boats, a small sailboat was cutting across the water at exactly the right angle for me to capture both the fog and the blue, blue sky behind it. Something about that image grabbed my heart. I saw myself as that little boat, sailing across the vast mystery that is our life as followers of Jesus. Sometimes thick fog blurs my view and feels as though it is limiting my options. But what I need to remember during those times is that the blue sky is still there, somewhere just above me, encircling both my small boat/life and the fog bank, no matter how huge it may appear to be at any given moment. And that boat is heading straight for safe haven, making a bee-line for the harbor entrance. That’s where I want to be — en route home.

Can I hear an ‘amen?’

My Favorite Kind of Story

IMG_4442

Two years ago, I wrote the following review of a book written by a friend of mine named Shawn Smucker. I loved it then and even helped to kick-start his self-publishing journey. Now, a major publishing house has brought out a new edition, with a stunning new cover, but the same wondrous story. It’s a keeper and a repeater, friends, and I encourage you to order yourself a copy — and get one for a friend, while you’re at it!

IMG_4169

It all started with a tree, didn’t it? And that theme of trees winds its way throughout scripture and throughout our lives, unfolding in myriad ways — as metaphor, sustenance, shade, comfort, even horror. The tree.

Shawn Smucker has woven a fantastic and beautiful story about a particular tree, a re-imagining of the story of the tree of life. The story begins unpretentiously, maybe even a little slowly, but if you’ll settle in, let the beauty of his words flow in and around you, I will guarantee you that you’ll be hooked.

Hooked, I tell you!

This is masterful story-telling — intriguing idea, fascinating characters, great conflict and an empathetic look at how very difficult it is for us to lose someone we love. This is, in many ways, a story about death. But do not be deceived: the book is definitely not a downer. It’s a grab-you-by-the-throat, make-you-think-as-well-as-feel, turn-our-ordinary-ideas-on-their-heads kind of book and I highly recommend it to you. Highly.

Samuel is both an old man and a 12 year old boy in this story, an old man looking back at a pivotal summer in his life. A hot, drippy, menacing summer in the valley between two mountain ranges in central Pennsylvania. He has a good friend, a girl named Abra (which happens to be the name of one of Smucker’s daughters, as Samuel is the name of one of his sons). And there is a mysterious neighbor, an even more mysterious stranger, a grieving father, and the memories of a beautiful and loving mom. There is also a carnival, three very strange old women and an antique store, to say nothing of thunder and lightning and ancient, broken trees here and there.

And there is a search here, too, a search that reveals the true hero of this piece. There is also an epic battle between good and evil, and like all good fantasies, some dang good, nail-biting, cliff-hanging scenes sprinkled throughout.

I LOVED this book. And there is just a hint, at the very end, that there might be more of them in the future. Oh, glory!

Get thee to a bookstore or over to Amazon and order this one ASAP. And carve out some weekend time to devour it. Because I’m here to tell you – it’s a tough one to put down!

The Land of Tears — SheLoves, June 2017

IMG_3357

            From The Little Prince: “It is such a secret place, the land of tears.”
                                                                     — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

This land is a place I’ve visited many times over my life, a strange and secret country, indeed.

I could say it feels familiar, except that it doesn’t. Not quite. Each visit is unique, bringing its own sadness, regret, emptiness, and eventually, fullness and replenishment as I wend my way back to the familiar terra firma of ‘regular’ life, whatever the heck that is.

After a winding journey of several years, my mama died from Alzheimer’s disease in April of this year. There have been tears all along the highway of this Thief of Time and Remembering, of course. Oodles of them. But none quite like the ones that spilled that Wednesday afternoon in April, standing by her hospital bed. I saw her leave us — an open-eyed gaze, two loud gasps, followed by the strangest silence I’ve ever experienced. I will be forever grateful that I was able to say good-bye . . . thank you . . . I love you.

Or the tears that sprang to my cheeks as I drove out of a doctor’s parking lot one week later, remembering how I have always planned my medical appointments around mom’s schedule these last few years, and wishing fiercely that she could be next to me in my car just one more time. I know there are many tears that have not yet worked their way into the air that surrounds me, tears I carry in this body, waiting behind my eyelids, behind my heart. Each one, shed or yet to be, remind me that grief is a land of secrets, of strange and sudden surprise.

I understand that losing my last parent at the age of 72 is a rare thing. I am grateful for that truth, grateful for her long life, and for my own, glad that we could be together more closely these last few years. Nevertheless, this feeling of loss is real. It winds its tendrils around me in ways that surprise and perplex me, showing up in simple things — like driving down a particular street or watching a television series we used to enjoy together. It stings when I see the bags of clothing waiting for the Goodwill truck or when I pick up a photograph. Though I’ve been here before, this trip feels particularly treacherous and very, very lonely.

We held her memorial service a full month after her death. It was a lovely afternoon, full of memories, scripture, and sweet, old songs. There were digitized home movies, good Mexican food in our backyard after the service, and lots and lots of shared stories. She would have loved every minute of it. In fact, I’m quite sure she did.

The next morning, life moved on. It was time to be ‘the pastor’ for a while, six years into retirement. I led in worship, preached a charge to our fine new confirmand, then went home and collapsed, eager for some space to weep and rest.

But it was not to be. Why?

To find out why it was not to be, please click on this link and read the rest of this piece over at SheLoves today. Join the conversation!

One Last Good-Bye

 

It’s been a weekend.

Yesterday, we held a memorial service for my mother. My brother was well enough to travel south and as soon as he, his wife, Sandy, and their daughter, Rachel, arrived at our home on Friday night, I put the women to work creating this wonderful photo montage for the reception after the service.

IMG_3241

Both of them are talented artists and I was relieved to pass along this last task connected to what was a grand day of celebration and thanksgiving. About 75 of us gathered in the chapel at The Samarkand. Together, we worshiped God and celebrated mom’s life. It was a gift and a privilege to share stories, to laugh, to tear up from time to time, and to mark the passing of this valiant, vibrant woman, the last of her generation to leave us.

I’m including the words of remembrance that I shared yesterday so that family members who could not be there can read and remember with us. Some photos from the day, too.

IMG_3248

A lovely collection of snapshots covering several decades of mom’s life.

“For the first few years of my life, she was ‘mommy’ to me. From about the 3rd grade on, she became simply, ‘mom.’ And during these last, hard years, the name that most often came to my lips was, ‘mama.’

“I think that choice was the natural one because she had become so very frail and ‘mom’ seemed far too robust to use. I also think it came naturally because it has a tender sound, a diminutive feel. She became smaller and smaller over these last four years at the Samarkand. With each move, we re-distributed more and more of her material belongings until little was left. Her life, her surroundings, became smaller and smaller. And she herself began to shrink away from us. As she stopped even wanting to eat, she gradually became quite tiny, almost wraith-like.

IMG_3252

Eileen, Harold, Ruth, Al, in the back. I think Mom was about 12 in this picture.

“The irony in that, of course, is that it was her lifelong desire to be smaller than she was! Oh, how she wrestled with her weight. And she passed that wrestling right on down to me, in all kinds of ways — some of them undoubtedly genetic. But some of them, having a lot more to do with appearances, with wanting to please others, with a deep yearning to be something, someone, other than who and what she was.

IMG_3251

Days gone by (long gone by!)

But here is what I have I learned as I have walked with my mother through this last, long part of her journey on this earth: the truest thing I know about my mother is that she was BEAUTIFUL, in every way I can think of. The saddest thing about my mother is that she never really knew that.

Oh, how I hope she knows it now!

IMG_3250

Al passed away in his early 50’s, but mom and Harold and Eileen lived long and stayed close.
Mom was the last to leave us.
My dad’s distant cousin, Jan Baylor (whom we called Earleen – her middle name, after her father Earl), was a fun friend for mom, especially during the middle decades of her life. She’s in the bottom left photo and the very bottom one,  which you can barely see — in identical swimsuits (unbeknownst to them until mom visited Jan at her trailer near the beach!)

My mother radiated light. At her best, she was the most fun person I’ve ever known. She had a bawdy sense of humor and a great laugh; she took delight in her children and her grandchildren, adored her husband — even when he frustrated the daylights out of her — and she particularly loved seeing and creating beautiful things. She had an artist’s eye for color, enjoyed a minimalist, mid-century sense of décor, and could become rapturous over a sunset, a seascape, a forest or a tiny baby.

IMG_3247

See that look of delight on her face? Yeah, we saw that a lot at Christmas! That’s my brother Tom, back in the day . . .

Every once in a while during these last years, I would catch a glimpse of that great sense of humor and it always delighted me. Here are two small stories I recorded in my journal, one from Christmas of 2014, the other from April of last year:

Story number one, from Christmas Lunch in Heritage Court at the Samarkand:

“After lunch, we went back to her room, and she asked the same set of questions that she’s asked the last few times we’ve talked. And when I answered I tried to speak clearly. But her hearing is so bad, that she struggled to understand. Finally, the third time she asked me to repeat myself, I spoke very loudly, very slowly, very distinctly, and she looked at me, smiled and said, ‘THANK YOU,’ at the top of her lungs! It struck me as something the ‘old’ mom would do. And it made me laugh out loud. I was so tired and emotionally vulnerable — I got started laughing and couldn’t quite stop. And I remember thinking, ‘well, it’s better than crying.’”

IMG_3249

Goofing it up at a Christmas spent in Tom and Sandy’s cabin in Julian CA

And another story, from a year ago April, during one of our twice-weekly lunches out:

Today’s theme song was, “The Old Rugged Cross” and she sang pieces of it through our entire time together. I was able to find a couple of versions of it online and play them in the car as we drove south toward the water.

She does love taking this drive. She comments on the cars, on the houses, on the large numbers of people. The confines of her world these days are very restricted, very limited. When I take her out into the wider world, she is struck with wonder.

It is good to see where I live through her eyes, as I too often take it all for granted. We ate at Longboard’s, overlooking the harbor. And there was a cruise ship in town today, unloading its throngs of people to sit on various tour buses and populate the local seaside restaurants. The wait staff was extremely slow because of the increased numbers, and as we were waiting for our food, she said, rather than sang these two lines from the day’s theme song: “so I’ll cling to the old rugged Cross, and exchange it someday for a crown.”

And then she said, “And sometime between now and then, I’d really like a little something to eat!”

And we both busted up. These sweet moments are flashes of the mama I have always known, and I am so grateful for them.”

IMG_3266

There were two of these glorious arrangements for the service. We left one for the chapel service this morning and took this one home to re-use it as table decor for the family dinner that came after the reception at The Samarkand.

She was, as I told the staff here and at Hospice, the most flaming extrovert I have ever known. She loved people, was a caring neighbor and built friendships that lasted for decades. A friend reminded me the other day that on that first Valentine’s Day after my father’s death in 2005, she went to CVS and picked up a half dozen small boxes of chocolates to take to all the widows she knew at Hillcrest, their retirement community in La Verne CA. She knew their sweethearts would not be remembering them on that day. She kept up the chocolate-giving until she had to move into assisted living in 2012.

IMG_3253

IMG_3255

Each of mom’s grandchildren participated in reading scripture for her service. Our three are in the top photo, doing the Old Testament readings — L to R, Lisa, Eric, Joy
The bottom picture includes Jacob Gold and Jeremy Morgan, my brother Ken’s two sons, and Rachel and Dylan Gold, Tom and Sandy’s two children.

The disease that took her life is a cruel one, a thief with no mercy, slowly stealing memory, cognition, discernment, even personality. But in my mother’s case, dementia was never able to destroy the core of who she was.

And the core of my mother was her faith.

From about the age of fifteen, my mother was an ardent follower after Jesus, wanting to go deep, to learn, to practice resurrection from day to day. Even though her background was conservative, she and my dad somehow managed to grasp the truest things about the Christian faith and to let go of much of the judgment, fear, simplistic jargon, and insider/outsider mentality that has come to characterize too much of the modern church.

IMG_3270

It was a beautiful and VERY WARM afternoon for an early dinner, planned and executed by my three kids and their spouses — thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to each of you.

She was grateful for her roots, for the women at Trinity Methodist Church who befriended her and encouraged her leadership skills, even paying for her to go to a special training event put on by Henrietta Mears, one of the first women leaders in the Presbyterian church of the 20th century. But she was always searching for more – and she read widely and well in order to learn more. She was not a perfect person — who is? But, man, she was a good one.

IMG_3278

Our funky but fun covered atrium entry greeted guests with bright colors, wooden signs . . .

I believe, in the deepest part of me, that what I saw in my mom as she slowly faded away from me, was a reflection of the light of Jesus. She always let it shine. Always. Just about 40 hours before she died, she reached out to kiss my hand as I straightened her bedding. Days before she left us, she offered that beautiful smile and those kind words — ‘thank you so much!’ ‘You look so beautiful today.’ ‘I love your hair.’ By that point, almost nothing else she said hung together with any kind of sense. But those short, kind compliments? They remained. They remained.

IMG_3281

IMG_3279

. . . and some glorious blossoms, too.

Now Tom and I could tell you tales of tears, of anger, explosive and sharp, of deep-seated insecurities that often made her fearful and sometimes harsh. But you know what? As hard as those days were for us — and they were — over the span of our lives and hers, they amounted to so little. As she grew in her faith, as she and dad grew more deeply in love over the years of their marriage, and as she experienced more and more of the Love with a capital “L” that she and I believe is the power that sources our entire universe, those hard days became less and less frequent.

IMG_3285

My dear brother, Tom, with his amazing and talented wife, Sandy.

I had the gift of a good home and that enabled and instructed me in creating what I hope was a good home with Dick for our kids. Over these last years, I have been struck again and again by how central my mother was in my own formation and ultimately, in the formation of my kids, and now my grandkids. She came from such a place of damage, with an alcoholic father and a mother who worked full-time. But she was found by God and loved by the aunts who helped to raise her, by those women at Trinity Methodist, and then by my dad. And that made all the difference.

IMG_3288

Although our brother Ken passed away in 2009, his kids were part of the day — R to L,
Christina and Jeremy Morgan (I had the great gift of marrying these two five years ago; they have an adorable baby boy who did not make the three hour drive with them); Jacob Gold and his fiance, Kevin Herrera. 

Of much deeper importance than the scars I bear from my early life, are the graces that mark me because of my mother. She was the primary spiritual influence on me for many years and I am so very grateful for that truth. She modeled the honest, searching spiritual journey. She also modeled loving hospitality, and a great sense of fun and creativity.

IMG_3303

Our eldest grandson Ben, who arranged for some fun home movies to run on the TV in the reception hall at The Samarkand and made a video of the service, catching up with our son-in-law, Marcus

What rises to the top is her goodness. Her generosity. Her great good humor, her searching intelligence, her love for us. My brother Tom said it on Facebook this last Mother’s Day, “Ninety-five years with us. Loving, smart, funny. Give me a choice of all the mothers in the world and I’d choose the one I had.”

Yup. Give me the choice of all the mothers in this world, I’d choose the one I had.

In a heartbeat.

IMG_3274

Several long-time friends from Pasadena made the drive north and stayed for dinner.

IMG_3273

A gaggle of granchildren

IMG_3282

I discovered this sweet note which I believe was created by the 11-year-olds and signed by a couple of the older grandkids. And late last night (after I had collapsed into bed!), my youngest granddaughter had her mom send me a text telling me she was sad that my mama died and that she loved me. I discovered it on my way out the door today to lead in worship — another story I’ll post about later this week. It was a rich, rich weekend. But. . . we’re really, really, REALLY glad it’s over now.

IMG_3283

One of the best things about memorial services is the reunion piece. It was wonderful to see cousins re-connect at three generational levels, to sit and visit with old friends, and to savor the beauty of a life, well-lived.

IMG_3292

We miss you, Mama. But we had a GRAND time saying good-bye. You would have loved it.