Horror, Hype and Handel

Like many people, I woke up thinking about the massacre in Newtown. I sat glued to the TV yesterday, watching the horrors unfold in waves, wanting to tear away from it all and pretend it wasn't happening, but at the same time needing to watch.

I am disappointed (actually, infuriated) by some of the insensitive things said by Christian leaders about this. Can we please just sit with these poor people in their grief and SHUT UP!?!?! The friends of Job are often made fun of (justifiably so) for their bad advice to Job in his abject suffering, but for the first seven days, they got it right:

When they saw Job from a distance, they scarcely recognized him. Wailing loudly, they tore their robes and threw dust into the air over their heads to show their grief. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and nights. No one said a word to Job, for they saw that his suffering was too great for words. (Job 2:12-13). 

To do anything else -- say, use this as an opportunity to talk about prayer in the schools or how we are all murderers smacks of insensitive and opportunistic hype to me.

I'm grateful for my own pastor's words this morning... as always, they are gentle, knowing and subdued. Take 2 minutes to read them.

Newtown and Bethlehem

I woke early with the sorrow of Newtown.  The grief is overwhelming.  The loss is beyond any words or consolation.

I know that you have already joined the thousands who filled the churches of Newtown to pray.  We naturally turn to God in such moments not only in seeking comfort but also with our outrage that such innocent lives would be allowed to be taken.  What kind of world do we live in?  When will all this killing end?  How long will our Lord wait until making all things new - and giving us "right minds" where we truly do have a "Newtown" with a new Jerusalem and true peace on earth?  This juxtaposition of evil with the message of Christmas is not lost on any of us.

I've always been bothered by the Christmas story told in Matthew where Herod's angry insanity caused him to order the death of the baby boys in Bethlehem so he could end the life of the young rival king the Wisemen came to worship.  The grief of those parents undoubtedly mirrored the ones of today.  The juxtaposition of evil with God's gift of His own Son is not lost on any of us as well.

Evil in all its various forms is most obvious when it is the innocent who suffer and often die.  That is why the birth and death of the innocent child of Bethlehem speaks deeper than the words any of us can say.  That is why comfort is found only in God.  God is with us.  That is why the churches of Newtown are filled.

My thoughts take me to Handel's music and the words of Isaiah 40. 

Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.

Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned:  for she hath received of the Lord's hand double for all her sins.

The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.  Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low;  and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain;

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together;  for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.

When Handel wrote the music to communicate God's word his servants described him:  "He was praying...he was weeping...he was staring into eternity." 

That is what we are all doing.

Denny

Per Denny's advice, I am listening to Handel's Messiah this morning as I write this. May we continue to pray for those in Newtown, and pray that as believers we can offer persistent love, a listening ear and compassion to others in their loss and fear. There will be time in the future to take the conversation to bigger and more personal levels. Be patient. Here's an article I wrote this fall on comforting others in grief.

Meanwhile, I yearn for the "new town" of eternity to come quickly:

He who is the faithful witness to all these things says, “Yes, I am coming soon!”

Amen! Come, Lord Jesus! (Revelation 22:20)

Another Birthday

Today would have been beloved Claire's 38th birthday. I had breakfast with two friends this morning and we remembered her. It is hard to believe she has been gone since August 2010.

Markers like this are bittersweet at best; to stop and take time to recall the special qualities of someone who is now gone is very dear... but it is also jarring to realize how life has plowed forward all too easily without them. In losing Claire I have experienced a very strange tension: I was (and sometimes still am) angry that we could not put all of life on "pause" and refuse to continue without her. At the same time, it was often a great relief that I had the new things of life to distract me from that unnameable ache.

Grief, after the initial shock and awe of the loss, settles into a strange stereo existence. On one speaker is the (usually) louder ups and downs, joys and challenges of everyday life. Yet humming steadily in the background is a quiet tune that increases in volume at the strangest times -- a visual reminder, a song, a conversation or a particular person can turn my attention from the present concerns onto memories and sadness.

It is a curious thing... Sometimes I have lovely, wonderful, fulfilling experiences or opportunities, and am so grateful for them. They are almost too good to be true, and I cannot believe I have the privilege of doing them. But what do I still wish for? To get to share them with Claire, to see the laughter and delight on her face as I tell the tale. I look forward to those times, but also miss them.

The photo here is of our last conversation... I was heading out for vacation, to take my niece and nephew camping, and stopped by to say goodbye. Those goodbyes were especially poignant because there had been several close calls in the few years preceding them, and at first I did not have the courage to say all I wanted to say... Yet after one especially horrible moment where we almost lost her, I decided to never miss another chance. Over and over I would say all the things that were felt and known, and learned a profound lesson in the process. Thank you Claire.

This morning as I rode my bike back from breakfast and memories of Claire, my iTunes mix brought up this song by Sara Groves called The Long Defeat:


I have joined the long defeat
that falling set in motion
and all my strength and energy
are raindrops in the ocean

so conditioned for the win
to share in victor's stories
but in the place of ambition's din
I have heard of other glories

and I pray for an idea
and a way i cannot see
it's too heavy to carry
and impossible to leave

I can't just fight when I think I'll win
that's the end of all belief
and nothing has provoked it more
than a possible defeat

we walk a while we sit and rest
we lay it on the altar
I won't pretend to know what's next
but what I have I've offered

and I pray for a vision
and a way I cannot see
it's too heavy to carry
and impossible to leave

and I pray for inspiration
and a way I cannot see
it's too heavy to carry
and impossible to leave
it's too heavy to carry
and I will never leave

There are many references I could give here as to what "the long defeat" means, but if you are a fan of Lord of the Rings, you know what it is talking about. At one point I heard an interview by Ms. Groves, where she talked about being inspired to write the song out of learning about the work of Dr. Paul Farmer and Partners in Health in Haiti: the whole concept of "losing" a cause yet knowing that we cannot give in to the loss is profound... and really the meaning of life for us as followers of Christ. The weight of sin and brokenness in the world is "too heavy to carry" and yet how we cannot possibly leave either. We stay for the fight, despite the seeming odds against us, because it is simply the right thing to do. As she says, "I can't just fight when I think I'll win."

That was what I learned from watching Claire fight that damn brain tumor for ten years. It was a losing battle, but she never gave in. Her redheaded stubbornness, faith and beauty refused to cave, and it took her without permission at the end. With the strength of the crucified and risen Christ, who is acquainted with such a fight as that, we persevere as well. In the strain of it all, I inch toward understanding what obedience means. We miss you Claire, we don't forget you, and we are grateful for the years we did get to have. See you again.

Claire 2.0

AUGUST 14, 2020: This was first written in 2012 to recall our devastating loss that occurred 10 years ago today. That loss is felt all the more deeply all these years later. We love you and miss you, Claire Michelle Carey.

Today marks two years since we lost Claire. I have not gotten used to her absence, or forgotten about her. I still cry if I hear any songs from her favorite musical Wicked, and little things set me off: blooming roses, succulents overflowing out of a bowl, an olive-colored sweater, a silver bracelet that she gave me, anyone with shiny red hair.

This morning I met for breakfast with two friends who knew her well. We scanned over the menu at Cajun Kitchen and imagined what she would have ordered... would it have been an egg-white scramble or oatmeal? We couldn't decide for sure. Then we started telling stories, some that made us sigh, some that made us laugh hard.

While we each had years of memories with Claire before the cancer really took hold, it is sad to say that the strongest memories are still from her years of steep decline. We can laugh and cry at the same time when we think about how hard it was for her to speak in the last year, or how she insisted on doing things for herself when she was well past the ability to do so. We each remembered going over her multiple medications with her, learning their complex purposes and side effects. Each of us shuddered as we recounted different ordeals at the ER and the hospital.

Despite the strong visual recollections of scars and thinned out hair from treatments and IV's and glassy eyes after seizures that stay with me, coupled with the even more powerful memories of that hospital smell, I am still able to cling to the essence of Claire, and how I was changed by knowing her. I could share so many different experiences with her, but here is a significant one.

After her first extended stay in the hospital due to that first cataclysmic seizure at the end of school in 2000, she had received a huge number of cards, flowers, stuffed animals, balloons and plants. Don't forget, she was a beloved teacher at Santa Barbara Christian School at that point, not to mention an incredible youth ministry leader with me and all-around friend to so many.

I didn't quite know how we would get all those the gifts packed up. Cam was back at work (and they weren't married yet), so I offered to take her home. I admit I was tempted to say, Claire, can we just throw away the cards, crayon-decorated banners and droopy daisies? but I knew better. She valued every item to the hilt and was going to give them the attention she felt they deserved. We slowly peeled every card taped on the wall, gently groomed the flowers of their dead leaves, and straightened up the potted plants that had been jammed in the corner. We piled each item carefully onto a large cart that the hospital provided.

Of course I then wondered how we would successfully navigate the various doorways, elevators and long hallways with all of this stuff! But I had nothing to worry about. Because the next thing that Claire did took my breath away. As I tried to manhandle the cart down the hall onto the elevator (I let her take a balloon, being the nice person that I was) she just smoothly slid into my place and took over the cart. From there she took a VERY slow lap around the entire floor. She stopped for each orderly, each technician, each janitor and each nurse... whom she each knew BY NAME, mind you... and thanked them for their care. THEN she looked over her ridiculous haul of gifts and would specifically select a plant or flower that she deemed to be just right for that person. Once we had made the entire circuit, she then made sure that there were some things left for those who were not on this shift. Finally, she reserved the most beautiful plant for her favorite nurse, who started crying.

Claire the Patient became Claire the Fairy Godmother. I know it sounds crazy, but she seriously brought so much joy and smiles and love to the people who labored on the cancer ward at Cottage Hospital. She blessed their hard work and redeemed it. And in the years to come, as many of them remained through her multiple visits back there, she continued to remember their names, showering blessings and asking about their families.

Who does that??

I noted earlier that something that always makes me think of Claire are succulents. While she was a master gardener, she always tended several bowls and pots of succulents, arranging them in fantastic ways that were like works of art. Personally I love succulents because they are so easy to take care of (and let's be honest, so hard to kill!).

But I think that succulents are great metaphors that capture the beauty of Claire... Succulents survive in the desert; similarly, Claire was sturdy under incredible and unending duress. Succulents are uniquely beautiful, and while characters like Howdy Doody and Pippi Longstocking make fun of people with freckles and red hair, Claire was an absolute knockout. Succulents thrive on little water and soil and demand little attention; even near the end of her life, when she had lost the ability to communicate, walk or dress herself, she was still a hostess and earnest friend, constantly wanting to know how you were doing.

Claire, we miss you, we remember you often, we have been changed by knowing you. As I said at your memorial, quoting from Changed for Good:


I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made from what I learned from you
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...

Life Then, Life Now

Even though I was a toddler when JFK was killed, I think of 9/11 as our own "What were you doing when JFK died?" moment.

I have very distinct memories of that morning of 9/11/01. I'd gotten up at 6:15am, as I did every Tuesday morning back then, to leave the house in time for a weekly 6:45 prayer meeting. As I brushed my teeth I heard the initial reports of the first plane crashing into the World Trade Center, which had only happened a half hour before. I numbly drove to church, which was only a few minutes away, listening desperately as NPR tried to get as many details as it could in the midst of the chaos.

Some people knew what had happened as they arrived to the prayer meeting, many did not. We prayed a few vague prayers for the situation, not remotely understanding what had happened. We also prayed through scripture, as was our practice. As we finished, one of the other pastors drew me aside and said, "I didn't hear about this before I came. How bad do you thin it really is?" I looked at him and said, "I think this is as bad as it gets."

I drove home distracted and was growing far more fearful. The radio had more horrifying details as I drove home: a plane crash into the Pentagon, the towers had fallen, flight 93 had plowed into Shanksville. My housemate, who worked with college students late every night, was still asleep in her room. I woke her up and said, "I think you need to see what's happening."

We sat silently in front of the TV. Slowly, our upstairs neighbor, a good friend, came downstairs and watched with us because she didn't want to watch it alone. Tears were rolling down our cheeks.

Meanwhile, I gathered my wits about me enough to recognize that my own brother worked in Manhattan! It took many hours to find out what had happened with him. He worked in Midtown (rather than Lower Manhattan, where it all happened). Nevertheless, he had to evacuate and spend many, many hours trying to get home. Cell coverage was sporadic and networks were jammed. Many families were unable to communicate for much of the day. His wife said the most horrible experience for her was standing at the train station in their town 20 minutes north of the city, watching spouses wait for their partners to come home.

Like everyone else, my day was spent glued to the TV. Life stopped.

The next significant moment I remember was exactly one month later, when I flew to New York myself. I'd previously booked a visit to see my niece and nephew, and amazingly, the flight departed on October 11. Rightly or wrongly, I was frightened to travel that day. I had a short flight to LAX, then a direct flight from LAX to JFK. That particular flight had a large group of Hasidic Jews on it. Like many thousands (millions, perhaps), I got down to Lower Manhattan and toured the crash site during my visit... which is sort of overstating the fact, since most of it was cordoned off. But in one spot you could see the leftover iron structure that is pictured above.

Touring the site, what stood out most were the thousands upon thousands of flyers posted that were either looking for lost loved ones, or commemorating their passing. Flowers, keepsakes, and various little items were stapled everywhere. The volume of agony was tangible. Given that I have experienced large-scale tragedies like fires and earthquakes on our Left Coast, I think I have a sense of the weight of such pain, but I also know that 9/11 stands alone in many respects.

Ten years later today, I pause and think of many things. My life is quite different -- mostly in that I have lost some dear people in my life: Andrew is 2005, Matt in 2006, Claire in 2010. My old youth group experienced the loss of two of their friends during that time, Alyssa and Jake.

So in many ways, the years after 9/11 are for me a very long march through grief. I am greatly changed as a result. I cry so easily. I am stopped in my tracks whenever I meet someone who has experienced death and loss, and am able to talk on a deep level immediately. Significant days -- birthdays, anniversaries, important days of memory -- often slow me down for awhile. Flying is still somewhat anxiety-producing, especially as we have to go through so many additional steps for the sake of "security." When I hear sirens, I flinch for a moment because now, I know how bad things can get. Though I walk with a "limp" from all of this, I am deeper, a tiny bit gentler, and much more aware of how much I cling to the hope of heaven in my daily life. And how much I want that comfort for others. It drives me in everything I do.

I am currently reading through the One Year Bible, and today's reading from Psalms captures my feelings -- both from ten years ago, and today -- well:

Psalm 55:

4 My heart pounds in my chest.

The terror of death assaults me.

5 Fear and trembling overwhelm me,

and I can’t stop shaking.

6 Oh, that I had wings like a dove;

then I would fly away and rest!

7 I would fly far away

to the quiet of the wilderness.

8 How quickly I would escape—

far from this wild storm of hatred.

Thankfully, we do not have to remain in such terror. I conclude with this prayer from Common Prayer:

You who prayed from the cross for your Father to forgive those who were killing you, grant us the courage to forgive those who harm us in our families, in our communities, and in our world. Help us recognize our own need to seek the forgiveness of others. Amen.

Claire, We Hardly Knew You

One year ago we said goodbye to Claire Michelle Carey. It has not gotten easier in the year since then.

A few of us got together last night to recall some favorite memories. We laughed and cried and occasionally sat silent in speechless grief. Such a beautiful life taken from us far too quickly. The loss still stings.

Yet we will never be the same. She touched us all in powerful, delightful, challenging ways. She was stubborn, she was smart, she was creative, she was a tireless and faithful friend.

Today in church, Denny my pastor preached on the story of Joseph in Genesis, primarily from chapters 45-50. He recalled much of Joseph's story, one full of privilege, betrayal, imprisonment... and redemption. In the midst of many unjust and painful experiences, Joseph remained faithful to God... no doubt still shaking his fist at times in sadness and confusion.

I have heard this story many times. Heck, I've taught on it more than once! But this morning as I listened, what I noticed was a poignant time of remembrance, grief and reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers, who betrayed him so many years before.

Imagine this scene:

Joseph could stand it no longer. There were many people in the room, and he said to his attendants, “Out, all of you!” So he was alone with his brothers when he told them who he was. Then he broke down and wept. He wept so loudly the Egyptians could hear him, and word of it quickly carried to Pharaoh’s palace.... [later in the chapter] Then Joseph kissed each of his brothers and wept over them, and after that they began talking freely with him. (Genesis 45)

Weeping and kisses. Laughter and agony. That's what happened last night as we remembered Claire... we both we giggled over her ornery ways and bawled as we looked at the giant hole she left in her departure.

I have discovered as I have gotten older that so much of life is filled with pendulum swings between heartache and hope. Yet we cannot really ride this rollercoaster without being willing to go on both the highs and lows. And truth be told, the pain makes the joy all the sweeter.

During the service, my housemate Ruth, also a dear friend of Claire's, led us in worship. One song in particular seemed to sum up the entirety of what I feel today. Here is a link to the original song. Below are the lyrics. Listen to them more than once. The depth of truth in them is dazzling, and put words to things I can barely allow myself to believe. But in Jesus, it is possible. I cling to him more than ever. We miss you Claire. We ache over your absence. You are loved, and not forgotten.

Jesus, I come.

JESUS I COME

Out of my bondage, sorrow and night,

Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;

Into Thy freedom, gladness, and light,

Jesus, I come to Thee;

Out of my sickness and into Thy health,

Out of my wanting and into Thy wealth,

Out of my sin and into Thyself,

Jesus, I come to Thee.

Out of my shameful failure and loss,

Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;

Into the glorious gain of Thy cross,

Jesus, I come to Thee;

Out of earths sorrows, into Thy balm,

Out of lifes storms and into Thy calm,

Out of distress into jubilant psalm,

Jesus, I come to Thee.

Out of unrest and arrogant pride,

Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;

Into Thy blessed will to abide,

Jesus, I come to Thee;

Out of myself to dwell in Thy love,

Out of despair, into raptures above,

Upward forever on wings like a dove,

Jesus, I come to Thee.

Out of the fear and dread of the tomb,

Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;

Into the joy and light of Thy home,

Jesus, I come to Thee;

Out of the depths of ruin untold,

Into the peace of Thy sheltering fold,

Ever Thy glorious face to behold,

Jesus, I come to Thee.

Speechless

I heard a song today that stayed with me. It's a song about grief, and grief is a relationship I've had to maintain, whether I wanted to or not. Grief demands attention. If I ignore my "friend" Mr. Grief, he comes knocking, barging in, even breaking down the door if I pretend that I'm busy or not at home.

I guess I kept listening to this song because it wasn't sappy, overproduced and sung in a minor key (though perhaps it is and I'm too musically tone-deaf to know that). It's raw, painfully honest, and doesn't tie up feelings into tidy conclusions and a pretty bow. Instead, Johannes just tells it like it is. I get that.

Here are the words. And here's the link to the song:

Found in a maze
As time is ever streaming
Left where it lays
It won't decay, this feeling
All alone, with everything that's born
The gods display their scorn

I won't run away
It only gets me closer
I cut through the day
A murdering of meaning
Either way, endless ways to say
I'm speechless when I pray

I hope I make it home
I hope I make it home
Ah, oh, whoa

Torn by a stitch
The fabric underneath it
Hooked on that glitch
That breathes to life within it
Flesh and bone, carried by the tone
The resonating drone

Lost in a maze
As time is ever stopping
Right where it lays
It's wings clipped by the ceiling
All alone, with everything that's gone
The devil in finest form

I hope I make it home
I hope I make it home
Ah, oh, whoa

Thankfully, that is not where I have remained, sitting with "the devil in finest form." Jesus has gently taken my hand and done what Job's friends do best: he merely sat with me in my grief, not saying anything. As the fog imperceptibly lifted at some point, he started speaking things into my life. Every day, something different. I could not possibly list them all here... nor do I need to. Each passage was like the manna in the desert for the wandering Israelites -- just enough for that day. It provided for that day's needs, nothing more. I would need to show up in the morning and be fed again. If I skipped a day here and there, the gnawing hunger would leave me dizzy and disoriented. Slowly, my strength came back, though now I walk with a limp.

This is the passage of late that gives my soul what it seeks:

“Stand at the crossroads and look;
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
and you will find rest for your souls. (Jeremiah 6:16)

Grief, as miserable as it is, also tells me, when I am listening, that this life is not all there is... it is incomplete, sometimes empty, ultimately not satisfying. While that sounds hopeless and dark, it really is not. It is simply an issue of perspective. If you know that this life is not the end of the story, that there is more that you need to look to, then it may just be what you need to hear... Do not settle for this life, the present now. Instead, press on toward our real home.

I pray that Mr. Johannes does not remain speechless, though this sadness lasts longer than one expects -- and pops up its head now and again. I pray with him that he will indeed "make it home."

As 2010 comes to a close, I lovingly remember those over whom I have grieved, and still grieve... Claire, Matt, Andrew, Ruth... and the other things I've lost or had to let go of along the way. I enjoy priceless memories. I also feel the empty place where they once were, and refuse to fill those gaps with other things. I am grateful that I am no longer speechless.

Life of Love

Today marks four years since my beloved friend Matt Steele succumbed to brain cancer. As I still float in the wake of Claire Carey's death on August 14, I can do nothing but shake my head. There is nothing to say that truly communicates the deep pain of such loss.

To have loved two friends so much and walk with them through terminal illness and into death has been dreadful. The tragedy of their youth (Matt was 34, Claire was 35) makes it all the more awful.

It would be easy, even understandable, to become bitter as a result. What's the point of loving others only to lose them in such agonizing ways?

These days I cry easily. But I'm not sure that is so bad. To have my feelings always right near the surface feels risky, but also healthy. The emotions that come from the death of close ones are too strong to stay down. They well up whenever they want, whether I invite them or not. So I have gotten used to living with my heart being raw and unguarded. That is exhausting, to be sure -- so I'm grateful for the gift of time, which heals the top layers of the pain and gives me new skin to protect the deeper levels.

Though there is healing, I know I will never be the same. To have known such abysmal pain makes me much more sensitive to that of others. I see it, smell it, feel it, touch it. How do I respond when that happens? I can take my cue from what I read this morning in Ephesians 5:1-2 ~

Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn't love in order to get something from us but to give everything of himself to us. Love like that.

While I would not recommend Eugene Peterson's paraphrase, The Message, for rigorous bible study, it is lyrical and refreshing for devotional reading. This passage is no exception.

I learned this "life of love" from other faithful mentors and friends who were patient with me when my ability and capacity for love was broken. One in particular, Ruth Schmidt, was like a mother to me. She was consistent, kind, generous to a fault, yet firm as well. I knew her for several years previous, but walked with her through the last three years of her life once she was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease). When she died I was devastated. She had been a sure anchor and well from which I drew often. I was very tempted to wall off my heart and never truly lean on anyone again...

Eventually, I asked a few wise ones for help, and one gave me a simple tool that helped more than anything. She told me to create some rituals that would help me settle down, especially at night when my sadness was the most acute. So I started playing the same CD each night, half an hour or so before I went to bed. I would then climb into bed as the last songs started playing, and eventually was able to fall asleep to the same song each night for weeks. I risk sounding like a Hallmark commercial when I tell you that it was an instrumental piano CD by Jim Brickman -- but there it is.

The last song actually had lyrics that functioned as road signs that walked me out of the pit I was in, because they put words to my groaning. Here is the chorus:

Until the stars fall from the sky
Until I find the reason why
And darling as the years go by
Until there's no tears left to cry
'Til the angels close my eyes
And even if we're worlds apart
I'll find my way back to you...
By heart.

This life is not all there is. Someday I will be reunited with these beloved people, in Christ, for eternity. I feel their absences so frequently. But I am glad that they each left such deep impressions that I cannot forget them. Meanwhile, I live as fully as possible in this earthbound life. My grief is not appeased by other relationships... instead, I simply press on and continue to learn about what it means to live this risky, yet worthwhile, life of love. Christ is my model, my strength, my goal.

Month

It's hard to believe that today marks one month since we lost Claire. Though we have each carried on with much of our daily lives, I still hear from many as to the ways we feel her absence, in ways large and small. Just today I got this email from a former student, now a college graduate and newly married:

Claire was a wonderful small group leader and I remember very clearly the summer camp of 2000 when I was entering my freshmen year in high school. But even more than that I remember how wonderful, fun, and kind Claire was. Whether it was dealing with a bunch of squirrely Jr. High Students, co-leading Bible study with my parents, or seeing her at church, I will always remember Claire's smile and her heart.

Last Friday night I shared dinner with some very dear friends, and we spent the evening reflecting on our last visits with Claire and what those times were like. We laughed over her stubbornness, and we cried as we recalled how much she struggled on despite so many limitations. Though it was sad in some ways it was ultimately so good to be with others who knew her. There were no explanations needed, and we could just let down our guards and rejoice that we knew her and were loved well by her, shortened as the time was.

At Providence Hall, where I teach a class called Foundations of the Christian Faith, we are currently studying the Book of Acts for the month of September as an entire school. There is one lovely phrase from this far-reaching book (which is chock full of great stories, I might add!) that has stayed with me. In Acts 1:24 it says, "Then they prayed, 'Lord, you know everyone's heart...'" and in 15:8 it says, "God, who knows the heart, showed that he accepted them..." But in the original Greek, these two phrases are directly translated as:

• O Lord Heart-Knower of all...
• the Heart-Knower God showed them...

As I have shared with my students, just as we can call God "Father" or "Savior" we can call him "Heart-Knower." He knows our hearts better than we do ourselves... Thus he is able to translate our feelings for us, and will then guide us out of the sadness and loss, into more life. It is a great comfort.

John Bunyan, the author of Pilgrim's Progress, once said, "The best prayers often have more groans than words." I am thankful that groans are enough sometimes.

I Saw What I Saw

Yesterday I was riding my bike and listening to my iPod on shuffle.

Normally I just enjoy songs I know, think and pray about my day, make sure I don't get hit by drivers who don't look for cyclists...

But this day a song decided to laser in deep. You know what I mean... You're listening to a song you've heard many times before, but that day the words and the music work together to put your feelings in a blender.

The song is titled I Saw What I Saw by Sara Groves. Now viewing it as a YouTube video, I see that it was inspired by a trip she made to Rwanda. Watching the video takes me back to my Guatemala trips, and even my years with Kids' Club on the Eastside right here.

But the lyrics find me where I am right now as well, still walking through the first weeks of grief for my friend Claire. One line in particular is what is staying with me still:

I saw what I saw and I can't forget it
I heard what I heard and I can't go back
I know what I know and I can't deny it

Something on the road, cut me to the soul

>> Your pain has changed me <<
your dream inspires
your face a memory
your hope a fire
your courage asks me what I'm afraid of
(what I am made of)
and what I know of love

we've done what we've done and we can't erase it
we are what we are and it's more than enough
we have what we have but it's no substitution

Something on the road, touched my very soul

I say what I say with no hesitation
I have what I have and I'm giving it up
I do what I do with deep conviction

Something on the road, changed my world

I had breakfast with a friend this past weekend who also knew Claire very well. While this was a horrible experience, he said, he wouldn't have traded it for anything. We both agreed: the horror of walking with someone into death changes you. I am a better person because of it. As the song says, her pain has changed me. My understanding of courage, faith, love and eternity were stretched and expanded... your courage asks me what I'm afraid of ... I am now more readily touched and affected by the pain of those around me... Something on the road, touched my very soul... I am more willing to sit and listen, and not try to fix or solve.

More than anything, I am reminded that nothing else in our day-to-day grind is really that important. Stress is irrelevant. A student brought up this passage in class this morning -- oh how I love the earnest faith of high school students. It tells me what is truly real:

How beautiful on the mountains
are the feet of those who bring good news,
who proclaim peace,
who bring good tidings,
who proclaim salvation,
who say to Zion,
"Your God reigns!" (Isaiah 52:7)

Hallelujah.

Rock of Ages

I woke up with the refrain from Rock of Ages running through my head:

Rock of Ages
Cleft for me
Let me hide myself in Thee...

Indeed, that's what I want. Or if I'm being honest, sometimes I just want to hide. Period.

I have deeply grieved before. I lost a mentor, who was like a treasured parent to me, to ALS in 1996. I lost a dear student five years ago. I walked with a friend who tragically also lost a battle with a brain tumor in 2006, and the father of some beloved students died in a plane crash last year. I somehow thought I knew how to do this grieving thing already.

Instead, I am moving slowly, as if running through deep mud. Earlier in the week I noted that after the week of stunning loss there comes a month of minimal interaction with others. I love what I get to do for a living; but at this point, it's all I can do. I come home each day completely spent, and I really don't think it's from working too hard.

At this point, I am finding it most helpful to not think I know at all what I'm doing. I seek the counsel of others:

How can we learn to live this way? Many of us are tempted to think that if we suffer, the only important thing is to be relieved of our pain. We want to flee it at all costs. But, when we learn to move through suffering rather than avoid it, then we greet it differently. We become willing to let it teach us. We even begin to see how God can use it for some larger end. Suffering becomes something other than a nuisance or curse to be evaded at all costs; but a way to deeper fulfillment. Ultimately, mourning means facing what wounds us in the presence of the One who can heal. (Nouwen)

We'll feel better in time, and in less time if we are able to express our sadness. If we do not open a wound to the air, it is harder for the wound to heal. If we do not surface our grief, it cannot move away from us, leaving us ready for new life. We need to be gentle with ourselves as we would be with a wounded child. (Martha Whitmore Hickman)

Return to your rest, O my soul, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you. (Psalm 116:7)

If I love God, suffering does not ultimately matter. Christ in me is what matters. Pain does not cease to be pain, but I can "rejoice in my suffering" (Romans 5:3) because the power of God in my life is greater than suffering's vice grip can ever be. (Joni Eareckson Tada)

The one true freedom in life is to come to terms with death, and as early as possible, for death is an event that embraces all our lives. And the only way to have a good death is to lead a good life... The more we do God's will, the less unfinished business we leave behind when we die." (William Sloane Coffin)

(Thanks to Russell Smelley for these quotes)

These help me to see that it is more than ok to go slow, to be quiet and less active. As the Whitman quote says, we need to be gentle with ourselves. I find grief to be alternately a fascinating, baffling and frustrating experience. It manifests itself in the strangest ways. In the midst of an enjoyable moment with others, suddenly a wave of sadness will wash over me, and I'll silently cry while others continue to laugh around me. I have physical symptoms that catch me off guard -- certain things go on in my body that are apparently resulting from stress that I do not know I'm feeling. And I am having an active dream life, picturing scenarios that are clearly connected to my loss and anxiety.

As I type this, I am listening to a song by Shane and Shane titled "Beauty for Ashes." It is simple and quite appropriate:

Beauty for ashes
A garment of praise for my heaviness
Beauty for ashes
Take this heart of stone and make it Yours, Yours

I delight myself in the Richest of Fare
Trading all that I've had for all that is better
A garment of praise for my heaviness
You are the greatest taste
You're the richest of fare (taken from Psalm 63, Isaiah 61)

More than ever, I am recognizing that I must live in the immediate moment. Not because I want to revert some youthful "carpe diem" adventurousness, but because the present is all I can handle. Again, Chittister educates me:

God is in the Here and Now. It is we who are not. It is we who are trapped in the past, angry at what formed us, or fixated on a future that is free from pain or totally under our control. But God is in our present, waiting for us there.

The Rock of Ages is indeed cleft for me. It is good to hide there.

Psalm 61:

¹ Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer.

² From the ends of the earth I call to you,
I call as my heart grows faint;
lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

³ For you have been my refuge,
a strong tower against the foe.

⁴ I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.

Legacy

(Claire is pictured with several of her beloved colleagues from Santa Barbara High)

Being back at school this week was especially poignant for me as I still reel with so many of you in losing Claire. Working with students was always a point of connection for Claire and I. We worked together for years in youth ministry -- I even had her work with me one summer as an intern, running our little start-up jr high ministry at the time.

In June 2000 we were going to take on 10 girls together as small group leaders -- she had worked with them through jr high, and I was going to join her as this group had grown. But two weeks before we got to do that, she had her first seizure and the rest, as they say, is history.

I went on to have one of the nuttier weeks of my life at camp that year (note to self: NEVER try to be the counselor for ten incoming high school freshman girls by yourself). We were already traumatized by the shock of Claire's new diagnosis, and let's be honest, that age group is already one walking ball of emotions, so it was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, to say the least.

Claire tried to join us later that year, but the ordeal of recovery proved to be too much for her, on top of trying to maintain her teaching career. Sadly, she had to pull out of youth ministry -- but went on to give everything she had to teaching.

This week I received a lovely email from a colleague of mine regarding Claire. It's such a small world -- this woman, with whom I now work at Providence Hall, had Claire as her master teacher when she was getting her teaching credential. Here are some of her memories of Claire:

What i would want people to know about Claire is that I think teaching brought out her true essence. Claire never pushed her beliefs on anyone, but loved those kids so much that Christ shined through her. Whenever I talk to people about Claire, I tell them how lucky was to have her as a master teacher. She took kids that other teachers had given up on and found a way to make class fun. She genuinely cared about helping them succeed, and they respected her for it. Claire was a model teacher. As long as I've been teaching, I've thought of her as the type teacher I aspire to be like, and I know there are past students of hers, future teachers, who will do the same.

I want to honor Claire's memory and note the power of her life upon mine by considering these words. As I continue as a teacher and youthworker, I want the same sort of things said about me. In my consulting with churches and pastors, we always spend time discussing the principle of how to "begin with the end in mind." In other words, we should live our lives NOW as we want to be remembered. Claire did that. I want to do that too. That is a life of integrity -- being who I say I am.

Russell Smelley, a dear friend who has suffered profound loss, passed these words, among many, on to me last week:

We tend to deal with death in the same manner as we deal with our daily lives. Grieving can take many forms, but it seems to conform to our personality and life experiences; nonetheless we grieve. We need to learn to live life well because we are going to die. We tend to be fearful people but we can learn to live not in fear but in the hope of God's grace. We have a particular amount of time on earth as our days are numbered and known only by God. Peace comes with accepting the reality of our imminent demise.

May we lean heavily on Christ as we live our "pre-lives" now, in preparation for our "real lives" in eternity. Let's push each other to live lives of truth, beauty, grace, and bravery. These words compel me:

And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him. In this way, love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment, because in this world we are like him. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. (1 John 4:16-18)

No fear.

Goodbye Old Man

Today was a very blue day for me. I had to put down my cat of twelve years, Jack (AKA "Jacko" and "Grandpa"). After at least a year of decline, where I paid more in vet bills than I care to admit, I had to come to the realization that it was time. After he was gone, the vet was able to really probe and confirmed he had a mass in his stomach that was untreatable.

The funny thing is that while I enjoyed this cat, I wouldn't say I was dramatically attached. He was just great to have around. Since I worked at home, he was around A LOT (notice the photo). When it came time to say goodbye, I was really sad. Lots of crying. My friend Steph consoled me later with this: "the time spent together represents a clear slice of life and the attachment defies reason sometimes." So I'm just letting go and not needing to make sense of it all as I get weepy over a darn cat. I feel like Jack Nicholson in "As Good as It Gets" when he sobs over Greg Kinnear's dog Verdell.

Then I remember that whenever I've put a cat down, I not only mourn the cat, but I think I also mourn what he represents. (Right now I'm remembering our cats Simon and Garfunkel from my childhood). I got Jack in '98, when I realized I would never have kids and I just wanted something else to think about. No no -- he wasn't my child. Please. Like I said, he was just good company and a distraction. And today I think I realized that saying goodbye to him also caused me to reflect back on the often turbulent times of these last 12 years, and far too many seasons of loss and grief.

So I allowed myself to shed many tears today and also smile at some fond memories -- he always sat in the laps of one of my students when they came to visit; he slept on my shoulder when I took a nap; he was very social with everyone who came by the house to visit; he loved shoes; he was never a snooty, aloof cat. He loved people and always wanted to be where the action was. Thanks Old Friend.

Light in the Darkness

I appreciated this quote very much. It speaks to some very real things going on in my life this week.

Light in the Darkness

We walk in a "ravine as dark as death" (Psalm 23:4), and still we have nothing to fear because God is at our side: God's staff and crook are there to soothe us (see Psalm 23:4). This is not just a consoling idea. It is an experience of the heart that we can trust.

Our lives are full of suffering, pain, disillusions, losses and grief, but they are also marked by visions of the coming of the Son of Man "like lightning striking in the east and flashing far into west" (Matthew 24:27). These moments in which we see clearly, hear loudly, and feel deeply that God is with us on the journey make us shine as a light into the darkness. Jesus says, "You are the light of the world. Your light must shine in people's sight, so that, seeing your good works, they may give praise to your Father in heaven" (Matthew 5:14-16).