tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50333876281103717902024-02-22T12:20:43.811-05:00A Journey ObservedBarry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-91044634145354399332019-12-29T14:58:00.003-05:002019-12-29T20:52:37.094-05:00Marking 10 Years of God Stamps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiwuX2_hJ0oY7XmQwehViJEywX2RD0U6J1k61l9ID6-9ZiYTKu8Yrr9tQGBF5prkrcqwvbECtYdLjt73srcsGXhlQC2gULhrbTXJKlCqusKt4GCHKOyceMZQIc9WQLyrrzIlTEOFvr0v0/s1600/Maggie+Sunflower+red+wagon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="960" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiwuX2_hJ0oY7XmQwehViJEywX2RD0U6J1k61l9ID6-9ZiYTKu8Yrr9tQGBF5prkrcqwvbECtYdLjt73srcsGXhlQC2gULhrbTXJKlCqusKt4GCHKOyceMZQIc9WQLyrrzIlTEOFvr0v0/s320/Maggie+Sunflower+red+wagon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I remember having this specific thought, almost word for
word, ten years ago this month: This is a sucky situation, and the only way out
is worse. In September of 2009 Dana’s cancer took a hard turn, landing us in
the hospital for a month. We came home to hospice in October which is when I
began embracing the reality of the situation we were in. In late November I
started reading to Dana a chapter-ish a day of the book of Revelation, one of
Dana’s top 10 favorite books of the Bible (or in reality, one of her top 66).
We were both buoyed by the book’s message of hope. But as we approached the end
of the book I had a haunting thought: What’s going to happen when we reach the
end of this book? That last verse has a pretty final sounding “Amen.” On
December 22, 2009 Dana was a little more alert than she had been. We had had
some Christmas carolers from Centerville Christian Fellowship (some of the dearest folks in the world) singing to us from the front yard while standing in the snow. Dana laughed at hearing Pastor Wes singing way off pitch.
Later that evening, given her more engaged state, I decided to read two
chapters out of Revelation, chapters 21 and 22, which included talk of Jesus
wiping away our tears. This struck me in that we (we being me, Mama Sue, and
many wonderful caregivers) had wiped away many of Dana’s tears in the recent
months, partly from emotion, and partly from spontaneous tearing from
medications. Those two chapters took us to the end of the book. The next
morning, on December 23 at 9:10 am, the task of wiping Dana’s tears was officially
taken over by Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At that moment of passing, I didn’t know how I was going
to get to the next moment. But I did. And then I didn’t know how I’d get to the
next moment, but I did. And soon those moments began to pile on top of each
other. I eventually made it through the first day, then the first night, then
the first week, then the first month, then the first year. And now, here we
are, 10 years later. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There is only one answer for making it to this point: God.
His presence. His grace.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d like to mark the 10-year anniversary by doing something
similar to what the psalmist Asaph of Psalm 73 did. After writing of his tumultuous
journey with life and faith, he wrote: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But
as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge;
I will tell of all your deeds. </i>I need to tell of a few of God’s deeds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In these 10 years, I have, in order of appearance: dug
through the mud of grief, met Jessica, married Jessica, travelled with Jessica,
had Reade, had open-heart valve repair surgery (both in the same week, Reade and heart valve surgery), had
Rachel. Then, Jessica was diagnosed with breast cancer, beat the breast cancer
holistically, beat the breast cancer again with surgery, lost Jessica’s cousin
by a rarer cancer, lost Jessica’s grandfather by 94 years of a great life, and
most recently, lost Jessica’s (and my) dear friend Kristin by an aggressive
colon cancer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is an irony to this active decade. During my first
year of widowhood I articulated the thought that I am okay with simply gutting
it out for the next 30 years, 30 years being my remaining actuarial life span;
I’m okay with watching other people experience love, enjoy Christmas, and revel
in other good things. I had experienced those things and was content with simply
being an observer. I had great family love, both my own family and Dana’s
family. While this mindset seemed brave at the time, in retrospect it was
likely a process mechanism to protect myself. Thankfully, God had other plans.
And miraculously, He prepared me for those plans.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In fact, over these past 10 years I think one of the
biggest miracles God has performed, or greatest "deed" to use the words of the
psalmist, is helping me not live protectively, at least not knowingly. I think
our default inclination after loss is to protect our heart to minimize risk. It
is no small accomplishment to say that today as a husband, as a dad, as a
friend, I am all in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have full appreciation for the mercy God has shown me through
His consistent reminders of His presence, what we in this journey have called
God Stamps---weirdly coincidental sightings of rainbows and deer and other
confluences like <a href="https://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-want-to-talk-about-love-for-minute.html" target="_blank">heart clouds</a> that can only be explained by divine direction,
comforting moments letting us know that “God’s stamp is all over this journey, ”
a direct quote from Mama Sue during Dana’s hospice portion of the journey. For
me, however, it took awhile to warm up to the idea of God’s presence being a
comfort. In my most honest moments while in the epicenter of grief I’d find myself
saying “God, your presence is great, but I’d rather have Dana’s.” But His
presence is real, and it’s the biggest money-back guarantee we have from God:
He is with us. In fact, it’s expressed in one of His Son’s most famous
nicknames, Immanuel (which means, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God
with us</i>). <o:p></o:p></div>
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A true gift of these God Stamps over these past 10 years has
been experiencing the thinness of the veil between here and There. A big
booster in this gift was the “conversation” I had with Dana when I wondered how
she would comfort me in my pain (If you’d like to take a look at that, see <a href="https://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/08/over-these-past-months-ive-been.html">post
here</a>). I’ve tried to live in the reality of this thin veil. This has kept
me in proper perspective as we continue to navigate loss. In fact, in the eight
years that Jessica and I have been married both of our families and some dear
friends have experienced crushing loss. And in these losses, God continues to
mercifully remind all of us of His presence with God stamps, adding to our
stamp collection of rainbows, deer, ladybugs (see our dear friends Chuck and Sue Bost) and a heart cloud. It’s abundantly evident
that these past 10 years are not about me and recovery, but about God and His
presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the most recent loss of our friend Kristin, a good
friend of Jessica’s from graduate school at USC, we’ve added sunflowers to the
God stamp collection. The sunflower was Kristin’s life symbol, and at her
memorial service the church was filled with sunflowers. All of us close to her
since her passing have been experiencing curious sunflower moments. For me it
was in October when bike riding on a trail a few days after Kristin’s passing.
I was thinking about her and her service (I was to be involved) when I passed a
trail walker wearing an In and Out Burger t-shirt…in Ohio! I then thought “It
would be nice to see a sunflower right now.” Within a minute, I passed a garden
I’ve passed dozens of times this summer on my rides, and there, as big and bold
as ever, a huge sunflower…in late fall…in Ohio!<o:p></o:p></div>
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This past December 23, the actual 10-year date of Dana’s
passing, I took a random incoming call at Atrium Medical Center, where I’ve
been working since March as a patient representative (long story for another
post). The caller was a Middletown Journal writer asking for a patient’s
condition. The caller was Rick McCrabb who was the Middletown Journal reporter
who wrote about the rainbow story that happened when Dana and I began the
battle of her recurrent breast cancer in 2006. In the 10 months I’ve worked in the
hospital position and in the dozens of incoming calls I field every day, I had
never taken a call from a reporter for a patient condition update. I shared the
connection with Rick and he was as wowed as I was. Unbeknownst to me, throughout
that day, Jessica had experienced several sunflower moments, similar to the one
I experienced on the bike path in October. We later concluded that Kristin and
Dana must have met for coffee and were letting us know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Christmas Day, while we were driving to Preble County
for some family Christmas time, Jessica was texting Kristin’s husband Bob to
check in with him and share about her sunflower sightings on December 23. She
looked up from her phone to gather a thought and her eyes landed on a big ol’
metal sunflower in the middle of a yard. Yes, it was yard art, but we’ll take
it! Later that day at my sister Beck’s house we were sharing about these
sunflower sightings, and the call from the Middletown Journal rainbow writer.
My niece Maggie, an artist who has been <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MaggieReckersArt/">posting a sketch a day</a>
for the past year as a personal challenge and who has been oblivious to our
journey with the sunflower, asked if we happened to have seen her Christmas Day
post that day. We hadn’t. She showed it to us. It was a sunflower, potted in
loose dirt in a red Radio Flyer wagon, She explained that sunflowers have
represented light and hope to her. She shared how she equivocated on sketching and
posting an item that is not traditionally associated with Christmas but something
compelled her regarding its appropriateness for Christmas Day. It was a God
Stamp moment. Jessica then posted that story, sharing Maggie’s sketch and her
sunflower sightings. Within a few hours, Kristin’s brother Bryan who lives in
Germany, posted the photo you see below of our “sunflower” in a red Radio Flyer
wagon. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You can’t make this stuff up! I love it when God shows
off and I hope this encourages you as much as it has me. I am witness to the
fact that His presence is real. I am testimony to the fact that His presence
brings hope. I am evidence of the fact that this hope brings lifesaving refuge
and miraculous redemption. Those are just a few of the great deeds of God that
have become the monikers of this past 10 years: His necessary refuge, His merciful presence, His
palpable hope, His exhilarating redemption.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank you for your prayers, your support, and so much
else.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Barry<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-34949615759521385982017-12-23T14:11:00.001-05:002017-12-23T14:12:55.077-05:00Saying Goodbye to Good Ground<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyD3XoBEFVpW-2f1O99r4r9yXq0D9DiNUxtoU95y9cu3LvnSTxv6weHTB4gTTRLnqM3hNwdPklCfq1tf6rAK09g2sJKLE4KQHC2-4Iato821oxZr36bM0qbL44Du77qtNrudM1z1RYf8w/s1600/4+in+front+of+house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="1232" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyD3XoBEFVpW-2f1O99r4r9yXq0D9DiNUxtoU95y9cu3LvnSTxv6weHTB4gTTRLnqM3hNwdPklCfq1tf6rAK09g2sJKLE4KQHC2-4Iato821oxZr36bM0qbL44Du77qtNrudM1z1RYf8w/s320/4+in+front+of+house.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It was eight years ago today that Dana accepted a better
offer of where to spend Christmas (as her Unkie Jon described it), passing from
the land of fake angels on treetops to the land of real angels with Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the occasion of the date of Dana’s passing, I thought
I’d commemorate a different life passage of sorts that my family has recently experienced, a passage which is somewhat connected to the passing of Dana.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was in grade school my folks did something that
seemed strange to me: they bought a plot of land. The land had no house. No
cornfields like what we were used to. It looked a little scraggly with lots of
rocks. But it featured giant tulip poplar trees (which could be seen from miles
away), a creek, a bank, and even an island carved out by the creek.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We would visit this land from time to time. Maybe do a
picnic or take a hike. Mom and Dad would do some work (clearing, mowing) and
Beck and I would explore. It always felt like we were entering an unusual land.
We were used to cornfields, ponies, and things you find around an old barn.
This was a land of weird crawdad mounds and creek life which included water spiders
that could rest on the water surface, tiny minnows, and the crawdads that made
those weird mounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On several occasions when we’d leave the land of woods
and creek to make the 30-ish minute drive back to our farm, mom would say
something like, “Someday it will be good to see a nice home with warm, glowing
lights nestled back in that woods.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Within a couple of years, Mom and Dad realized their “someday”
dream for that scraggly, wooded, creek-split land. With the help of construction
friend Bob Creech and all the friend help they could muster (which was a
formidable crew), Mom and Dad built that home with the warm glowing lights.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And for over 40 years those warm, glowing lights welcomed
friends, strangers, family, new family, and babies. It became a first stop for
couples with news to announce or struggles to share. It was a sanctuary for
prayer and rest. We sang. We celebrated. We cried. We laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Its dining room table hosted countless birthday parties,
Christmas dinners, and New Year’s Day sauerkraut buffets—the perfect food for
the day’s football binge. The legacy of the dining room, of course, is the Sunday
dinner: roast beef, mashed potatoes, Grandma Ruth gravy, and vegetable
variations which were superfluous to the meat and potatoes. Two things I know
about those Sunday dinners: First, Mom seemed to pull those off as easy as
pulling a meat tray out of the fridge. Second, of all the weekly dinners stretching
over 40 years I don’t think we ever had the same table crowd from one week to
the next. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Creek and woods life eventually became second nature to
Beck and me. We enjoyed introducing friends and cousins to our woods and creek:
catching minnows and crawdads, climbing the bank, and of course, making world
class forts. The large front yard, naturally, became our sports arena:
football, kickball, softball, Frisbee, whiffle ball, and much more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s been idyllic ground to grow up on and an era that I
thought would never end. But as the upkeep of such a place has outpaced the abilities
of Mom and Dad, the end of the era has in fact come. Just this week, 44 years
since flipping the switch for those welcoming warm lights, Mom, Dad, Beck and I
took our final tromp through that woods. We told stories, we reminisced, we
paid our last respects to our beloved collie who made the move with us from the
farm and is buried in the woods. We tromped with Beck’s husband Rick, their
daughter Maggie, and with my kids Reade and Rachel—a fitting patrol representing
how that land nurtured the original four and welcomed our growth. A few minutes
after all us kids left, Mom and Dad met up with the next owners and handed over
the house keys.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the movie “Gettysburg,” a film depicting the Civil War
battle of Gettysburg, we’re introduced to the descriptive phrase of “good
ground.” It’s a phrase I’ve come to use
to describe Mom and Dad’s idyllic plot of land in Preble County. It’s the
phrase I’ve used to describe Preble County in general. In fact, it’s this ideal
that led Dana to say, even before facing a life-threatening illness, “If
anything happens to me, I’d like to be buried in Preble County.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s good ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If I might find the common ground in all of this: No
matter what life might throw our way, if our feet are set on good ground, we
will not only survive, but thrive. And of course, when we’ve enjoyed such good
ground, whether it be a plot of land or a deep relationship, it’s sad when our
feet step away from that ground. But it’s a privilege, and a gift, to have had
such a ground. It makes us better people, “grounded” people if I may, who are
on a constant search to provide good ground for those we love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I leave you with some images below. First, the original
foursome to inhabit the welcoming lights of this home in front of the tree
trunk, and then the tree, of our first Christmas tree in our home of welcoming
lights. Yes, for our first Christmas Mom and Dad bought a Christmas tree with a
root ball that could be planted. This tree has been the faithful witness to all
that was written above. And finally, I leave you with a picture of those warm
lights that Mom spoke of 44 years ago, a picture taken the evening of the final
tromp through that good ground.</div>
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Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-89701779410209659412017-07-07T17:25:00.001-04:002017-07-07T18:33:31.481-04:00A Rainbow Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjHoA0pJ8JsQZsP8UDuLBuzSPxlMZzd8MFt-eaX8xQXedLkuL6e4MrAC1eClvLeHxLsoUTP2aUgxBXy_CoVL2tIMkOiqCPnLdXvJ6HpoUDkSXoyA3O-NOh8POxU8a04D55uUG1w3UDxM/s1600/Rainbow+July+2017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjHoA0pJ8JsQZsP8UDuLBuzSPxlMZzd8MFt-eaX8xQXedLkuL6e4MrAC1eClvLeHxLsoUTP2aUgxBXy_CoVL2tIMkOiqCPnLdXvJ6HpoUDkSXoyA3O-NOh8POxU8a04D55uUG1w3UDxM/s320/Rainbow+July+2017.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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So I just took a quick end-of-day bike ride that ended up
being a ride of dodging raindrops and racing a looming storm. Occasionally the
sun would poke out so I was sure I was going to see a rainbow…and I felt
strongly that somebody needed to see a rainbow…so I found myself saying “C’mon
rainbow!!” But to no avail. My rooting for a rainbow did, though, spark a
thought: somebody on this earth, at this moment, is seeing a rainbow. And then
I thought, “You know, I bet you can pretty much count on the fact that at any
given moment, with all the sun on this earth and all the rain, somebody
somewhere is looking at a rainbow. And, according to Genesis 9, God is also
looking at that rainbow. And then I thought of a rainbow moment I had a couple
weeks ago. So, I share a special picture of a rainbow from a couple weeks ago…and
I share it in honor of a few things:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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1. The rainbow in this picture was the rainbow that was
spotted when I was on a similar bike ride a couple weeks ago…a ride that I took
specifically to think about the upcoming wedding ceremony of a dear couple,
Alex and Eric, whose ceremony I’d be performing that next Saturday. As I was
riding in and out of rain and sun, thinking about their relationship and their
families, this rainbow was spotted and photographed by Jessica---confirmation of what we already knew, that God is on the edge of His seat in anticipation of this marriage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2. Today is the birthday of my mother-in-law for life, Mama
Sue. She and I spent a journey ringing every drop of hope out of many rainbows.
We now are both living in the redemption that God kept mercifully reminding us of.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. We are two days away from the heartbreaking two-year anniversary
of cousins Mike and Susan in the loss of their dear 3-year old son Will . They
are redeeming their loss with color, encouraging folks with #BrightForWill and their
newly formed foundation named, Bright for Will. <o:p></o:p></div>
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4. My lifelong friends, Randy and Roxanne, have begun a
battle against Roxanne’s recently diagnosed lung cancer. Randy’s nickname, from
his high school baseball days and how I still refer to him: Rainbow. (My
understanding is that this was one of those “ironic” nicknames in that when he
threw a baseball, it was anything BUT a rainbow.) When I found myself rooting for a rainbow today, I found myself rooting for Roxanne and Rainbow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was impressed this evening with the thought that somebody
needs to see a rainbow (which is why this post has not yet been wordsmithed/edited/crafted). So, maybe this can be your rainbow…an assurance that
God is with you no matter what.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Prayers and peace to you!</div>
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Barry</div>
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Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-46375943551926236112017-05-06T11:03:00.000-04:002017-05-06T11:09:02.811-04:00Clapping for Honor in Our Jammies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYwXTUTptLvJynck2a0BVPy4RaMRmxoN9GhlgKFR6gfGiIx4ozUatvk9PQLzRwUcx4WgAmSeMU3ldyEAEJAsyuMQryboo_p_6pOYT5Txq-SRWCWzxE9xulwHLeh1M4Mm9O_sKhZLBtyY/s1600/Ron+Frame+Honor+Flight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYwXTUTptLvJynck2a0BVPy4RaMRmxoN9GhlgKFR6gfGiIx4ozUatvk9PQLzRwUcx4WgAmSeMU3ldyEAEJAsyuMQryboo_p_6pOYT5Txq-SRWCWzxE9xulwHLeh1M4Mm9O_sKhZLBtyY/s320/Ron+Frame+Honor+Flight.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>Older Dad Note No. 83</b><br />
Five weeks ago today, we left our DC hotel early morning for
an 8:30 a.m. flight out of Reagan National. (Jessica had sung at the Kennedy
Center in DC, with family in tow, family being Reade, Rachel, and me.) This meant waking up solidly sleeping babies before
the sun was up (which feels like throwing money out the window, such a waste of
good sleep time). But we kept them in their jammies which added to the cute
factor. Turns out we needed this cute factor and cashed in on a couple
occasions (so maybe it <i>wasn’t </i>money out the window). </div>
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Ticketing and security went
relatively smoothly and as we were wrapping up in the security area we suddenly heard
applause around the corner. It’s something you hear occasionally in an airport
these days and I’ve come to recognize it right away. An Honor Flight of
veterans had just arrived. They would be spending the day in DC visiting the
memorial of their war. They began to walk by us as we were recovering from our
security experience, clapping as we repacked our bags and regained our strollers.
And then we saw on their t-shirts from where these vets came…Dayton, Ohio!
Sudden affinity and camaraderie took over…several O-H-I-O’s were exchanged. “We’re
headed to YOUR airport!” I would blurt out, unable to resist making all
possible connections. And then we saw walking along in the flow of veterans a
dear friend, Ron Frame, from Franklin, a small town near Middletown. He had served in the
Navy in the Vietnam War. Hugs and tears all around.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is something serendipitously special about being
caught up in an arrival or departure of an honor flight in an airport terminal.
It’s an opportunity to see humanity at its best. Hurried travelers stop and
clap. They create a spontaneous, MacGyver-type of parade, showing celebratory
respect with anything they have handy. They give up precious airport time to
express appreciation. They push the limits of their boarding time. In fact, we
were the last to board our plane, foregoing the coveted pre-boarding for “those
with small children.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was worth it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On the Honor Flight <a href="https://www.honorflight.org/" target="_blank">website </a>you’ll see a quote from Will
Rogers: <i>“We can’t all be heroes. Some of us have to stand on the curb and clap
as they walk by.” </i>That was us and several hundred others.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That special moment in Reagan National sparked something in
me as a dad. There are some things I want to be sure to teach Reade and Rachel:<o:p></o:p></div>
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1. Clap for veterans. They're heroes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. Be comfortable in saying “Thank you for your service.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. Honor sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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4. In between bites of hot dog and hamburger (or “hanggeber”
as Reade, and now our family, calls it), give at least a moment of deep
reflection on the reason for celebrating Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5. Read the Declaration of Independence every July 4.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6. Know where and when your family members served,
especially your grandpa, great-grandpa, uncles, great uncles. But go back as
many generations and wars as your heart leads you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7. Cover your heart for the Pledge of Allegiance. Stand for
the National Anthem. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8. Vote in every election, the big ones and the small ones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On a more general note:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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1. Be humble and kind (thank you singer Tim McGraw and
writer Lori McKenna).<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. Pull over for funeral processions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. Don’t be afraid to sacrifice, from the little to the big.<o:p></o:p></div>
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4. Pay attention to the subtler special days in people’s
lives: death dates of loved ones, anniversary dates of sobriety, the mark of another
year of “cancer free.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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5. Visit cemeteries. Piece together the stories on the
headstones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And finally, set an alarm. Good things can happen when
you get out of bed early. Even if you stay in your jammies.<o:p></o:p></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-49028524117748233222016-12-23T14:16:00.001-05:002016-12-23T14:41:48.045-05:00Hope from a Squiggly Line<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIhVELG477bpF855Z3wc4DFe3PR-UOtdvrG1YT8S5DLiVjFbwpk9KbQ1YURkE8VL2Qr1DCPGjpMW88dy0pwUweCH8QN6B_p9NLAZDus7l6afwvdxNwsqCL64g4ti3WqqFV1qqQCMDezo/s1600/Ps+103-s.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIhVELG477bpF855Z3wc4DFe3PR-UOtdvrG1YT8S5DLiVjFbwpk9KbQ1YURkE8VL2Qr1DCPGjpMW88dy0pwUweCH8QN6B_p9NLAZDus7l6afwvdxNwsqCL64g4ti3WqqFV1qqQCMDezo/s320/Ps+103-s.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Some thoughts on loss and comfort on this, the 7-year anniversary of Dana’s
passing. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Earlier this month I volunteered to write an Advent
devotional for our church and was assigned a snippet out of Psalm 103. It goes
something like this:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Praise
the </span></i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lord</span></span></i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, my soul; my inmost being, praise his holy
name. </span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">2 </span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Praise the </span></i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lord</span></span></i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, my soul, and forget not all
his benefits—</span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">3 </span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">who forgives all your sins and heals all your
diseases, </span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">4 </span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you
with love and compassion, </span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">5 </span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">who satisfies your desires with
good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. (Psalm 103:1-5,
NIV)</span></i></span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stumbled over the phrase “heals all our diseases” because
the obvious retort to that declaration is, “No, He doesn’t.” So, what gives? </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Is David, whose name is in the byline, using figurative parts of
speech that point to eternal “ultimate” healing? Is he writing while on a
spiritual high and over-promising on behalf of God? Or does this simply mean
the Bible can’t be trusted? None of these seem likely in that all other
benefits from God in this passage are very literal and are for now:
forgiveness, redemption, love, mercy, and good. And David himself had been
around uncured diseases: the lameness of Mephibosheth as well as the loss of
his first son. Yet he still writes that the Lord “heals all your diseases.”
There is obviously something deeper in play here.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Well, here’s what I got. I’m seeing the “something
deeper” as two things, and they are two things that God is most jazzed about
all through Scripture: 1) ultimate healing in heaven; 2) helping us out until
we get there. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<s><span style="margin: 0px;"><br /></span></s></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But first a confession. I’ve never been comforted by the
concept of “ultimate healing,” as in when someone passes away from disease and
we say, “Well, now she is healed.”</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s true. Our loved one is healed. But also gone. I’ve
viewed, maybe unfairly, the idea of “ultimate healing” as just a convenient way to give God an
out for not delivering a miracle. I didn’t find much comfort in that. My
exercise with this psalm has helped me find comfort in that. In fact, I literally
found it in the form of a squiggly line in Psalm 103 in Dana's Bible. </span></div>
<br />
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For me, the New Testament message blurs the lines between
mortality and immortality, between temporal and eternal. Our personal eternity
begins at the point of believing in Jesus. Death, having lost its sting, then
simply becomes the moment we step out of our mortality and keep walking with
nothing but immortality, like when your boot gets stuck in the mud and your
foot slips right out. From God’s perspective, it’s that simple. But after
millennia of existing in our fallen state, we’ve gotten very attached to our
mortality. It’s all we see, and quite frankly, all we know.</span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">You’ve heard me speak of God stamps—those moments in my
journey when it was mercifully obvious that God’s hands were all over my
experience. In a post titled “<a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/08/over-these-past-months-ive-been.html" target="_blank">Lessons Learned Along the Trail…and Journey</a>” I wrote about a stamp that brought great comfort to me and has since brought
comfort and encouragement to many others. The penultimate point of that stamp
was me, while at a mountaintop cabin in Montana, hearing words from Dana from
her perch on the Other side (I’ll let others figure out the conveyance
mechanism on that: Angels? God? Holy Spirit?) saying to me that it didn’t
matter how bad life gets. It didn’t matter how sucky her cancer battle was. It
didn’t matter the pain I was feeling. She had seen where this all goes and
could resolutely say “It…IS…worth it!” The ultimate point of that stamp (and I
humbly encourage you to read <a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/08/over-these-past-months-ive-been.html" target="_blank">the post</a> if you haven’t) came a couple days later
while hiking a trail when I found myself having the EXACT same conversation
with hikers about a boring trail leading to a glorious overlook. I was on my
way down and they were on their way up. They asked, “Is it worth it?” It was
comedic timing. Yes. The glorious overlook was worth the boring hike.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s all about the glorious end. The thing is, it’s
actually frustrating that this truth seems to shape God’s modus operandi. He knows
where this is all headed and He knows it’s going to blow our minds. This is
likely why He seems slow and even silent when we think He should be loud and
miraculous. Yes, He may perform a miracle. But He gets more excited about the
glorious end. We, naturally, would like the miracle.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So what about now? How can this “It’s Worth It!” theology
help when we are fighting all our diseases and everything else that a fallen
world can throw at us? The prospect of the glorious end isn’t all that
comforting or motivating and quite frankly we have many God-given blessings to
enjoy right here and now. Thankfully, and mercifully, God does more than say,
“Just wait. You’ll see.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I think this is the second thing in play that jazzes God
up in Psalm 103. He helps us get by until we get there. When we are in the pit,
God climbs in with us. Further, He redeems the experience of the pit. I
remember thinking while in the pit of the cancer fight that, while I’d rather
not be in the pit, I’m going to take advantage of the perspective and take a
look around, knowing that I would see things and experience aspects of God that
I would not have seen or experienced otherwise. We’re told in Philippians that
there is great fulfillment in joining in the fellowship of suffering with
Jesus, that we find a depth of intimacy we would not otherwise have
experienced. I have found that to be true. I am also experiencing the fruit of
redemption. In fact, one of those fruits is finishing up her oatmeal while
sitting in her high chair as I type. She’s even thrown some fruit on the floor
to help emphasize the point.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the moment our friends and family members seem to be
experiencing more than their fair share of fallen world these days. We have
young friends fighting new cancer battles, dear friends in a marriage that’s
falling apart. We have several friends, neighbors, and family who have
experienced tragic loss in recent months, most recently our dear sweet Erin,
Jessica’s cousin, whose husband Mike stepped out of his mortality just this
past Tuesday after a 2-year battle against cancer.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There is reality in the notion that God loves to help us
through this fallen world, and there is truth in the notion that God can’t wait
for us to see what’s waiting for us. When Dana and I were in the final weeks of
care-giving, I began to read the book of Revelation to her, about a chapter a
day. It was her favorite book of the Bible. Each chapter brought salve and
comfort to anxiety-filled days. We could feel God’s hands and were mercifully
reminded of His presence through all the God stamps we were collecting. About
midway through the book I had a haunting thought: What’s going to happen after
we read the last chapter? It has such a final “Amen!” On Tuesday, December 22
Dana was more interactive than usual so I read two chapters. They happened to
be the last two chapters of the book. The next morning she passed away. In
Revelation 21 Dana heard these words:</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">4 </span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">‘He will wipe every tear
from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain,
for the old order of things has passed away.”</span></i></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">That sounds an awful lot like “He heals
all your diseases.” Leave it to the book of Revelation to tie it all together.
To give us comfort in the pit, and hope for the future.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As I was seeking insight on the absoluteness of “heals
all our diseases,” and trying to push through my own bias against “ultimate
healing” in writing the Advent devotional, I consulted several commentaries,
and in a last-ditch effort for some insight, I dug out Dana’s Bible (her
“brown” Bible that she often mentioned) to see if she had any comments on that
phrase, particularly in light of fighting a disease that threatens life. When I
turned to that psalm, my eyes landed on the picture you see nearby. The only
notation in that psalm, a squiggly penned line under “He heals all our
diseases.” I have no idea when she noted that phrase. Was it pre-cancer? Was it
during cancer recurrence? I did have a couple clues. The fact that it was
squiggly, and not a neat straight line (she usually used a straight-edge)
coupled with the fact that she made no notes with the line (she always noted
why something stood out) indicates to me that she underlined this phrase in the
final months of fighting her disease—when she was too worn out to care about
the details of neatness and comments. (The dates you see noted of ’04 and ’06
were read-throughs she had done, with a straight edge, and making notes.) She
was pinning, or actually penning, her hopes on healing. I may never know, this
side of heaven, which healing she most had in mind when she squiggled that
line. In a nod to the blurred line between mortality and immortality, it doesn’t
matter. What I do know is that on December 23, 2009, she stepped out of her
mortal shell and into immortal glory.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She left her diseased boots sticking in the mud. She was
healed. Of all her disease.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m glad I found that squiggly line. It reminded
me of God’s presence in the pit. It assured me, even convinced me, of the
beauty in ultimate healing. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I don’t know what you’re facing at the
moment, but I hope you find a squiggly line that gives you blessed assurance in the hope of heaven where the sting of death is gone. </span></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-39869571881451786372016-09-29T10:14:00.003-04:002016-09-29T10:23:07.573-04:00Celebrating 60 Years with Mom and Dad!<br />
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s presumptuous to think that you can write something
that’s a worthy commemoration to 60 years of wonderful marriage. So that is not
what I’m setting out to do. Instead, please accept this simply as a humble
tribute to my parents whom I dearly love.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Two big things have to happen to be married for 60 years:
1) you need to live a long time; 2) you need to stay married a long time. Mom
and Dad, the blessed Bonnie and Miles Shafer, are ably doing both. They
continue to redefine for all of us each new decade of age they enter, and in
their marriage they actually seem to be counting backwards, getting younger and
more vibrant in their love as they go along.</span></div>
<br />
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My sister, Becky (“Beck”), and I know that we are blessed.
We’ve had the gift of being reared by loving, selfless, nurturing parents. Of
course, that’s because they were a loving, selfless, nurturing couple to begin
with. They met at the Church of God Campmeeting grounds in Springfield, Ohio.
Mom, the daughter of a faithful church pastor; dad, the son of a faithful
family every pastor wished they had in their church. Dad was helping to park
cars at Springfield Campmeeting on a summer evening in 1953. Mom was in one of
those cars with her family. To hear Mom tell it, she was smitten by this
handsome young man in his t-shirt and official car-parking whistle. To hear Dad
tell it, it was her cuteness and charm that got his attention. </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was a match made in heaven and on September 29, 1956
they declared “I do” to something God had already put together. And you know,
they’ve been following that pattern, in some form or another, ever since. Mom
and Dad are what it looks like to reap the benefits of living the gospel
message, being obedient to what God puts before them: to speak truth when needed,
to dispense grace when needed, to bestow forgiveness when needed, to keep at
bay those things that try to sneak in and destroy. They are what it looks like
to live a humbly contented life, free of bitterness, jealousy, envy and other things
that erode the body and harden the heart. It’s this humble contentment, I
think, that has freed up their minds and hearts to love so selflessly on Beck
and me, on our extended family, on our church, on friends, and on anyone who
made their way to Mom and Dad’s dining room table.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This humble contentment certainly put them in position to
be the best parents in the world—all due respect to any present-company parents
reading along. If I may, let me count a few ways.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">First, there is their hidden, surprising sense of
adventure. Before they knew how to camp, they took us camping. When they felt
the nudge to leave the city to find solace in the country, they left
familiarity and moved. Before they knew about livestock and farming they
brought home three ponies. Knowing nothing about construction, they built a
house with the help of friends. Neither finished with a college degree, but
they sent their two off on that wonderful college adventure. For their 50</span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
wedding anniversary we took a hiking trip to Big Mountain and Glacier National
Park in Montana.</span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then, there is their high capacity for music. Through day
to day life they taught music to both Beck and me and encouraged us with formal
lessons. Car trips always involved singing. Of all the great voices I’ve heard,
Dad’s mellow baritone is still my favorite and I’ve always loved that Mom can
play anything on the piano—anything! Over the years, Dad has faithfully kept
Preble County’s pianos in tune while they both blessed the Eaton First Church
of God with professional-grade music long before the church was able to hire a
professional-grade musician.</span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of course there is the open sanctuary of their home. Whether
kneeling for prayer in the living room, or gathering for meals around the
table, or saving your fork for apple pie, Mom and Dad’s home has provided
sanctuary by the tableful. Through Beck’s and my high school years our back
yard served as the after-game gathering spot for players, band, fans, parents,
coaches, and of course, Squeak our dachshund, who turned into an actual hotdog
after eating a nightful of scraps.</span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Speaking of pets, Mom and Dad graced us with many. History
has shown Squeak and Lassie (beautiful black and white collie) to be our
primary pets with many other animals serving as worthy back up pets (cats,
ducks, gerbils). This also meant Mom and Dad ministered gracefully to us when
it was time for each pet to find its way to pet heaven. What you don’t know at
the time is that in between comforting you and being strong they are having
their own cry times. And of course, they knew from the start that those times
would come. But they knew the pet experience would be worth the pain. In
retrospect, that may have been one of their smartest moves in truly preparing
their kids for life.</span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I close this writing while sitting at my desk with the
window cracked open, listening to the night bugs and sounds. And that’s
appropriate. Mom and Dad taught us the joy of the simple. They provided the
kind of home environment in which something simple like the sound of night bugs
can minister to your heart, quiet your mind, and drift you off to sleep. If you
can hear the bugs, it means you can’t hear other noises that might keep you
awake: traffic, city sounds, noisy neighbors, your own mind. It’s peaceful. And
there you have it. That’s the word. Of all the great words that could sum up
home life under my parents, I am inclined to choose peaceful simply because
it’s the byproduct of all the other great words that are added into that sum: selfless,
loving, secure, and of course, fun. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We are blessed to have our folks reach this milestone,
the Diamond Anniversary. I love Mom and Dad. I love who and what Beck and I
have been able to become because of who Mom and Dad are. But it’s not just us,
it’s all the people around Mom and Dad. Beck and I are blessed, not just
because of our wonderful folks, but because of the people they have impacted.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Years ago Mom and Dad bought 2.5 acres of woods with a creek
running through it and a clearing near the road. When the idea of building a
home on that idyllic plot of land was still just a glimmer in their eyes, we
would head to that woods to play, grill out, and do mowing and clearing. Each
time we’d pull out and head to our farmhouse home, usually just after dusk, mom
would point at the woods and say, “Someday won’t it be nice to see some warm
lights glowing in a home right at the edge of those trees?” That someday soon
came and those lights have been serving as a beacon for friends and families on
myriad journeys and have left a glow in the hearts of all those who’ve been
inside the home, most likely gathered around the dining room table.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I love you Mom and Dad! Happy Anniversary!</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-88313486135286152762016-08-28T09:18:00.001-04:002016-08-28T09:18:19.304-04:00"Children Everywhere!"<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the past months several families close to us, some
close by friendship and others close by blood and friendship, have lost a child,
either by disease or tragic events. These recent losses have, of course,
triggered memories of children lost in recent years.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In my own journey of loss, today, August 28, is a date that
rings true in that it was the birthday of my late wife, Dana. So it seems
fitting to share a story from the journey today that might bring encouragement
and hope to those who’ve experienced one of the worst heartache’s this world
can dish out, the loss of a child.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First, some necessary, and brief, backstory. This blog, A
Journey Observed, is the chronicle of my journey of loss and recovery: the loss
of Dana that left me feeling that I don’t need to love again, and the recovery
that led to actually loving again. Loving again times three, in fact; not only
as husband to Jessica but as father to Reade and Rachel…proving that God is not
only miraculously redemptive, He’s also funny.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dana and I didn’t begin thinking family until a few years
into marriage. But, a few months after deciding to let nature take its course,
instead of getting pregnant, we got breast cancer, which tends to mess up child
bearing plans. And just to seal the deal, on our 5-year “all clear” anniversary
from breast cancer, and at a time we could still consider a narrow window into
parenthood, we learned that Dana would need a hysterectomy. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We grieved the loss of parenthood but eventually embraced
our new position in life and, with a few longings here and there, were
relatively fine with being the non-parents in our circles. Dana always had a
soft spot for the babies and children in those circles, a spot that took on new
significance once child rearing was completely out of our picture. She coined
the phrase “baby holdies” as in “I need some baby holdies,” capturing the
restorative, divine vibe that comes while holding a baby. When knitting became
her forte, booties were a “must knit” for any new babies that came along. She
certainly carried the nurture gene and I would get a little sad when I thought
of her not getting to maximize that gene. To this day one of my favorite
pictures of Dana is her displaying two freshly knitted sets of booties for
friends pregnant with twins.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Within a few days of Dana’s passing, even before her
funeral, I received an email from our good friend Karen Norval. I had known
Karen for many years through youth ministry circles and she was serving on
InWord’s board of directors at this time. She and Dana were good friends but
had not spent a lot of time together. In her email, Karen shared that she had a
dream about Dana the previous night. In her dream she saw Dana in heaven and
then she wrote, “Barry, there were children everywhere.” Karen is a soulful,
thoughtful, discerning person. I take her dreams seriously.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For many years I was comforted by that scene…by Dana getting
to experience the joys and fulfillment of nurturing children in ways immeasurably
beyond what she could imagine. Of course, it would only be the joys and
fulfillment part of nurturing, not the frustrating parts of nurturing…this is
heaven, after all.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I had a specific epiphany (“spepiphany”?) while sitting
in church a couple months ago that has melted my heart: I can now picture some
faces in that scene of “children everywhere.” I don’t want to presume to know
what God has going on for our little ones who’ve gone before us. But when I
feel the pain of our friends and family who’ve lost their precious ones, I am
comforted by the redemptive circle that is being completed in heaven. I share
this in the hopes that it may comfort them, if maybe for just a moment.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the months we spent in hospice mode, in the shadow of
heaven’s gate, we had two very clear moments that reminded us of how thin the
veil is between here and There…moments of assurance that all you believe about
heaven is true, moments of assurance telling you that you can trust all your
instincts and beliefs about hope, that God is indeed communicating with you
through unusual means, including dreams. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So it seems that we can take heart in a particular reunion
in heaven: children whose lives have been robbed of being raised by their
nurturing, loving parents connecting with someone whose life was robbed of
getting to nurture and love her own children. It’s God-parenting at the highest
level. Literally.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whether we feel like it or not, we are part of something
that’s bigger than what we see. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I leave you with a picture from one of Dana’s scrapbooks,
just sent to me by Dana’s mother, my mother-in-law for life, Mama Sue…a little
something that might help us picture that particular reunion in heaven. This is
Dana showing toddler Buzzin Cara (“beloved cousin”) how to play the harp. Cara,
now married to Aaron, is a beautiful woman with two energetic boys of her own.</span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-30721878748117374302016-07-26T15:50:00.000-04:002016-07-26T15:51:16.017-04:00My 1 Corinthians 13 Mom<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DOBphz8FrD4FAruh3JOA9N7tGxIrzNnKZR4TJJ8X8HReFbD6q-j0GKWz0rCsLAcSyJAxVvaPvi_3ZCtwKZSls4RRkqVbxR2kJ1EdBrs7ekr6UBbLO-FLjTBDf1i-fq1xwX_9RiRwgXA/s1600/Mom+Dancing-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DOBphz8FrD4FAruh3JOA9N7tGxIrzNnKZR4TJJ8X8HReFbD6q-j0GKWz0rCsLAcSyJAxVvaPvi_3ZCtwKZSls4RRkqVbxR2kJ1EdBrs7ekr6UBbLO-FLjTBDf1i-fq1xwX_9RiRwgXA/s320/Mom+Dancing-2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em></em></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>Writer’s Note: Many
years ago I took a crack at writing up a family history for my grandparents’
(my mom’s folks) 50<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> wedding anniversary. I was inspired and it
came together surprisingly well. In fact, over the years my mom has asked me to create
similar writings for various family occasions and milestones. So, I thought I’d
take it upon myself to write something, without her asking, for a special
birthday milestone we just celebrated with her.</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em> (I will let her share the milestone.)</em><em>
</em></span><em>This is my humble attempt at a gift with the written word.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I have been privileged to be reared by a 1 Corinthians 13
mom. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the phrase “1 Corinthians 13 mom.” This makes
sense because my mom may be the first one ever. We all know 1 Corinthians 13 as
the “love” chapter of the Bible, a book that is an anthology of love. Every day
Mom displays some combination of that chapter’s familiar trio of goodness:
faith, hope and love. This being the year of a milestone birthday, which we
celebrated last month, it seems fitting to share. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We’re told in 1 Corinthians 13 that the greatest of the
trio of goodness is love. So, saving the best for last, let me start with hope.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I am grateful that I grew up under the influence of Mom’s
hope, which manifests as all-out genuine enthusiasm for everyone around her. When
I was growing up, the word on my mom was, if you’re at a gathering and can’t
find her, simply listen because soon you will be able to hone in on her laugh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wouldn’t be a loud obnoxious laugh but an
infectious, gracious laugh that ties together everyone in the room, the yard,
the fellowship hall, whatever the space might be. Scripture doesn’t list a
named spiritual gift of enthusiasm, but it should. Mom has it. It’s driven by
her hope. As soon as you meet my mom, she is your number one fan. It doesn’t
matter what you do or what stage of life you are in: you have a new fan to
encourage you, laugh with you, and connect you to others who do what you do and
are in a similar stage of life. It’s enthusiasm driven by the hope Mom sees in
each person she’s around…not simply seeing “the good side” but hoping for the
best out of anyone in her orb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This is the kind of hope you have when it is driven by
faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I think the biggest and best gift regarding faith that
Mom gave to me she actually didn’t know she was giving it. And I didn’t know I
was receiving it. In the house where Mom and Dad now live, where I grew up from
seventh grade on, all of the bedroom doors are clustered around the end of a
hallway. So, when growing up, we all shared in each other’s pre-bed routine,
which for me, usually involved a trip to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. On
my trek to the kitchen I would always see Mom and Dad in their bedroom kneeling
in their respective prayer spots, Dad at the chair, mom at the side of the bed.
I would fix my cereal, (which at the time involved mixing cereals), find
something to read, and enjoy a nice big bowl of cereal, the size of bowl you
can enjoy when you don’t yet have to worry about calories. This of course
included additional pours of cereal and milk until the last of each came out
just right. After 20-ish minutes I’d head back to my room, passing Mom and
Dad’s door. Still praying. I’d go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Still
praying. Eventually I’d hear them stir about, hear a chuckle or two from both
of them as they laughed about something in the day, and then I’d hear the click
of their light. And a few more chuckles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It wasn’t until later in my adult life that I realized
the impact of seeing my folks pray long and often (daily, actually). Their
actions planted a seed in me about the reality of God; that a relationship with
God was personal enough and real enough to affect daily behavior. I saw that God
wasn’t a compartment in their lives. He was their lives. His promises and
precepts were worth trusting. Heaven was real. God was real. I had no idea, as
I brushed the cereal out of my teeth while they prayed, how much I would need
that rock-solid reality later in life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This then brings us to the greatest of the three traits
of my 1 Corinthians 13 mom: love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I remember, around late grade school, forming the thought
that people enjoyed being around my parents. They lingered around the dinner
table long after dinner was done. Our family seemed to be a drawing card. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As a child growing up with a 1 Corinthians 13 mom,
(really, 1 Corinthians 13 parents, but it’s my mom’s birthday we’re celebrating
at the moment) I always knew I was loved. Looking back I see the security that gave
me. I always felt safe. As a new parent myself, I see the sacrifice it took.
The essence of love is selflessness. What stands out about Mom, though, is how
easy she makes selfless love look. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I am a grateful son. At that point, here are some things
Mom has taught me…things I’m thinking of at this moment. The list gets longer
the more that I think; I better start writing and hit “post” soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">1. The best things happen around the dinner table (or
breakfast table, or lunch table, or birthday table, or Christmas table, or
Buckeyes-on-TV table).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">2. Laugh. Laugh until you cry, or pee your pants,
whichever comes first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">3. Go to funeral visitations, even though you don’t want
to. You’ll never really want to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">4. Send thank you notes; gratitude is the force behind
all things good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">5. Pray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">6. Enjoy your family; value time over money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">7. Forgive. Your ability to forgive protects your family
more than anything else you could do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">8. Start with the benefit of the doubt; be quick to let
someone off the hook.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">9. Sing. If you can read music, sing your part. If you
can’t read music, learn to. Then sing your part. The Doxology and Happy
Birthday are both better with harmony.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Contentment is
great gain (more stuff means more problems).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">11. Never speak harshly to your kids, whether to them, or
about someone else; in fact, the less you speak harshly in total, the less you
have to worry about that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">12. Respect teachers (especially the math teacher you’ll
have all four years).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">13. Keep falling in love with your spouse; not only is it
the best gift for you and your spouse, it’s the best gift for your kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">14. Oneness with your spouse—in decisions, in finances, in
disciplining children, in faith, in everything—is the hub that supports all
other spokes of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">15. Respect authority (a paddling at school will mean a
paddling at home).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">16. Don’t let your son get away with saying “A man’s
gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">17. Make compliance your first thought, it’s the path of
peace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">18. Read the classics (it took 30 years for that one to
take, but it took in a big way).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">19. Understand music’s Circle of Fifths (45 years and
it’s still taking).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">20. Affirm people every chance you get; make that your
default setting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">21. Respect your elders, both spiritual and chronological.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">22. Don’t be selfish, especially with your time and
resources.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">23. Look for more than the good side of people; find the
best side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">24. Know and trust the Word of God; in fact, stay
fascinated by it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">25. Life is not fair; in fact, life is one, giant
freshman semester: one adjustment after another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">26. Eat the things you don’t like but are, of course,
good for you, especially Brussels sprouts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">27. Be able to quote things your dad said, your mom said,
your grandparents said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">28. Even though it will eventually hurt, don’t be afraid
to get pets for your kids (cats, ponies, ducks, gerbils, wonderful dogs).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">29. Don’t be critical.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">30. Offer your giftedness to your church.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">31. Tithe, and start the habit early. Ten percent of a $1
allowance is a dime. Drop it in the plate. The dollar amount of that 10 percent
amount will grow, and it won’t get harder as the amount gets bigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">32. Record, collect, and act on those spiritual reference
points, those times when God pokes His finger through the veil and you’re more
assured of His existence than your own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">33. Cherish your friendships.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">34. Be a good worker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">35. Take sermon notes. If you know shorthand, take sermon
dictation. Decades later you’ll be glad you did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">36. Aspire to the organization mantra of “A place for
everything and everything in its place” and give yourself one messy room so
that other rooms can be organized by that mantra.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">37. Love and trust Jesus. He never fails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mom, you have taught me how to be a good parent, a skill
I never thought I’d employ. And as I now get to employ that skill, I get a
front-row seat to watching you be a 1 Corinthians 13 grandparent. And of
course, my hope, is that someday my kids will be able to write about their 1
Corinthians 13 dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-57250267209456224402016-03-20T14:34:00.002-04:002016-03-20T14:36:42.700-04:00Grace in the Key Changes of Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTJXCHe07UUJsG4Kn_OPJOocPvUw18veDFCjY_O0fYXW_W-ZklKVpL2MLO8eXR14ToSCHcefAb0QRYpf2JgoVj4VVMG18se19W2JdSlKcFPojcvxD-DQO5QW43R1janQHpEYzkr8KngU/s1600/Piano+Key+Changes+of+Life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTJXCHe07UUJsG4Kn_OPJOocPvUw18veDFCjY_O0fYXW_W-ZklKVpL2MLO8eXR14ToSCHcefAb0QRYpf2JgoVj4VVMG18se19W2JdSlKcFPojcvxD-DQO5QW43R1janQHpEYzkr8KngU/s320/Piano+Key+Changes+of+Life.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Music is a gifted discovery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Even before Jessica brought the worlds of opera and
classical music into my living room (and dining room and basement, not to
mention other rooms in my heart and life), I have long been enamored at how composers
and musicians can combine the mathematics of a musical score with the mechanics
of a musical instrument and create a beautiful sound that makes people cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Or more accurately, create sequences of sounds that make people
cry. It’s the contrast we notice as the music moves from one chord to another,
from the minor to the major, from staccato to legato, from suspenseful to
resolute. The change is what creates the beauty that magically draws out the
tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Music is what’s used in movies to, quite literally, set
the tone. It’s what let’s us know whether we should be fearful or happy; it’s
what gives us a heads up to a sad ending.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In nearly all episodes of ABC’s Modern Family (I am
catching the reruns at the dinner hour while Jessica and babies are off on an
extended singing gig), every branch of the family hits meltdown mode at some
point. Conflicts and dynamics reach what appears to be an unrecoverable peak. And
then, with just two minutes left in the episode, the emotive music trickles in
and the voice of the family member who’s been narrating the episode (in its
mockumentary format) comes on in resolved tones saying something like “yeh, we’re
a crazy family, but we’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> crazy
family.” The narrator’s words are always well-written and inspiring, but it’s
the music that makes it believable, that makes you feel that all the
forgiveness, understanding, and grace-giving needed was actually bestowed and
accepted in those two minutes. You wouldn’t believe this without the music.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And it got me to thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We all need those moments when, after all elements of our
lives have reached their full fevered pitch, our personal musicscape changes
keys and our Narrator ties it all together for us, leaving us with at least the
very slightest inspiration that gets us to say, even ever so weakly: I can do
this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thankfully, this happens in real life, not just on
television. I know this to be true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The musicscape of our lives, of course, isn’t an audible
soundtrack (although I know we’d all have a blast creating one). In the
situations and pain that we face, the shift from a minor to a major key comes
in the form of moments of grace. Or, if you will, grace notes. It’s those
moments when the finger of God pushes through the veil like a finger pushing
through shrink wrap, and we are touched. A few years ago, in a conversation
with mother-in-law-for-life Mama Sue, we came to call these poke-throughs “God stamps,”
divinely coincidental events that left us no doubt that God’s stamp was all
over this journey, that He was with us just as sure as the tears on our cheeks.
For those who’ve been journeying along with me you know these “stamps” as The
Deer Story, The Rainbow Story, and, in a direct connection to music, The Church
Bells story. (So maybe the musicscape of our lives can be literal music after
all.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And just like the change in the music that sparks
emotion, it’s the contrast of the darkness of a situation with the light of God’s
poke-through that sparks a moment of resolve, or strength, or encouragement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In recent days many people around me have been
experiencing great loss. In the past few weeks, our friends Dan and Brittany
lost their dear one-year-old Avery after a year of overcoming one obstacle over
another. We lost Jessica’s dear uncle Ken to a long battle with cancer. Our
friend Amy lost her much-to-young uncle to short battle with cancer. My
neighbor across the street lost his mom. A neighbor behind us passed away. My
cousins Mike and Susan are well over halfway to the one-year mark of losing
their precious 3-year old Will. While I don’t know them personally, I’ve been
intimately touched by the loss of Joey Feek, wife of Rory Feek and part of the
Christian/Country duo of Joey + Rory. And those are the tough situations that
come to mind without even thinking. There are many more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I write this today, as a prayer, for my many friends and
family members who are in the epicenter of loss. I wish, hope, and pray that
you have moments when you modulate from the minor to the major chord, that you
experience a poke-through from God that gives you a touch of grace, a moment
that gives you enough strength to say, even ever so slightly, “I can do this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For those, like me, who’ve lost a spouse, as you move
farther, and further, from the first moment of loss, you find that there are
three dates on the calendar that tend to have their own pulse: your spouse’s birthday,
your spouse’s date of death, and your wedding anniversary. I’m writing today in
commemoration of our wedding anniversary. I’m using the occasion of this date
to somehow try to pay forward the comfort I received from God. His grace is
real. And as the apostle Paul said, it is sufficient. When I think, though, how
God’s grace ministered to me, the word “sufficient” seems a gross
understatement. But from the sense that God’s grace is all we need, which is
what’s being said here, the measure is exactly right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s fitting, too, that today, March 20, marks the day
that nature makes its own key change, from the minor key of winter, to the major
key of spring. It’s easy to imagine in your mind’s ear a harp glissando as you
breathe in the spring and exhale the winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of course, just like a TV comedy series, there will be a
new episode of mayhem right around the corner. But at least we know we can
listen for the music. And our Narrator’s voice can be heard any time we listen.
Grace notes are written into the music scores of our lives. I’ve learned that
actual grace notes in a musical score can be considered optional. The conductor
or musician decides on whether they’re played. For me, when applied to the
music scores of our lives, they are required playing. When it comes to grace, I
do not want to miss a note.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-62317791992962997292015-12-23T10:49:00.001-05:002015-12-23T10:49:26.416-05:00A Journey Toward Recovering Well
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSxLRaW9cYQPrjFCw_uivjAabEen4Wuqrc9tEudxHghCdUZV_hhM6lCi8rOOrTW4a5_N5-JXaeWorIBz9UxUZtob-Y06kNpbV5_oGN4iyFsllU0SSfqHmZuHUYfT8EAvEWcN42N9ARds/s1600/Family.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSxLRaW9cYQPrjFCw_uivjAabEen4Wuqrc9tEudxHghCdUZV_hhM6lCi8rOOrTW4a5_N5-JXaeWorIBz9UxUZtob-Y06kNpbV5_oGN4iyFsllU0SSfqHmZuHUYfT8EAvEWcN42N9ARds/s320/Family.PNG" width="284" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recover well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words, so far, have been the most distinct,
near-audible words I’ve ever heard directly from God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words came to me in the chaotic fog of grief when I
was looking to hear something specific from God. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words, at first, seemed insultingly simple. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words, though, as I actually listened to them, began
to drip with hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words, however, brought caution before they brought
hope. The grief journey offers many opportunities to recover less than well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words gave me several warnings: don’t leave any
life-marking scars. Don’t make friends with bitterness. Don’t get comfortable
with anger. Don’t mistake escape mechanisms for healthy recovery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it was the hope in these words that provided the knot in
the rope I was holding on to. The simplicity of these words is what ministered
to me. There is something to recover for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I type, I am watching a 5-month-old part of that “something”
squirm on the couch as she works to roll over for the first time. I am
listening for the wake-up sounds of an 18-month-old part of that “something” as
he finishes up a long nap. We travelled yesterday to Los Angeles where we are
spending Christmas with Jessica’s family, Jessica being the original part of
that “something” to recover for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s three, wonderful, glorious parts of the something to
recover for. And I think there are more parts to come (no, this is not a birth
announcement; in fact, we are definitely stopping at two little “somethings”). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I look back on these past six years, I see that I have
been the blessed recipient of two of the biggest themes all through Scripture: restoration
and redemption. Those are, I think, God’s favorite tools He uses to love us
through the fallen nature of the world. Those words of “recover well” kept me
in a position for God to use His tools.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t, though, want to give the impression that God is the
big genie in the sky, or more appropriately for the season, the big Santa
Claus, who grants our every wish. I had no idea how God was going to redeem my
pain, and I know that I am still on the journey of restoration and redemption. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of my early observations in my recovery journey was watching
God restore my ability to love. In my deepest trough of grief, I had concluded
that I was content to tough out the next 30 years of life (the amount of time I
likely had left, going by actuarial tables). I was content with simply
observing others enjoy moments and life in areas like love, Christmas, worship.
There was no need for me to enter in. I had had great love. I had experienced
my fair share of special Christmases. I had known great worship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those words of “recover well” acted as a stopper in a door
to keep it from latching shut. Through a series of events I watched God use the
small opening to do a miraculous work on my ability and interest to love and
engage in events around me. I concluded that one of the redemptive threads
through the journey was a restoration of my ability to love; but it wasn’t a 1:1
restoration. It was more like a 2:1 restoration in that I eventually realized
that I had a greater capacity to love than before losing Dana. Loss will do
that to you. So will God. But I saw the manifestation of this deeper capacity
to love in my roles as a son, brother, uncle, friend, believer, cousin, neighbor.
I had no idea that it would include husband, and in one of the wildest twists
of all, dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think, though, that one of the biggest, if not the
biggest, purposes for being directed to “recover well,” was to be a voice for
the goodness and mercy of God. I experienced first-hand what it meant that God
is close to the broken-hearted. I experienced first-hand the promise of the
Comforter that Jesus spoke of in John 14. I have been, and continue to be, the
beneficiary of God’s merciful reminders of His presence through rainbows, deer,
elk and so much more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With Dana’s death date coming as it did on December 23, it
affords the opportunity to look back on the year each time that date rolls
around. This past year has brought loss and hardship to close family and friends.
I do not presume that what comforted me will comfort my cousins and friends. We
all carry heavy burdens. I have no idea how God will manifest Himself in your
burden. I do know, that He will show Himself. His presence will be made known. While
God impressed on my heart the words “recover well,” He may impress something
entirely different on your heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can confidently say, though, He will impress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you for journeying with me, for rejoicing, for crying,
for watching mourning turn to singing. Soprano singing, in fact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Barry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">P.S. This post is a little bit rambly and not as profound on
screen as it is in my mind. I will attribute this to sleep deprivation, a small
side effect of the circle of redemption and restoration :-) .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-25826619885586533672015-06-15T10:01:00.000-04:002015-06-15T10:01:06.512-04:00Make that "Tripling Down" on Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2sd-xBXrfx3tTX-TrtxLlUScSEsMEZEVdq7KkLagHktu__yXVidxjEZWEVHfFttnxa1lubk01KW0w3RZoZtDDcx9tJl8KeKXkbIazQNFZd5ZOgGIBbyWZnyKCCyHSOREWT3wd8NSGwRk/s1600/JessicaReadeBarry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2sd-xBXrfx3tTX-TrtxLlUScSEsMEZEVdq7KkLagHktu__yXVidxjEZWEVHfFttnxa1lubk01KW0w3RZoZtDDcx9tJl8KeKXkbIazQNFZd5ZOgGIBbyWZnyKCCyHSOREWT3wd8NSGwRk/s320/JessicaReadeBarry.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In baseball they say, “Let’s play two.” A movie theatre
calls it a “double feature.” In the Shafer home we say, “Reade is going to be a
brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And because the Shafer home has been busy rearing aforementioned
Reade, it’s been remiss in announcing this wonderful news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact, the due date is August 3, as in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> August 3, as in less than two
months, as in Reade and his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sister</i>
(yes, it’s a girl!) will be 14 months apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jessica and I have been thinking all along that if we’re
going to have one child, we should go for two. We both have siblings and we are
pro sibling. Jessica has seven half siblings, I have one full sibling (Beck!).
While Jessica enjoyed “only child” status until 11 years of age, I am only 17
months older than Beck. My goal is to train Reade to be a better big brother
than I was; this is actually setting the bar pretty low. I was not a good big
brother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In my last post I wrote about how it’s only through God’s
mercy that I have been able to love at all. I wrote of how I can now love with
abandon, without fear of losing love…that I have been able to grow new roots
for love, not only for Jessica, but also for Reade. I called it “doubling down”
on love. Now make that “tripling.” God continues to show the depth of His
tender mercies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While this news did not come as a complete surprise to
us, it did come a little sooner than we expected. This way, though, it feels both
our babies are both from the same batch, and it seems that has its advantages,
namely that we have not moved into a different era of baby gear technology. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re excited in every sense of that word—eager and anxious.
The “crazy” in our lives will be ramped up a few notches, but so will be the
awe and wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few days before Jessica and I met, four years ago this
month in June 2011, we had exchanged emails and text messages in setting up a plan
to meet and possibly grab supper. After finalizing a pick-up time and place,
Jessica’s email ended with the phrase “…and we’ll be off on our adventurous
way.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had no idea…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Much love and gratitude,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Barry</span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-29481788645574908772014-12-23T12:13:00.000-05:002014-12-23T12:13:34.928-05:00Doubling Down On Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgH7Hx6p0SiwWvpksKmXugvczr_gxUmeW0AUp-73QbzYja0qr86l8RfOleZpWnHRvRr9WT5EPAWkCCvUeZ0W4HQbFebfQK3RyHX_8IxHsaaKF1zLYxNXMO3mHssKi-tCLsBhyphenhyphenmhspJJs/s1600/_DSC0801-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgH7Hx6p0SiwWvpksKmXugvczr_gxUmeW0AUp-73QbzYja0qr86l8RfOleZpWnHRvRr9WT5EPAWkCCvUeZ0W4HQbFebfQK3RyHX_8IxHsaaKF1zLYxNXMO3mHssKi-tCLsBhyphenhyphenmhspJJs/s1600/_DSC0801-2.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am doubling down on love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That might sound like a safe bet. But when life
experiences teach you that where there is love there can be hurt, you may not
be willing to take the risk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recently as I looked into the smiling eyes of my son Reade,
who I’m pretty sure is the cutest baby in the history of all humankind, I
reflected on the new roots of love for him that have grown out of my heart,
roots that have grown right next to the love I have for Jessica, a love I never
thought I’d see. And having lost great love five years ago today (12/23), I didn’t think I’d ever want to see love again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Too risky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, now, I am doubling down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have a son and a wife whom I am loving with abandon,
without fear of losing that love. There is only one way that’s possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not simply belief in God, but His merciful reminders
that He is near. Reminders that we’ve come to call God stamps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a recent post I referenced the rainbow story that
launched the whole “God stamp” phenomena and journey. I tried to link that
reference to the post that first described the rainbow story. I then realized that
I had never actually written about the rainbow, but had always linked to a
local newspaper article about the rainbow, an article that was no longer
available.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, in the vein of encouragement through the “word of
testimony” I’d like to share a story: a story that kept me upright in the
anxious days of the cancer fight, that kept me out of the fetal position in the
heavy days of grief, a story that makes it possible for me to double down on
love. It’s not a story about me, it’s a story about God and it seems to be the
appropriate story to share at the five-year mark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it goes like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The month that Dana was diagnosed with her recurrence of
breast cancer (August, 2006), our longstanding Tuesday night Bible study group,
the Group Formerly Known as Zelos (TGFKAZ), with Zelos being our beloved college-age
ministry, was in the middle of a “march through the Old Testament” Bible study.
On the Tuesday night before our first chemo appointment in the recurrence
battle, we happened to be studying Noah. We ended the study time focusing on
the rainbow. I pointed out that I’ve always loved how God described the rainbow
reminder in Genesis 9:16,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;">
<span class="text"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds,
I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant…<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whenever we see a rainbow we can take
assurance in the fact that God sees that same rainbow. It’s like we’re having a
moment with God with the rainbow serving as a wonderful bridge between the
physical world and the eternal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I asked the group to share their rainbow
stories, suspecting that everyone would have at least one, which they did.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the close of the evening our dear
friend Sue, noting that the next day was chemo day, said, “Tomorrow I’m going
to look for a rainbow.” That sounded like a good idea.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, the next day, chemo day, was a
cloudless, blue-sky, “severe clear” day. No chance for a rainbow. I did still
take a peek out the window of the doctor’s office, because, well, you never
know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day, however, was a rainy,
stormy day. That afternoon my cousin Carl had stopped by the house. As we were
talking at the dining room table, I noticed out of the dining room window that
the sun was peaking through the clouds while it was still raining. Perfect
rainbow conditions. I had never been a rainbow chaser or a sign seeker, but I
said to Carl, in mid-sentence, “Hold that thought,” and stepped onto the front
porch and looked to the sky where I saw the biggest, boldest rainbow I had
ever seen. I called Dana out. I called Carl out. We stood in awe, and then
stood in tears. Soon our phone was ringing off the hook…Bible study folks
calling to tell us they were looking at the biggest, boldest rainbow they’d
ever seen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">While Dana fielded the phone calls Carl
and I kept staring at the rainbow, attempting to interpret its ordained timing.
I remember saying to Carl:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I am definitely taking this as a sign.
But, you can take it a couple ways. Either, A.) Everything is going to be okay;
or B.) God is with us no matter what.” I was hoping for “A.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At that moment, good friend Chuck said
to Dana on the phone, “Where I am it’s a double rainbow.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We looked a little closer, and sure enough, a double
rainbow. This led Carl to say, “So, it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i>!
A and B!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That sounded good to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the ensuing months, rainbow reminders came fast and
furious. And they always came at divinely appointed times: when we’d just
received bad news, on days when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i>
of us were down, or times when our fears were gaining momentum. That’s what
made them such powerful rainbow reminders; they came in almost immediate
response to hard turns in the journey. I even started keeping a journal of
rainbow sightings. Entries were anything from phone calls from friends and
family as they were seeing a rainbow (my mom driving home from our house with a
rainbow in her rear-view mirror the whole way home; Dana’s uncle Jon calling to
say he was looking at four rainbows at the moment) to divinely-timed
coincidences such as being handed a notebook in the oncology office with a set
of colored pencils in ROY G BIV order, to staring at the computer screen,
momentarily paralyzed at all we were processing, only to notice the
rainbow-esque nature of the Google logo. I was able to start tapping on the
keyboard. All of this was uncanny enough for the city newspaper to pick up on
the phenomenon and write up a story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A couple weeks after that first rainbow sighting, after
having already collected enough reminders to think that something special was going
on, we experienced something that gave the rainbow the official stamp of “God
Stamp” status. Our neighbor, Star, from a couple doors down was at our front door
on a Sunday afternoon. She was standing there with some pictures in her hand,
saying: “Did you guys see that rainbow the other day? I took some pictures of
it and I thought you might like to see them since they include your house. ” I
responded by crying. I shared the significance of that rainbow: the recurrence,
the Tuesday night Bible study, the looking for the rainbow, to which Star
replied: “Wow. That explains something. I have never felt more compelled to do
something when I thought about giving you these pictures. I just felt that I
HAD to bring these to you. I’ve never felt that way before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let the God Stamp journey begin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a side note, it was during the final hospice months
that a series of divinely-timed, weirdly-coincidental events occurred that
caused Dana’s mom, whom I affectionately call “Mama Sue,” to say, “It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> evident that God’s stamp is all over
this.” This gave us our personally coined phrase of “God stamps.” They started
with the rainbow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That rainbow, in September 2006, was eight years ago.
Dana passed away three years and three months after that rainbow. And now, here
we are, five years since Dana passed. With five years of perspective, I can see
that Carl was right with regard to the double rainbow: it was, and is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> A and B, but not in the way you
might think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During the cancer fight I obviously had my own thoughts on
how to define “everything is going to be okay.” In total candor, my definition
did not involve heaven. My definition involved complete physical healing. Heaven
was not yet needed. Obviously, as we all now know, complete physical healing did not happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From the perspective of today, enjoying a great deep love
as a husband and a great deep love as a father, I might be tempted to say, “So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i> what God meant by ‘everything
would be okay.’” But I don’t think that’s what God meant. Everything being okay
had nothing to do with how the rest of my life would turn out. It has everything
to do with the end of my life, or, more specifically, heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Throughout the Bible you can pick up on a theme of “hang
in there, there is great payoff in the end.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some verses say it outright, like Galatians 6: 8-9, …<span class="text"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whoever sows to please the
Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life.</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <span class="text"><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">9 </span></sup>Let us not become weary in doing
good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.</span></i><span class="text"> Jesus alluded to this theme in John 16 with these words: </span><span class="woj"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In this world you will have
trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You also see this theme in the big picture of the book of
Revelation, as paraphrased by our good friend Chuck, “It’s going to suck, but
it'll be okay.” Chuck, who's leading our Revelation study, speaks with authority in that he and his wife Sue lost
their beautiful 10-year old daughter Natalie to an unfair brain disease, just
over a year after Dana passed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I’ve come to learn, and slowly embrace, is that
God’s definition that “everything is going to be okay” is all about heaven.
Here’s why: heaven is that good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was reinforced through my “conversation” with Dana
about six months after her passing (you can see it <u><a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/08/over-these-past-months-ive-been.html" target="_blank">here</a></u>). To
this day that experience has been one of the most profound moments in the
journey. I’d love for you to check out that post, but here’s the gist: As I
imagined Dana comforting me from her perch in heaven, I was assured (either by
her words, or God’s words, or something supernatural, including the uncanny
confirmation along the trail I was hiking) that the Place where all this is
headed is so mind-blowing that it is worth all the pain and hurt and suffering
that we have to endure to get There. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s</i>
how everything can be okay. God has such a confidence that heaven is so freaky
good that He can say to us, when we are facing our most horrific fears, that
everything is going to be okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the “okay” comes in the end, not, necessarily in the
way we want it in the now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Admittedly, this is not a fun concept to grasp. It’s the
ultimate delayed gratification—literally. You can’t get more delayed than “the
end.” This doesn’t seem helpful in our moments of fear. And in true confession,
I never found much comfort in “eternal reward” and “ultimate healing” while
navigating the tortuous days of chemo and scans. The promise of heaven could
not penetrate the prospect of loss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I’ve since had to press through is that to embrace
this definition that “everything will be okay” in the end, we have to endure
the now. Curiously, this is one of the most prominent concepts in the New
Testament. It’s like God knew what we would be facing. Hmmmm….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which brings us to Part B of the double rainbow: God is
with us no matter what. This is real. And it matters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’s told us this all through Scripture. It’s the biggest
guarantee in Scripture. It’s even a favorite Christmas title of Jesus:
Immanuel, God with us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">God was merciful with me in His relentless reminders of
His presence. He didn’t have to do that. Rainbows. Deer. And then a heart
cloud. This is why I can double down on love, to not only put myself over a
barrel of possible hurt in loving a wife, but now to add a second barrel of
possible hurt in loving a child (said child is on my lap as I type…hmmm…can
drool short-circuit a keyboard?) because I know that God is with us, all of us,
no matter what.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By nature I have tended to protect myself from hurt—we
all do this to a certain extent, some of us more than others. As Jessica and I
moved through the early days of relationship at warp speed, I never felt one
pause of “But what if…” Any thoughts along these lines were fleeting and met
with, “But God is with us no matter what.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel that I am a walking testimony of 1 John 4:18,
“There is no fear in love.” I wonder if one of the biggest miracles in this
journey is simply the fact that I have been able to love again. This, I
believe, is the evidence of God’s presence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would hope that this story might be an encouragement to
your story, that you might be less inclined to take the safe, protective path
and more inclined to take the path that counts on God’s presence no matter
what. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I even feel that God has doubled down on love Himself.
First, He has lovingly prepared this mind-blowing, heart-dancing Place for us.
Secondly, He has promised to be with us until we get There. Someday I may
explore why we throw tantrums when He doesn’t fix things the way we want before
we get There. I’m pretty sure that when we see ourselves from the perch of
heaven we will be embarrassed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To that end, let’s love without fear, dance without
embarrassment, sing without shame, create without limits, laugh till our
fillings show, cry till we’re ugly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I invite you to, with me, double down on love. Why?
Because everything is going to be okay. And, God is with us no matter what. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Barry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">P.S. I leave you with three pictures. The first two, pictures
that Star brought to our front door of that first rainbow. The second? Giving
us a stamp upon a stamp, the night that Jessica and I invited Chuck and Sue to our house
to ask them about being God parents to Reade, this picture happened. The
rainbow is nearly in the exact same spot. You can’t make this stuff up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-84289977264253430842014-07-26T11:51:00.002-04:002014-08-11T22:46:57.974-04:00Two Turns in the Journey<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the life of me I can’t find the connection
between a first-born child and open-heart surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I experienced both within 10 days just a
couple months ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which brings me to a bit of an announcement. On
June 8, 2014 Jessica and I welcomed Reade Edwin into the world—five weeks
early, beating us to the punch on picking a pediatrician and a name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We learned of both baby and leaky heart valve last
fall. The valve news came in September by way of a routine screening that I had
asked for. The baby news came in November by way of a stick. Actually two
sticks. We couldn’t believe our eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jessica and I had casually talked about family and
had intended to have a “serious” conversation on the subject. Well, we never
had that conversation, and now we don’t have to. At our first official OB/GYN
visit last December a due date of July 15 was set. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With regard to the leaky valve, I had asked, as
part of my 50,000 mile check up, and on advice from bro-in-law Rick, for a
baseline stress echocardiogram (“echo”). I’ve had no symptoms and truly was
expecting to establish nothing but a heart function baseline. I now have a new
question I will never forget, posed to me by the cardiologist who was called
into the room by the tech in mid screening: “You know you have this leaky
valve, right?” Uhh, no. I do now. The doctor indicated that the leak would
simply be something to be monitored, assuring me that only 10 percent of leaky
valves need treatment. And of course, at my first official cardiologist
appointment a few weeks later we learned that I was in the 10 percent. It was
measuring as a “severe” leak and treatment was a matter of “when,” not “if,”
sooner rather than later (with “treatment” being open-heart surgery). Our
knee-jerk thinking was to wait until after our delivery date in that the leak
wasn’t an emergency. But a couple second opinions and an opening at the clinic
at the University of Michigan (where my cardiologist wanted to send me; and btw, if you are in need of cardiology in the Middletown area, I would highly recommend Gary Brown, MD, and his great team) pointed
to a date before Reade’s due date. We scheduled the surgery for May 30, a date
that would accommodate a 30-day recovery with a two-week buffer before the July
15 due date.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I spent about six weeks contemplating my life
as a younger-than-usual heart patient and an older-than-usual new dad. When
people joked with me about being an older dad they would unknowingly assure me
with something like, “Well, at least you’re healthy.” To which I would have to
say, “Well, let me share something with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully, after successful valve repair surgery,
and thanks to the world class skills of surgeon Stephen Bolling and his world
class team, led by his amazing nurse Marguerite, I am healthy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And not a moment too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Within minutes of being discharged from the
University of Michigan Medical Center, while working on my prescriptions list
in our hospital hotel room, Jessica began experiencing some alarming pre-labor
symptoms. Her OB/GYN in Ohio said, “Well, I know the University of Michigan has
a great labor and delivery department. I’ve seen it. Go ahead and have them
check you out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mom and dad, the blessed Bonnie and Miles,
phoned my sister and her husband, the blessed Beck and Rick, who had just left
the facility to head home. They made a U-turn. We called our newest best
friend, my nurse Marguerite, who had championed me through my entire surgery
process. Rick came back to our room to pick up Jessica in a wheelchair.
Marguerite met them in the hotel lobby to wheel Jessica to labor and delivery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I laid on my bed in the hotel room like a slug. It
was my only way to help. (Bonus points to you if you get that reference.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the labor/delivery folks monitored Jessica
for several hours, we learned that she was having contractions, was dilated one
centimeter and had a possible placental abruption. So, they admitted her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My thought, as I lay in the hotel room like a slug:
This can’t be happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a harrowing thought to realize that if our
baby was born at that time that I would not be able to do one thing to help or
support. If he would happen to be over 10 pounds (though unlikely), I wouldn’t
even be able to lift him for 30 days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jessica, after having been admitted on Monday
(June 2) was discharged on Wednesday, giving us two days of great care in yet
another of the University of Michigan’s great health centers. She made best
friends out of all her docs which included Dr. Breed (I know! Great OB/GYN
name) who looked like a 12-year old kid (but a very gifted OB), and
Dr. Berman who came to U of M on a gymnastics scholarship, attended medical
school there and stayed and who constantly asked Jessica “Who ARE you?” as she
learned more about Jessica’s career and accomplishments. We were asking the same question of her as we learned of her career and accomplishments. The two-day stay also
included a visit from Marguerite and Dr. Bolling, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>my</u></i> healthcare team.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left the University of Michigan on Thursday,
and Reade, probably in a move to hold out until we crossed the Ohio line, was
born on Sunday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With me still unable to drive, we had our dear
friends and neighbors, David and Angie Miller, drive us to the hospital after
Jessica’s contractions began. David is a urologist and Angie is a nurse. We
were in good hands. We left for the hospital around 9:30 p.m. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reade entered this world at 11:46 p.m. Yep,
that quick. And he weighed five pounds, six ounces, thoughtfully coming in a
good four pounds under my lift limit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Arriving five weeks early, Reade was soon taken to
the neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) where, because of his prematurity, he
could be monitored for any complications. Thankfully, these were few, probably
because of the great care (and two steroid shots to Jessica to help Reade’s
lungs) at the University of Michigan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While the NICU stay did mean that we were now
spending extra days at the hospital, it also meant getting exposed to some of
the kindest, wisest, gentlest, best-all-around-est people on the planet: NICU
nurses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you know, as I ponder the connection between
these two watershed life events, open-heart surgery and a newborn, here’s what
I got so far (admittedly, it’s pretty simple): it’s the strengthening of our
receiving and giving muscles by deepening our connections with people. The NICU
nurses were actually the lead band in a parade of the kindest, wisest,
gentlest, best-all-around-est people on the planet. Jessica and I had a
curbside seat. We saw kindness and wisdom and gentleness we would not have
otherwise seen, and we saw it from a position of flat on our backs. All of us sometimes
find ourselves in that position, times when we can do nothing but lay there
like a slug. We have to depend. To rely upon. To, and this is the kicker, lose
control. This causes us to engage emotional and spiritual muscles that we seldom
use. I’m convinced that the more we exercise our receiving muscles, the more we
fire up our giving muscles. Then as we become more upright, we can’t wait to
give. And it’s a deeper, better give.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Throughout this stretch I have said several times
to myself, sometimes out loud: “I can’t believe how giving people are.” We’ve
had: Neighbors mowing our lawn, friends organizing meals, guy friends throwing
me a “diaper” shower at a local pub (we have a wall full of diapers and a shelf
full of “toys your kids liked when you were a new dad”, girl friends throwing
bi-coastal showers for Jessica and setting us for life in baby gear, our
families stepping up in countless ways (like my mom and sister taking the night
shift several nights a week!), friends bringing food to us in the baby
hospital, friends making the trip to Michigan to visit us in the heart
hospital, lactation nurses inspiring us with new levels of persistence, labor
and post-partum nurses in the Dayton hospital making sure I’m doing okay, heart
surgery nurses in the Michigan hospital making sure that Jessica is doing okay,
my heart surgeon and nurse visiting Jessica in the labor department, Reade’s
neonatologist and nurses making sure I was getting rest (and watching my coffee
intake). We even made an unexpected friend out of my hospital roommate (both of
us had asked about the availability of private rooms). <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been pondering
what God might be trying to teach us—if anything (everything doesn’t have to be
a lesson)—through these concurrent life events. Then this happened. A few days
ago, the day I started writing this post, I took my first “normal” bike ride—no
babying of the heart and pushing as hard as I wanted. While on the final leg, a
near-professional bike rider, all decked out in the latest gear with more logos
than a NASCAR car, went zooming past. As he passed he said, “Did you see those
deer back there?” To which I said, “No! How did I miss that?!” I mean really,
how could I miss that? I quickly turned, and there in the edge of the woods,
two doe. And two fawns.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, as if to put a giant exclamation point on
the whole deal, as if to leave no doubt that God is up to something in all
this, later that evening Jessica and I saw one of the biggest, boldest rainbows
we’ve seen in a long time. I haven’t had a deer/rainbow combo since June 2011,
the week Jessica and I met. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you are new to this blog, this deer story post
[<a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/01/deer-story.html" target="_blank">click here</a>] will help bring you up to speed on why these sightings of a deer
and rainbow are significant. (Strangely, I don’t think I ever wrote a post about
the rainbow story, but just directed folks to the newspaper story, which is no
longer active. So, rainbow post coming soon. Meanwhile, if you search "rainbow" on this blog you will get some good background.) Simply put, I am in a blessed
position (whether flat on my back or upright) to experience new life and a
repaired heart, a heart that was broken in more ways than one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>Thankfully, more than one kind of healing has happened, too. Bring on new life. There is much to experience, much to receive, and much to give.</o:p></span><br />
<br />
Thank you for journeying along.Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-85689779827688806332014-03-09T13:16:00.001-04:002014-03-09T13:22:15.981-04:00First Comes Love...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVI-TblBLryL2RbCEPaFR76Ibg6FwhQG70eeG2b5ht5EvHniPjgBcbAAOXmcDWWdias18CsbH4xhdISraCS5iAckIGyl8y0HYMjQfutERKtPXZrFb3SYHlZ6E9RWzbarnenRvCKp8OLA/s1600/PinknBlue.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVI-TblBLryL2RbCEPaFR76Ibg6FwhQG70eeG2b5ht5EvHniPjgBcbAAOXmcDWWdias18CsbH4xhdISraCS5iAckIGyl8y0HYMjQfutERKtPXZrFb3SYHlZ6E9RWzbarnenRvCKp8OLA/s1600/PinknBlue.png" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You know the familiar adage:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First comes love…</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then comes marriage…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then comes Jessica and Barry pushing a baby carriage.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or actually a Chicco Cortina KeyFit 30 Travel System.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, we are with child. As in Jessica is pregnant. As in due
mid-July. As in Abraham is my new Bible hero. As in: I’m learning they don’t
make strollers like they used to. Thank goodness.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yes, it is a bit of a surprise. Though it is not an
oops, nor complete surprise.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being that we were theoretical potential parents, we had
planned to have “the conversation” last May on the subject of family. That
month, however, was crazy on many levels, so crazy that even Jessica, who was
leaning more toward family at the moment than I, had said, “We can’t even think
about that right now.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We never had that conversation.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now we don’t have to.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is, what I like to say, historic. </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Parenthood is something that neither Jessica nor I, in our
pre “Jessica and Barry” era, thought we would experience. With a career
spiraling upward and no husband on the horizon, Jessica had not only dismissed
parenthood, but also marriage. And because chemo and cancer had taken its toll
on Dana, I had plowed through the emotion of not being a dad. And I was fine
with that.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now, if you run the numbers, I will be a 70-year old dad
at his kid’s high school graduation.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rock on. I am fine with that,
too. (Even though I might joke that I’m not; a man’s got to get some mileage out
of life situations.) </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We learned this past November, by way of a stick (and
confirmed by a second stick the next day) that we were pregnant. It was a few
weeks later when we first heard the words from an OB/GYN nurse, by way of a urine
sample, “Yep, you’re pregnant,” that it sank in a little deeper. Actually “freaked
us out a bit” might be more descriptive. We’ve come to understand the reason
for a nine-month gestation period. It’s not only for the baby. It’s also for the
parents-elect. But as we look toward a July 15 due date we feel we are way ahead
of the curve in progressing from a bit freaked out to full-on embracing. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We rolled the news out to our close friends and families
over the Christmas season. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents
broke out in the most spontaneous tears I’ve ever seen. Jessica’s family, which
has welcomed several babies to the fold over the past few years, is equally as elated<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>lots
of tears and hugs. Over the past few weeks we have begun our public rollout. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Aside from a couple of performance engagements just after
the due date that Jessica has had to step away from, we plan for her singing to
keep right on clicking along. In fact, she will be singing Micaela in Bizet’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carmen </i>with the Cincinnati Opera in
June. Thankfully we have great examples and role models for blending parenthood
with a fulfilling operatic career. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They say a baby changes everything and I feel I’ve caught a
few glimpses of that, even in simple things like working the word “trimester”
into everyday speak. As we’ve begun to think about baby paraphernalia I took my
first solo foray into baby retail land at Target a few days ago. I found myself
wondering the most basic questions, like: So is baby gear in the same section as
“maternity”? I think just the act of posing the question in my mind slightly
panicked me in that, I asked for help from the first person I saw with a badge,
who happened to be a staff person from the hospital hitting Target on her way
home from work. I think she registered my panic, and was very helpful.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I finally did step into the baby gear section (which
wasn’t in the “maternity” section) I had what can only be described as an out
of body experience. This can’t be me! </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it is me. And it’s us. And it’s a blessing.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it’s a boy.</span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-40046899111852345722013-12-23T11:17:00.000-05:002013-12-23T11:17:15.962-05:00Marking Four Years
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today, December 23, 2013, marks year four since Dana’s
passing from here to There. </span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The moments of December 23, 2009 are still so very vivid. It’s
hard to believe that we’ve already spanned the length of a high school career,
or the duration of an Olympiad, or the length of a U.S. presidential term.</span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year on this date I wrote of a haunting game you play when
battling a terminal disease<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>it’s the game of picturing future scenes
without you. This hit hard with Dane one particular Christmas—at every family
gathering she would picture that same gathering without her. In her mind she
pictured everyone cruising along in life, not noticing that she was gone, sort
of “It’s a Wonderful Life” in reverse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This little thought game was in stark contrast to her
inspiringly brave fight and hopeful thoughts of heaven. It’s occurred to me recently
that this game is likely driven by a lurking anxiety that we all have, no matter how hopeful and brave we are: we want
to be remembered after we’re gone.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those of us left behind, we know that it’s impossible to
not remember Dana in any gathering that she would have been a part of. Her
laughs, her smiles, her love of the moment, her cut-to-the-chase sense that
took conversations to meaningful levels. But I guess at year four I do begin to
think about Dana’s lasting legacy more than I have before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, maybe sometime today, or sometime soon,
take a moment to pause, think, reflect, remember.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now to my second thought.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But first, a side note that is either random coincidence or
something more divine. Here I am writing this post and using the 4-year high
school career to describe a time period while also writing about the act of
remembering. As I type, there is a TV show on in the background, The Sing-Off,
an a cappella group singing competition. A group just gave a butt-kicking
rendition of the song “Don’t You Forget About Me,” which comes from the high-school
based movie, “The Breakfast Club.” Really?? I’m going with something more
divine. I can’t make this stuff up!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now to my second thought, for real.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> W</span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">hen I posted my last blog entry (<a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2013/11/elk-envy.html" target="_blank">Elk Envy</a>), I had a
funny sense that folks could be thinking, “Why, after finding new love and being
happily married, is Barry still writing about something painful and sad?”
Frankly, I have even found myself thinking the same thing. It’s a logical,
natural question.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here’s my answer (so far): While I was journeying through the epicenter
of pain and sadness I experienced things I would not have otherwise experienced.
I saw God in ways I would not have otherwise seen. And I feel that I am in a
unique position to say, despite the pain and sadness, that God is still good. While
in my darkest, fear-filled hours, God mercifully made His presence known. He
didn’t have to do that. He could have let me rely on belief and trust and
faith. God has shown us in His Word that He is with us no matter what. God
could have said, “Well, you’ve’ been telling people to know and trust God’s
Word, let’s see how you do.” But He didn’t stay quiet. God poked His finger
through the thin veil between here and There. He did it many times. I feel a
bit of a psalmist’s calling in that I have experienced God’s tender mercies and
I want, even need, to tell about it.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These pokes through the thin veil, or “God stamps” as we’ve
come to call them, at times came fast and furious. Some, like the elk story of
the previous post, have taken a few months, or years, to come to full fruition.
But they need to be shared. I definitely have not been the best steward of this
testimony, a point at which I feel fairly convicted. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you for observing this journey with me—for your encouragement,
for your prayers, for your support. Thank you for your patience as I figure out
the best way to share of God’s tender mercies from past loss, as I also grow in
deep, new love with Jessica (which is a merciful journey in itself!).</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The veil is thin. God is near. His mercies are generous.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Barry</span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-37362841744761658052013-11-09T12:11:00.001-05:002013-11-09T12:11:55.135-05:00Elk Envy<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZQZjXq5IUkQYs99YI3HtjBEIulJoSRG58-ZhXV05nKhQEnut01snw2iHcVAwfhuRHD5ePUyOP3IZiKzDRjtaZ8ptyLTRSb88MBDB1SQiZ-mVhZHk_s2pnCKP5Dla2oVNuQhqatwY4go/s1600/51769a31d6aa6_preview-620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZQZjXq5IUkQYs99YI3HtjBEIulJoSRG58-ZhXV05nKhQEnut01snw2iHcVAwfhuRHD5ePUyOP3IZiKzDRjtaZ8ptyLTRSb88MBDB1SQiZ-mVhZHk_s2pnCKP5Dla2oVNuQhqatwY4go/s320/51769a31d6aa6_preview-620.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>I will try to be brief. But this story—or “God stamp”
actually—was a long time in the making.<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It started shortly after Dana and I began the fight against
her recurrent breast cancer which was diagnosed in August 2006. The story
became an official “God stamp” just this past fall, six years later. (For
backstory on "God stamps," you may want to click to <a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/01/speaking-of-god-stamp-collecting.html" target="_blank">this post</a>, or search for "deer" or
"rainbow" on this blog.)</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In the second year of battling recurrence, it became clear
that this round of breast cancer was not going away easily, if at all. As we
settled into the slog, Dana began reading a book by John Eldredge with her good
friend Kay. Eldredge is a writer, teacher, counselor who touches a great deal
on what some might call the “chick-if-i-cation” of the church—asking men,
who are of the hunter/gatherer nature, to share emotions and sing, etc., things
guys are not inclined to do, unless they are talking about football or cheering
with 50,000 other fans.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In this particular book (I am still searching for the exact
book, Eldredge, a prolific writer, has written many) Eldredge told a story
about taking his son elk hunting. In recounting the story, he told of what a
great father/son bonding time he had envisioned for this particular experience.
But as the hunting excursion wore on, they hadn’t seen one elk. So Eldridge
began to pray. He prayed that they might run across an elk, justifying the
request by reminding God of the terrific bonding experience it would be. And,
lo and behold, near the end of the hunting day, an elk sauntered across their
path. Boom. His son got his elk. Eldridge, then, went on to use that story as
an illustration for prayer.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This caused Dana to respond in an email to Kay: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh that’s just great. I am praying against
cancer, in hopes of living, and I am getting nothing. He prays for an elk, in
hopes to kill it, and God comes through for him.</i></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
To which Kay responded, in her usual poignant way: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dana, you have elk envy. Don’t have elk
envy. Just because God answers prayer one way doesn’t mean He is going to
answer your prayer the same way.</i></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Which is true. Very true. Undeniably, biblically, and
theologically true. </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So, “no elk envy” became one of our bumper sticker phrases
(Kay actually needle-pointed the phrase, and a facsimile of an elk, into a
pillow case) throughout the cancer fight, and as best we could, we made it the
framework for our praying.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In the fall of 2009 the battle took a hard turn. The cancer
spread in a way that affected Dana’s cognitive and motor capabilities. So, not
only did she transition into a bedridden condition, but in what was probably
the cruelest turn in the fight, Dana lost her ability to communicate, or more
specifically, to express. Her communication was simply “yes” or “no” responses
to questions and occasionally she phrased a sentence or two.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Here’s why it was cruel. Our ability to communicate and
express is what attracted us to each other in the first place, and it’s what
eventually placed us into what we called “one of the top five loves of all
time.” We loved making each other laugh. We loved sharing and processing
together. Dana was invigorated by the art of writing and expressing. It was in
the DNA of her personality. And now, as we were moving into the most
challenging era of our marriage, we were doing it with one-word answers to
life’s most difficult questions and high-stakes dilemmas.
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
While we were in, what I’ve labeled, “hospice mode,” Dana
and I would touch on the subject of heaven, but she was not comfortable in
making that a topic of conversation. We had long said that if one of us got to
heaven before the other, then heaven was not going to be all it was cracked up
to be. And we’d both said, in our more expressive moments, that neither of us
will give the other permission to “go.” We would both be hanging onto the leg
of the other. </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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Knowing Dana was not comfortable with the subject of heaven,
I concluded, whether rightly or wrongly, that talking about heaven might
create more fear and anxiety than comfort and assurance—pulling together info
from our conversations from our expressive days and mixing that with Dana’s
one-word answers to my questions about the subject. Yet, here we are,
approaching our ultimate goodbye and Dana’s big hello, with scant ability to
communicate.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And so, you plow through on your own, navigating the
high-wire balancing act that care-giving forces upon you: protection vs.
reality; the presence of hospice and palliative care vs. the appearance of
throwing in the towel; the desire, and need, to enter into end of life
conversation vs. creating fear.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s an impossible balance, and you do the best you can.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
During hospice mode those were the tensions occupying my
mind which was in a constant state of whirring and spinning, like the whirring
and spinning you hear in your computer from time to time. Only my whirring and
spinning never wound down. There was no CTL+ALT+DEL keyboard sequence.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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That November our friends Randy and Kay came to visit from
Montana. Yes, the Kay with whom Dana shared the John Eldredge book, which by
now had been two years prior. Dana knew they were coming. As soon as they
walked through the door, before anything else was said, Dana piped up, “No elk
envy.”</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I am not sure there has ever been a better placed, better
prepared phrase in all of history. If you’ve ever read John Steinbeck’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">East of Eden</i>, it was a “timshel” moment.
For in that phrase, Dana told all of us that she knew the seriousness of the
situation. And perhaps most importantly, she told us all, especially me, that
she was okay with that.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In that phrase she showed humor, expression, connection. I
laughed. I cried. But mostly, I sighed heavily—a deep-body sigh. It’s not that
it made anything easier, but I was able to feel, ever so slightly, that we were
in this thing together. It was a boost I needed as we navigated the final days,
which, it turned out, would be just around the corner from Randy and Kay’s
visit.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But here is where the story takes a turn toward God-stamp
status. Last November, Randy took their 12-year old son Ben elk hunting for the
first time on the ranch where they live in Montana. I know. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elk</i> hunting. Father and son. It was the
first season that Ben was age eligible to hunt elk. They saw a few elk
throughout the day but never had a clear shot. Then, by late afternoon they
tried one more area. Three elk finally walked out into the open. Ben set up and
took one shot. Boom. Ben got his elk. Randy would later note, being a fittingly
proud dad, it was a “perfect lung shot.” </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And we all knew this was more than Ben’s first elk. </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It was a near-perfect repeat of the scenario that generated
our prayer chant “no elk envy”—a father-son elk hunting excursion.
Extraordinarily, Ben saw and killed an elk at pretty much the earliest possible
moment—the first shot he took on the first day he hunted of the first year he
was eligible to hunt.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I don’t know if there’s much theological backing for this
(and it’s not the first time I’ve pushed through the limits of theology in this
whole journey), but I have taken this as a divine imprimatur—a God stamp—on a
couple levels: number one, that yes, indeed, Dana’s declaration of “no elk
envy” on Randy and Kay’s visit stands as a window into her thinking that she
knew how bad things were, and she was okay with that. Secondly, and more importantly,
our prayers are to have the flavor of “no elk envy.”</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s huge. And it goes against our nature.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Just because God does not move or answer prayers the way we
want or hope or expect doesn’t mean that God is any less good than when He does
answer prayers the way we want or hope or expect. This, though, is a tough nut
to crack. Just look at the prayer request lists of any church. First, our
requests take on the flavor of a Christmas list, stating things that we want.
Then, when things do turn out the way we want, we heap on the praise (“God is
good!” we will say). When they don’t, the flavor is a little different (“Keep
praying!” we will say).</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Why is this? Do we oversell how God will intervene in our
lives thus creating an expectation God never expected us to have? The only
fail-safe promise we have from God is that He will be with us. But, because of
expectations we’ve created, we’ve worked ourselves into a corner where God’s
presence doesn’t really matter—we would rather have our way than His presence.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When I look at how Jesus taught us to pray (Matthew 6 and
Luke 11), I can only find two personal items we can expect from God based on
our requests: 1.) our daily sustenance; 2.) to be lead away from temptation.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So how is it that we are brazenly disappointed when things
don’t go our way? Maybe it’s because we see in the gospels people asking for
healing and Jesus heals them, so we think we should get the same treatment. But
isn’t this classic “elk envy”? To quote our friend Kay: Just because Jesus
answered one prayer one way doesn’t mean He will answer our prayers the same
way. </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Curiously, when I started writing this blog post—a post on the subject of our desires versus God’s ways—while in
California with Jessica and her family, I received news that my mom was rushed to the hospital with
chest pains—a first for her. Of course, I prayed like crazy for my own desires
and wishes—that everything would be okay—and gave a patronizing nod to “God’s
ways.” </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Nice test, God.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Isn’t that just like Him? I knew that writing about prayer
was likely to bring on a test, but I didn’t think it would come so quickly. For
the record, mom did not appear to have a heart attack (God is good!) and will
undergo some follow up tests this week (Please keep praying!). </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The timing of Mom’s hospital run feels like a gentle nudge
from God that says: Make sure you’re not giving the impression to not pray like
crazy for desires and wishes (especially since we see a fair amount of
Scripture telling us to do just that). I guess though, that the point where we
get off track is the expectation we place on the results. Scripture does tell
us to bring our desires and requests to God, but the healthy attitude seems to
ask that we not base our opinion of God on how He honors our desires and
requests. If things do not go as we hoped, we will naturally be mad, sad, hurt,
disappointed and myriad other emotions. I think this is healthy. Where it gets
less healthy, or even unhealthy, is when these emotions morph into mindsets of
bitterness or skepticism or into a thinking that God is not on our side, which,
candidly, is what Dana and I were thinking throughout much of the recurrence
battle. By reminding ourselves of “no elk envy” we stayed out of a dangerous
hole.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
From my perspective, the less God’s people freak out over
things not going our way, the more we show an observing world that we trust
God’s ways. The issue of suffering is a big sticking point for those who are
testing the waters of Christianity but have yet to jump in. Our reaction to
suffering, or more poignantly, our reaction to things not going our way,
displays whether or not we believe what Scripture says about suffering,
chiefly, that we will experience it. And it displays whether or not we believe,
and even appreciate, God’s fail-safe promise that He will be with us in the
suffering.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
To train myself to think and pray this way, I may adopt a
new phrase for the close of my prayers, “No elk envy.” It may not be as poetic
as “Amen,” but it forces me to think “Your will be done” and actually mean it.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Thank you for observing this journey with me.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Barry</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Follow-Up Note:</i> My
mom’s follow-up tests all went well and things seem to be okay with her heart.
Also, I received a note from Randy and Kay saying that Ben’s first elk hunting excursion
this season was unproductive, adding a little more credence to last season’s
divinely-timed, God-stamped elk.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>Bible Follow-Up:</i> In taking the observations of this
journey to a next level, I've created a bare-bones Bible experience to
accompany this post. It's an opportunity to explore, and even evaluate, some of
my biblical assertions. You can get it <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwowvXoSBMhRQ1BHelpaOXlJOG8/edit?usp=sharing" target="_blank">here</a>. (By the way, we need a new
word for "devotional" or "Bible study." Right now
"experience" is all I got, but I know we can do better.) </div>
</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-48106381896308611242013-03-20T13:04:00.000-04:002013-03-20T19:52:56.104-04:00Walking Wounded<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQjAu1YWmu6XQu_SbDuAhfjp58cB2OF23lMDUACgsS-nOn0K-DpqlfGPAf3Or02yW5Kw1hrySGNvOBc4_G-BPADcebi1ANQalceXrzrpHfMHD4-S8TzPFBvS0tOaDlsUniNhhjE_ly5I8/s1600/197736_10151034699075185_647932160_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQjAu1YWmu6XQu_SbDuAhfjp58cB2OF23lMDUACgsS-nOn0K-DpqlfGPAf3Or02yW5Kw1hrySGNvOBc4_G-BPADcebi1ANQalceXrzrpHfMHD4-S8TzPFBvS0tOaDlsUniNhhjE_ly5I8/s320/197736_10151034699075185_647932160_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fountain of Tears" in Granada, Spain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have something strange going on.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This “something strange” has happened a few times recently,
two instances I can remember with some detail. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It goes something like this: I’ll be clicking through my
day, minding my own business, thinking my usual random thoughts (“Concrete was
a great invention.”). I’ll be in a public place like a big box store and my
path will cross, for a fleeting moment, with someone who has apparently spent
his or her entire life overcoming a major physical challenge. They’re on their
own at the moment in this busy arena, and seem to be doing fine.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It brings me to immediate tears.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first instance that I noticed this becoming a trend was a
few months ago while riding on an airport tram. I was probably doing some
internal kvetching about airport life. I had noticed a man a little younger
than I carrying an equal amount of travel bags—an over-stuffed roller bag and a
heavy-laden back pack over a shoulder. (This probably sparked the random
thought, “I wonder if the 50-pound baggage limit was set by the chiropractor
lobby.”) The tram made a stop. The doors opened, my fellow traveler stood from
his seat, gathered his bags, and with considerable effort, drug his barely
functioning leg with his maximum-stuffed roller bag through the tram door onto
his next destination. He exited as if he’d done it hundreds of times, maybe
thousands.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stayed on the tram, awaiting my next stop. With tears
streaming down my cheeks.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The most recent instance of this “something strange” was at
one of Jessica’s concerts in Miami, Fla. She was singing Maria in excerpts from
<em>"West Side Story"</em> with the New World Symphony under the direction of Michael
Tilson Thomas, a world-renown conductor who actually worked with Leonard
Bernstein, composer of <em>"West Side Story." </em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I arrived at my row before the concert began I had to
ask a patron seated on the end to stand in order for me to get to my seat. She
was seated by herself and politely, even enthusiastically, obliged. Her
movements were noticeably labored, but confident. I could sense she had a
challenge of some sort. But it wasn’t until the end of the concert, when she
applauded with her wrists, that I could see the extent of her challenge,
perhaps a type of palsy.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Applauding. With her wrists. With a huge smile. And then,
before the applause was over, she turned to walk with a limp up the aisle to
exit, no doubt to beat the crowd—something she had done hundreds of times.
Maybe thousands.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept clapping. With tears streaming down my cheeks.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At that moment my applause took on more meaning than celebration
of the transcendent moments I had experienced through the music, but I began to
feel myself as a cheerleader. First I was cheering how anyone, no matter their
situation of life, can enjoy beautiful music. I was also cheering how my wife
Jessica was able to, with her gifted voice, reach into the spirit of my applauding
neighbor. And of course, I was cheering how my neighbor, despite her
challenges, or maybe even because of her challenges, was able to enjoy beautiful
music. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Later that day, after the concert, Jessica and I were
walking down Lincoln Road, a famous pedestrian mall in South Beach. We happened
upon my seat mate from the concert, sitting at an outdoor table enjoying a nice
dish of frozen yogurt. I introduced myself by saying “I enjoyed listening to
that beautiful concert with you!” After a couple of confused seconds she said,
“You changed your clothes!” Which I had, going from diva-spouse afternoon
concert attire to shorts and a t-shirt. And then she said, “That was so
beautiful.” I introduced Jessica as one of the singers. Our friend asked “Which
one?” to which we replied “Maria.” You could see gratitude come over our friend
as she seemed privileged to share how beautiful the experience was to her.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we walked away, I cried again. Now I had to explain my
tears. “She touched me,” I said to Jessica, whose gift of tenderness may
actually surpass her gift of music. She always lets me cry, and enters into the
cry with me.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have been around folks with physical challenges my entire
life, whether challenges since birth or brought on through accident or disease.
I’ve done my best to help when I can, to empathize as best I can, and mostly to
not let the challenge define the person. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But something is now different. This is a new look for me,
this immediate, spontaneous crying thing. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I want to pay attention to it.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seems that in one instantaneous moment the journeys of
these folks, with all the dynamic moments on journeys like these, wash over my
heart like a rogue wave.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those moments when they realized their condition, whether
gradually from a birth abnormality or all at once through an accident or
disease (Was it shock? Was it surprise?); the struggle behind the acceptance of
the fact that they don’t have it as easy as others; the whipsaw moments of
weakness with every intention to throw in the towel, followed by moments of
sheer resolve and determination, and then the cruel reverse of that sequence.
But here they are: functioning in mass public—a busy airport, a packed concert
hall—with aplomb. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been trying to assess the crying. Why the immediate
well-up of tears? Later that evening in Miami I dropped Jessica off at the hall
to practice for her next gig and I made the 25 minute walk back to the
apartment where we were staying. I tried to get a handle on this. I’m sure it’s
related to the journey of loss, the experience of a broken heart. But could it
be something more specific? And then I was prompted by a memory.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dana had been on chemo for about a year with her recurrent
breast cancer (BC round 2, as we would call it) when we were driving on Breiel
Blvd. in Middletown and happened upon a fender bender. But it wasn’t two cars.
It was a car and a deer. The deer was badly wounded but was still alive and
trying to pull itself off the road into the safety of the nearby woods. Dana immediately
began to cry , and she couldn't stop crying. This was more than her usual soft
spot for all things animal and “all the kitties in the world.” As we drove she expressed
that she was identifying with the deer. She and the deer were both wounded.
They were both fighting to survive. They were both longing for safety and the
familiarity of normal. That event stuck with us for days.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it came flooding into my mind and heart on that walk in
Miami. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am wounded. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can identify with the challenges of these folks whose paths
I’m crossing. I can empathize with the rapid-fire whipsaw of resolve vs.
despair, denial vs. acceptance. I know what it’s like to walk with a crippling
hole of hurt and loss, laboring to function in a world that caters to normal.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But here’s the thing: We’re all wounded.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We all carry something.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I think that’s what my visceral reactions to the walking
wounded around me are tapping into. My journey of loss has reworked my
emotional DNA and I’m just now beginning to realize to what degree this has occurred.
Yes, my heart is more generally moved these days (I tear up at some point
during every episode of “Blue Bloods,” a new series on ABC that Jessica and I
have locked into; and I don’t think it’s simply sleep deprivation), but
connecting with those who have visibly pressed through insurmountable obstacles
provides a window into just how re-worked my emotional DNA is.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The phrase “world of hurt” comes to mind, with new meaning.
We’re all carrying something. We’re all asked to overcome something. To borrow
the words of a new friend, Leneita Fix, who does urban youth ministry near New
York City, “All teens are urban. It doesn’t matter where they live or what their
circumstances are; given today’s teen predicament, they’re all trying to
survive something.” (As a side, you may want to check out Leneita’s book,
“Everybody’s Urban.”) The same is true for all of us. In some cases the
striving to survive is visible: exiting a tram with a debilitated leg,
applauding beautiful music with wrists. In other cases the striving to survive
lurks behind the masks of our stoic faces as we navigate our daily routines of
waiting in lines, paying bills, meeting deadlines.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m reminded of something written in 2 Corinthians 1:4, that
“[God] comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any
trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s pretty cool, and I think it describes why I’m having
such a strong reaction to “those in any trouble.” This verse, perhaps more than
any other, paints the picture of redemption that can emerge from “our
troubles.” We are naturally and organically drawn to the wounds of others. And
it’s good to react.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For now, I’m reacting with tears. I’m going to keep paying
attention to this reaction, grabbing tightly to this thread, watching hopefully
to see what fabric of redemption God might be weaving together. I’ve felt
compelled to share this point in the journey. While it’s certainly a work in
progress, I’m sensing there are more of us who have hidden wounds needing to
heal, or healed wounds needing to be shared with others.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Maybe we can all cheer and applaud for each
other—with our hearts, with our hands, and even with our wrists.</span>Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-41209106860582978962012-12-23T09:53:00.000-05:002012-12-23T09:53:20.773-05:00"Where are you?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjohjTwnG1yM6UYc0RkmHuO_Ckxck3dgJQLkvdsBX1lMl0HCgnAeQO1ZyzWq14_DBZwEpDKYT2K0dDHngHdTsnjrAazJA5_9YiS2FoswBvlLxZuai74rsxuaGma1-pC3UVgdo2vuBHzSqo/s1600/iStock_000010403929XSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjohjTwnG1yM6UYc0RkmHuO_Ckxck3dgJQLkvdsBX1lMl0HCgnAeQO1ZyzWq14_DBZwEpDKYT2K0dDHngHdTsnjrAazJA5_9YiS2FoswBvlLxZuai74rsxuaGma1-pC3UVgdo2vuBHzSqo/s320/iStock_000010403929XSmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where are you?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s a question we’ve been asking of God lately, especially
since the tragedy in Newtown, Conn. It’s an honest, heart-felt question. The
question sounds a bit mocking, with a tad of derision. It’s not necessarily
declaring a state of apostasy, but more of a natural reaction. Sometimes it
just sounds good to ask the question even if we know the answer. But it doesn’t
catch God off guard.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Especially since, He asked it of us first.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They were His first spoken words in the world’s newly
realized fallen state, moments after the fateful bite of the fruit, or at least
after just enough time to sew a few fig leaves together.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Adam and Eve were hiding in the garden and God asked, “Where
are you?” (Gen. 3:9)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In His omniscience, God knew the answer. I’m certain He knew
the whereabouts of Adam and Eve. But He asked the question, maybe just to get
it down on paper for us to see, knowing that we’d be asking that question of
Him, now that the world was in its fallen state.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And we have been asking that question ever since. Israel
asked it. Psalmists asked it. Martha asked it. Even Jesus asked it.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have asked it. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I thought I’d use the occasion of the three-year
anniversary of Dana’s passing to comment on that question.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think the time I felt most abandoned by God was when we
were in the slog of the fight. It seemed that any time we hit a juncture where
things could take a turn for better or worse, a time when God could show His
hand, it was then that things would turn for worse. In our short-sighted humanness
it’s natural to feel that we’re on the wrong side of God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, in the cosmic scheme of things, we’re not the ones who
moved. I think it’s because of the things we have to navigate in this fallen
world that cause us to question the presence of God. It has broken my heart to
hear people this past week ask, almost with a shaking fist, “Where is God?” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In my journey God has been extra merciful in reminding us of
His presence. Rainbows in the sky, deer in the yard, and even a heart in the
clouds. (You may want to search this blog for the key words in that last
sentence to get geeked up on what’s come to be known as “God stamps.”) I say
merciful because He has already told all of us in His Word that He is with us,
that His Comforter is walking with us, that He will never leave us nor forsake
us. And He told us those things in almost the same breath when He says that we
will have trouble. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">God saw it coming. And I think that’s why He asked the
question first.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So these days, when I find myself asking that question of
God, I want to ask it of myself. Where am I? I think that keeps me on a better
track. Because the reality is, God is near. Always. Everywhere.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I want to leave you with a thought that’s more connected to
marking three years than to the question “Where is God?” I remember about the
second Christmas into the cancer recurrence fight (probably Christmas 2008) that
Dana had a bit of a spooky thought. We were at a family gathering and she was
picturing that gathering without her in the picture. With the threat of a
serious illness, that picture can be more vivid. She was picturing all of us
carrying on as if nothing had happened.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those of us who are still here, fighting through the fallen
world, know that nothing can be further from the truth. I have said this
before: you can’t have known Dane for even a minute without having something
change in you. We are all different.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we reflect on three years on this earth without Dane, I
might ask that you tap into that part of your personal DNA that was impacted by
Dane. Keep it fanned and flamed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I think there’s something else going on that Dane would
have no way of foreseeing. I don’t know about any of you, but we here have felt
some kind of extra special encouragement that can only come from the Dana
corner of heaven. There is more to tell, but suffice it to say I think Dane is
having an absolute blast in more ways than one. More on all of that soon.</span></div>
<br />
Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-8157919427879400352012-10-31T11:04:00.000-04:002012-10-31T11:04:12.095-04:00Return to the Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-WNtpjwACzZ91-DlHbaqpMJarh2N6Lys71MdVl5H_Mh8Nq01olUV_2sA7q-TDYuXzXQOPQ7ukL2xCmnbiR3HQFCeCBjeBdAzaMUGYzz91eX5n1NlrHlXfPBXfTZxZQm8k5PNo0xsw-f8/s1600/photoTile4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-WNtpjwACzZ91-DlHbaqpMJarh2N6Lys71MdVl5H_Mh8Nq01olUV_2sA7q-TDYuXzXQOPQ7ukL2xCmnbiR3HQFCeCBjeBdAzaMUGYzz91eX5n1NlrHlXfPBXfTZxZQm8k5PNo0xsw-f8/s320/photoTile4.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through a quirky chain of events, I returned to the scene of
the fire last Friday. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you’re new to this blog, a quick recap of what I mean by
“fire.” It’s the pain and fear that come from losing the person on this earth
who has been the closest to you, the person with whom you have shared what you both
called “one of the top five loves of all time.” My recovery modus operandi in my
journey of losing Dana has been to adopt the military strategy of running <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">toward </i>enemy fire; when soldiers see
or hear enemy fire they run <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">toward</i>
it. My MO has been to run toward the pain and not run away from it. (You may want to
check out this <a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/01/running-toward-fire.html" target="_blank">blog post</a> for more detail.) Last week I had the chance to see how the philosophy of running toward the fire was working out
for me.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And here’s what I mean by quirky chain of events: This past
summer I added to my plate the task of serving as interim pastor at Breiel
Blvd. Church of God in Middletown, the church that brought me to Middletown in
the first place as youth pastor many years ago. “Interim” means I serve until a
new pastor is in place.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Serving part-time, my primary responsibilities with the
church are teaching/speaking on Sunday and meeting with the staff (a blessed,
great staff I might add) through the week. I’ve had on my radar the possibility
of helping with the pastoral care component, including hospital visits, if the need
were to arise and if I had the time. Last Friday, the need arose. I’m not sure I had
the time, but I was compelled to make the time.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s ironic that I would voluntarily make the time because
it hasn’t always been that way.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I first came to Middletown to serve as youth pastor at
Breiel Church one of my duties as a member of the pastoral staff was to help
with hospital visits two days a week, Wednesdays and Fridays. I confess that as
I navigated the calendar-packed, high-energy nature of youth ministry, hospital
rounds did not factor as a favorite “to do.” And inevitably, the Wednesday I
was launching a new series in our youth programming (our big night was
Wednesday night, and series launches meant more detail to tend to than usual)
was the day I’d not only have several people to visit in the Middletown
hospital, but also someone in Dayton (north of Middletown) and Cincinnati
(south of Middletown). Before I sound too gripey, I need to say that the moment
I would arrive at the hospital room, I embraced that time. I certainly understood
that this was some of the purest, most consistent ministry I would be doing every
week. I enjoyed talking and praying with the folks and they seemed to be
encouraged by my visits. But that didn’t keep me from grousing a bit on my
drives to and fro.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I left that youth pastor position having never resolved the
experience of blending hospital/pastoral care with youth ministry. I was
compliant to the duty and respectful of the task, but I probably didn’t full on
embrace the experience. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was during Dana’s cancer fight years later, when I lived
in a hospital room for a month as a caregiver, that I revisited that unresolved
experience. As you might expect, my recent journey has left me heartbroken for
what takes place in a hospital room. But I hadn’t really had a chance to act on
that heartbreak and was even beginning to wonder if it was real.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is why I felt compelled to make the time for the
hospital rounds this past Friday. I needed to take the heartbreak for a test
drive. But in doing this, I knew that meant running to the fire. I knew I would be
walking through a particular set of doors. The last time I walked through these
doors was when I was walking out of them and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>into an ambulette for the 4 mile ride home to
hospice care. So when I said, “I’ll visit the hospital this Friday,” I was saying
it through the nervous lump in my throat: What if the flood of memories, which
were bound to be filled with details I had forgotten, would render me useless?
What if I were to walk boldly through those front doors, get a whiff of
hospital and hear myself say “nope,” u-turning to walk just as boldly out of
those front doors, not even giving myself a chance to tap into the heartbreak?
There were some unnerving unknowns. Of course, they were familiar unknowns.
They’re the kind of questions you face every time you run toward the fire.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I underestimated was how God could use the flood of
memories, the “fire” you might say, to massage the heartbreak. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I should have known that God was up to something because the
visit started rather ominously. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wouldn’t you know that on this my first visit back to the
hospital where Dana’s final spiral began there would be a parishioner to visit
on “Fourth Floor North,” the floor where Dana and I spent a month treating her
cancer’s final play, the floor where I learned how to define progress as three
steps backwards and only two steps forward, the floor where I learned to
squeeze as much hope as I could from the smallest morsels the fight would offer
up. And just to be sure I didn’t miss a trickle of the flood that was to wash
over me, fate would have it that when I walked past the nurse’s station to say
hello to a friend, I ended up standing in front of the very room where it all
took place.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Walking into the hospital wasn’t as difficult as I thought.
It was as I stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor when I was surprised
at the first thing that started the flood of memories: the tile patterns in the
floor. As a caregiver during a lengthy hospital stay you have many
opportunities to stare at the floor. For me, it was usually when I was talking
with family and friends on the phone. I would step out of the room to find a
place where I could talk (and maybe cry) without waking up Dana (or alarming
her), where I wouldn’t be bothering hospital staff at the nurse’s station or other
caregivers in waiting areas (even though I was anxious and nervous, I was still
loud).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My “step out” would usually take
me to the elevator landing area: it had a big window with a spacious view and if
anyone came by they were always passing through, never congregating. It was
this area that I would talk and pace while on the phone. As I shared bad news,
good news, and bad news with spin, the back channel of my mind would study the
tile patterns in the floor: I like how they put a curve here; but it made for a
tough cut of that tile piece; it was a good idea to change color tile at this
break in the pattern; those are nice, warm colors; when I place the tip of my
shoe in the corner of that tile it looks like a parabola from my geometry days; I
wonder how Mrs. Hypes is doing; and now it’s an asymptote—the shoe line and
tile line will never meet if you follow them to infinity. And on it goes.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think it’s something your mind does (or at least my mind)
to keep you grounded. It notices inane, ordinary things, things that have
nothing to do with the fears you’re facing. It’s probably a bit of an escape
mechanism, as in, wouldn’t it be nice if this was all you had to worry about?
Seeing this forgotten but familiar tile pattern reminded me of the intensity of
those days, the relentless monitoring of symptoms, the draining interplay of
hope and reality, the constant nagging of the haunting question, “What if this
is it?” Your mind will relish the smallest things for a break, including a cup
of coffee. Every sip of coffee in that hospital stay provided me a two to three
second mental break. It was a moment when I didn’t have to make a decision, or
worry about an outcome, and I knew what I was doing when I took that sip. It
was a moment that was the complete opposite of every other moment during the
stay.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The folks I visited last Friday were dear friends from my
time as youth pastor at Breiel Church. The visits were rich and full of good
conversation, much of which centered around questions and comments like
“Where’s your wife Jessica? I can’t wait to meet her!” Jessica, of course, is a
favorite. These comments then led to the redemptive work that God is doing in
all the experiences of our lives. And yes, it was impossible to be in any of
these hospital rooms without my eyes doing a scan of the surroundings: the
whiteboard with the day’s date, the futon that made into a more comfortable bed
than you would expect (thankfully), the patient wristbands that increase in
number as the stay lengthens in days (allergies, “fall risk,” DNR).</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I left the building I was also reminded of the first time
I was in Middletown's new hospital, Atrium Medical Center, even before it opened. Every three years the
hospital’s foundation hosts a gala. I wrote about the one I attended shortly
after Dana passed…a gala she helped plan.(I posted about that <a href="http://ajourneyobserved.blogspot.com/2010/06/wishing-upon-star.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) The gala preceding that was in
2007 and Dana and I attended. It also was the celebration of the opening of
Atrium Medical Center and included a dessert reception inside the hospital at
the close of the gala, which was held outdoors under a beautifully decorated
giant white tent. Dana and I were one year into the cancer recurrence battle at
the time. I remember standing in the atrium of Atrium and thinking, “This place
is fresh and new, there has been no bad news shared with anyone yet, there have
been no deaths in here yet. It’s a clean slate.” I think it was the slog of
battling cancer that took my mind down the negative trail. Because you can also
go down the positive trail, which my mind eventually did, as I thought, “This
will also be a place where good news is shared: the surgery was successful; the
scan is clear; it’s a boy (or a girl).”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve learned that life happens somewhere between those two
trails, a truth that might have been part of my compulsion last Friday as to
why I wanted to MAKE time for the hospital rounds. The Bible tells us to
rejoice with those who rejoice and to mourn with those who mourn (Romans 12).
There aren’t too many physical places in this world that actually provide
opportunity for both: rejoicing and mourning. A hospital is certainly one of
them.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One more thought. The picture below is the floor of the
elevator. When I realized the significant role the tile floor played in my
hospital experience, I snapped this to document the tile formations that I had
studied while riding the elevator several times a day during that September in
2009, wishfully overhearing hopeful conversations of short hospital stays and
“heading home to recover.” The framing of the picture was completely random; I
simply pointed my phone down and snapped. It was while studying the picture more closely
that I noticed what I captured—a cross.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In all my trips up and down that elevator in the month of living at the
hospital, I don’t think I noticed the cross formation. It was simply a tile
pattern, a pattern I studied as a mental break on an elevator ride. But the
cross was there the entire time, whether I noticed it or not. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is when God began to do a number on me, when He used my
experience in the “fire” to massage my heartbreak to help others in their own
fire<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>showing me that the heartbreak is real
and giving me clarity on how to use it. I think that the tile on the
elevator floor depicts our role with each other: reminding each other that the
cross is there whether we see it or not. Whether it’s good news or bad news;
whether it’s a short hospital stay that leads to recovery or a long hospital
stay that ends in death; the cross, a symbol of victory over suffering and
triumph over death, is always there.</span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whether I knew it or not as a youth pastor years ago making my
obligatory hospital “rounds,” I was reminding people that the cross was there
whether they knew it or not. It may not have been anything I said or did, but
just the fact that I came as a representative of the gospel—the gospel that
delivers peace and comfort and eternal hope.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the next time I have an opportunity to visit the
hospital, I will make the time. There’s one other thing about fire that we all
know: it refines. Maybe that’s what running toward the fire is all about, or at
least a big part of what it’s all about. The fire does more than massage the heartrbreak, it refines the heartbreak and
helps clarify the path of redemption that emerges from the pain.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ll keep working on that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Meanwhile thank you for your patience,
not only for the length of this post, but for the length of time since the last
post. I apologize for the dry spell. More soon!</span></div>
<br />
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Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-28053222177132633612012-06-22T11:34:00.000-04:002012-06-22T11:34:51.884-04:00Lossology 101<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Loss comes in all shapes and sizes. We lose our keys. We lose our data. We lose our minds. We lose our tempers. We lose our innocence. We lose our money. We lose our jobs. We lose our security. We lose our loved ones.<br />
<br />
I remember as a kid coming into my own realization that death seemed to come in threes. I’ve since learned that this is some kind of cultural phenomenon—more than folklore or an old wives’ tale. In fact, Google “death comes in threes” and you’ll see over 100,000 entries. Take away the quote marks and you’ll get over 1 million. It seems to hold true…unless it comes in MULTIPLES of three, as it seems to have been doing in my little circle lately.<br />
<br />
Within a few short months I’ve lost a neighbor, a childhood friend, his mom, a cousin, a dear family friend, a colleague in youth ministry, and just this week, a fellow breast cancer fighter. All of this, of course, is layered onto the loss of Dana.<br />
<br />
So I thought I’d use this rash of recent loss to dust off my blogger keyboard and get back to sharing some observations on the journey. My apologies for the dry spell. (It was never my intention to go such a long stretch; I'll blame it on lots of life transition.)<br />
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This brings me to tell you about Weezie, the dear family friend mentioned above, who passed away on April 1.<br />
<br />
Weezie was my “second mom.” And my “second grandma.” And my “second aunt.” And as you would guess, my “first spoiler.” And she was my dear friend. She and her husband Arnold (whom I called Arkie, and still do to this day), having no kids of their own, “adopted” my sister Becky (whom I called Beck, and still do to this day) and me as their own, especially on Sunday mornings when Beck and I were church orphans while Mom played the piano and Dad directed the music and choir at the East Park Church of God where my grandpa (whom I called Grandpa, and still do to this day) was the pastor. We needed somebody to tend to us in the pew.<br />
<br />
My folks and “WeezeAndArkie” were already dear friends (they took monster trips out west before us kids came along). We did Christmas’s together. They were Mom and Dad’s go-to overnight baby sitters. There were lots of outings, French fries after Sunday-night church, late-night ice cream runs, Thanksgivings, sing-alongs around the piano, and so much more.<br />
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And then Arkie, who had hardly been sick a day in his life, suddenly passed away from a heart attack.<br />
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On April 1, in fact, 37 years to the day, before Weezie passed.<br />
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Other than unexpectedly losing our dearly loved collie, Lassie (I know, I was not a creative “namer” as a kid) Arkie’s death was one of my first “aware” losses—a loss that I actually felt. My grandma (Dad’s mom) had passed away a few years earlier, when I was 8. I remember seeing Dad cry and thinking “this must be big.” My dad’s brother Paul passed away when I was in early high school, and that was probably the first death that scared me. If it could happen to Uncle Paul, who was the father of close cousins my age, it could happen to anybody. Including my dad. Or my mom. <br />
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I reached out to Weezie at the time of Arkie’s death with a letter, trying desperately to connect with her through the pain I felt from losing Lassie. From my current adult perch this action seems a bit precocious. But the consensus of adults in my life at the time was that the letter showed me to be wise beyond my years. I spoke of heaven, and the fun Arkie was having chatting it up with the Apostle Paul, and I invoked wisdom from one of my junior high teachers that we’re all dying, some just get there sooner. (I recently read the letter and I must admit, it was pretty good!). I think, though, without knowing it, I was tapping into something that God built into us: the ability and desire to comfort others out of our own pain. <br />
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My mom has long said, and I agree, that we were not wired for loss. With loss not being a part of the plan at the beginning, the ability to cope with loss was not hard-wired into our DNA. That’s why it’s so brutal. And it hasn’t seemed to have come any easier over the centuries. If I were to make a point against evolution here, I’d note that dealing with loss is something that we have not adapted to. Mankind has never gotten used to the pain of loss. So it seems that if the brain had any say at all as to what needs to adapt, it would be doing something about the pain of loss, even before it developed, say, toes.<br />
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We cannot live and escape loss. So why do we think that it shouldn’t happen to us? Loss will happen. This may not sound like much fun, but my firm grasp on that reality had a lot to do with staying upright in dealing with the loss of Dana, both in fearing that loss and in experiencing it. And here’s how, but it’s not a quick answer:<br />
<br />
I’ve long been intrigued by a scene in the book of Acts. Acts records the exciting events that took place in the life of the church within a few decades of Jesus’ ministry. It laid the groundwork for how the church can model itself and it gave God’s people a great “heads up” on what to expect as they seek to be God’s people in a fallen world (and here’s a hint, it isn’t going to be easy). The events noted in this book were hand-picked by God for our learning pleasure. And right smack in the middle of all of this is a scene that seems to be one of the most unfair situations of all time. Check this out (and I tried to shorten it, but it’s just not possible):<br />
<br />
<strong>Acts 12:1-11</strong><br />
<em>It was about this time that King Herod arrested some who belonged to the church, intending to persecute them. He had James, the brother of John, put to death with the sword. When he saw that this pleased the Jews, he proceeded to seize Peter also. This happened during the Festival of Unleavened Bread. 4 After arresting him, he put him in prison, handing him over to be guarded by four squads of four soldiers each. Herod intended to bring him out for public trial after the Passover.</em><br />
<em>So Peter was kept in prison, but the church was earnestly praying to God for him.</em><br />
<br />
<em>6</em><em> The night before Herod was to bring him to trial, Peter was sleeping between two soldiers, bound with two chains, and sentries stood guard at the entrance. 7 Suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared and a light shone in the cell. He struck Peter on the side and woke him up. “Quick, get up!” he said, and the chains fell off Peter’s wrists. </em><br />
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<em>8 Then the angel said to him, “Put on your clothes and sandals.” And Peter did so. “Wrap your cloak around you and follow me,” the angel told him. 9 Peter followed him out of the prison, but he had no idea that what the angel was doing was really happening; he thought he was seeing a vision. 10 They passed the first and second guards and came to the iron gate leading to the city. It opened for them by itself, and they went through it. When they had walked the length of one street, suddenly the angel left him.</em><br />
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<em>11 Then Peter came to himself and said, “Now I know without a doubt that the Lord has sent his angel and rescued me from Herod’s clutches and from everything the Jewish people were hoping would happen.”</em><br />
<br />
Did you notice that Peter was set free but James was killed?<br />
<br />
Ponder that for a moment. Two men doing great work for God. Both men thrown into prison. Both men undoubtedly on every church’s prayer chain. An angel delivers Peter, the kind of miracle we expect and pray for when things look impossible. But James is killed. Same prayers. Same God. Way different outcomes.<br />
<br />
So the question I have to ask is, not so much, “why did James get killed?” But “why did God hand-pick this scene for us to see?” He must have wanted us to see that things are not always going to turn out like we’d planned. Or hoped. Or dreamed.<br />
<br />
Maybe that’s why God has given a provision to help with loss. It’s like an escape hatch when things go wrong. It’s the same type of mechanism available to a forest devastated by fire—the seeds that germinate after intense heat. This helps replenish the forest. It’s depicted in movies when you see someone listening to a tape that says “if you’re listening to my voice something must have gone terribly wrong.” For us, the “terribly wrong” happened in the Fall in the Garden of Eden. The escape hatch is the ability to share loss with each other. Sounds simple, I know; but stick with me. I think it gets more profound as we go.<br />
<br />
First, we have this from 2 Corinthians 1:3-5.<br />
<em>3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. 5 For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ.</em> <br />
<br />
This passage tells us of a few things we can count on. First: troubles and suffering. But secondly: comfort from God, which propels us to comfort others.<br />
<br />
Jessica and I (editor’s note: if the phrase “Jessica and I” is throwing you, check out the last few posts) were recently talking about the different shapes of loss, in particular, the losses she had experienced in her life—not simply loss of life necessarily but loss of other things: scars, pain and hurt collected from paths taken and not taken, decisions made and not made. <br />
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Jessica shared that the night before she had spent a good amount of time with the pictures linked to this blog (the Shutterfly link). It contains a couple photo albums, mainly from buzzin-in-law Aaron—some photos from Dane’s visitation and some photos from “happier times” such as a couple beach vacations. Jessica said that she had seen the pictures before but this time she let herself study them and enter into the scenes.<br />
<br />
As we talked and shared about our mutual losses we realized something had been happening in our relationship…something rather miraculous. We were actually both a little perplexed with the conversation in that we were chatting on subjects we had already talked on deeply—ground already covered, grace dispensed. But there was a different vibe and a new, surprising reason why we were covering the ground.<br />
<br />
We were absorbing each others’ losses.<br />
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As you might expect, this doesn’t come easy. There is pain to share. There is grace to dispense and support to give. But it’s beautiful and I think it’s as close to heaven on earth as we can get. It takes sacrifice and love. And, of course, when you put these two things together, you get the best product from heaven that we get to enjoy on earth: sacrificial love. <br />
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This brings me back to the thing that has kept me upright in my journey: embracing the reality that loss will happen. There is absolutely no reason why I should expect to be exempt from loss. And the sooner I embrace that, the closer I am to allowing someone, or Someone, to absorb that loss with me.<br />
<br />
And I think this gets at the heart of why we are on this earth with each other: to absorb each others’ losses, no matter the shape or size of the loss. This action probably gets us as close to being like Jesus as anything else we can do. (By the way, if you’ve never read “The Ragman” by Walter Wangerin, Google it now and read it.) <br />
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I don’t know about you, but I could use all the help I can get in being like Jesus. I figure absorbing loss of the people around me is as good a place to start as any.<br />
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When I was in the epicenter of my own grief, my good friend Bill said to me, “You know, we believers do not have a good theology on loss.” Maybe this little post can be an installment in Lossology 101.<br />
<br />
If so, Day One in the syllabus might go something like this:<br />
Day 1: Either find someone, or Someone, to help absorb your loss or be the one to absorb the loss of someone around you. <br />
<br />
More soon. And I promise, it won’t be so long in timeframe, nor in length.<br />
<br />
Thank you,<br />
BarryBarry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-85414148567825447502011-12-23T21:32:00.006-05:002011-12-23T21:47:24.627-05:00Marking Two Years<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0R8bJX5CpMG_S_VvzAuildd7TcwOvP1zWSwI0IS4th7VuOjpe3NavmrRh1Gyx3mbO49JWHLCZkW5PLGXF0TRk8zP-rwmHMGU_YSb4N8rPzDAz7GnkAGvgQqKbjAD6wdQhmmQy-qNRig/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0R8bJX5CpMG_S_VvzAuildd7TcwOvP1zWSwI0IS4th7VuOjpe3NavmrRh1Gyx3mbO49JWHLCZkW5PLGXF0TRk8zP-rwmHMGU_YSb4N8rPzDAz7GnkAGvgQqKbjAD6wdQhmmQy-qNRig/s400/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689517793207697410" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> 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two years. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two years since Dana, as her uncle Jon said, accepted a better offer on where to spend Christmas.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two years to the day since Dana traded me wiping her tears for Jesus wiping her tears.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s been two years of loss and recovery.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And if you don’t mind, I’d like to reflect on those two years for a moment.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Besides the God stamps which have so mercifully assured me of God’s presence, the most direct impression I received from God came in the form of these words: recover well. That phrase (which I posted about at the time) has been the North Star of this journey to keep me on track. It’s been the mountain peak in the distance to provide perspective. I found great hope in those words in this way: there is something to recover for.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And of course, one of the first things I was to recover for? Love. One of the questions I asked early on in the journey was this: What does the best-loved man in the world do when he has lost the source of that love? The quick answer, which has had staying power, was simply that I would love well. At the time of that Q and A with God the roles of life that I could apply that answer to were son, brother, uncle, grandson, cousin, friend and many others. I will be a better son, brother, uncle, etc. Obviously I had no idea that the role of husband was just around the corner. In fact, the last two blog posts have documented that miraculous turn in the journey and the wonderful gift of Jessica.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are so many things you learn through loss—things you would not have learned without the loss. You learn things about yourself. You learn things about life, about gratitude, about God. You feel like you gain a unique perspective on existence itself, on the meaning of everything. What has blown me away is how all the things that I have learned have seemed to custom-build me for the love that I am now getting to experience. And that’s not just being a “new and improved” husband (I am better at keeping horizontal surfaces cleared and cupboard doors closed, but still a long way to go), but loving out of reservoirs that I did not know existed.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve begun to see the slightest glimpse of the redemptive thread that God is knitting into this journey. I’m seeing some of the reality of the reasons for “recovering well.” I’m overwhelmed at the gift of relationship that I have been given to practice “loving well.” <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>With regard to the state of “the journey” you and I have been observing these past two years, I’m doing okay. Better than okay.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I’m wondering about you.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m wondering about my and Dana’s dear friends, our close families and extended family, our circles of friends who Dana knitted with, scrap-booked with, lost weight with, studied the Bible with. The grieving spouse, and that’d be me, has obviously lost the most. But the grieving spouse, and that’d be me, has had a very visible, nearly tangible, goal to shoot for: the possibility of another relationship. While I never thought this would happen (again, see the last two blog posts), it was still a healthy goal to shoot for—a goal that helped me set other valuable milestones in the journey toward recovery.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am getting to put into practice all that I have learned (which is more than I expected) through not only knowing and loving Dana, but also losing that love. And since every person who came into Dana’s life was deeply loved by her, my hope is that all of us are finding a similar path. I’m hoping we are all getting to explore what it means to love well in all the relationships we have in our lives.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today has been a special day. I’m in Los Angeles celebrating Christmas with Jessica’s family. While life is screaming busy as they are finishing up a house renovation project (putting on the finishing touches before the big family Christmas Day), Jessica and I still managed to slip away this afternoon to the beach for a little walk to think about, commemorate, and honor Dana. Yes, my mind has been on the minute-by-minute countdown of this day two years ago (although the West Coast time has kept me a bit messed up) since I woke up this morning. Actually the countdown began a couple days ago, remembering the special visits from friends in those last days, and recalling how Dana and I finished reading the book of Revelation on Tuesday, Dec. 22. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As Jessica and I walked the beach, reflecting on the journey and talking about Dana, it should have been no surprise what we saw in the water. The picture is at the top of this post. You may need to zoom in; those are dolphin fins you’ll see. 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mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">…the God stamps continue.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Many prayers and thanks, and Merry Christmas!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Barry</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-67408249487500064872011-09-13T04:30:00.005-04:002011-09-14T19:55:23.702-04:00Love Is A Gift<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlvPktkMni2dtUAo8DjMUzvAbLnCRMcInZ1ennrcVurMP4Iz6-ZcS4GF0jIq0a4Fql5TC_JxSg4hwAfqn1Xbn5aJPinv71dlISfr6PfUYitQ-9fnLV_o-1z32oj9vyuKbluB0TZM7rZk/s1600/2011-06-23_16-32-50_182.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651759210068975474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlvPktkMni2dtUAo8DjMUzvAbLnCRMcInZ1ennrcVurMP4Iz6-ZcS4GF0jIq0a4Fql5TC_JxSg4hwAfqn1Xbn5aJPinv71dlISfr6PfUYitQ-9fnLV_o-1z32oj9vyuKbluB0TZM7rZk/s400/2011-06-23_16-32-50_182.jpg" /></a><br />I want to talk about love for a minute.<br /><br />Love is a gift.<br /><br />I’ve learned that some people, sadly, never get to experience love in its best form in this life. And others of us seem to have more than our fair share. I’ve long realized how blessed I am with a loving family—from my parents all the way down to cousins five times removed.<br /><br />Plus, I have had great marriage love. In fact, Top Five all-time, as Dana and I would say. And then, of course, I’ve lost that love.<br /><br />There are things that I have learned about love ONLY because I have lost great love. That, to me, is a cosmic perplexity.<br /><br />The last post was about a recent, unexpected turn in the journey, appropriately titled, “A Turn in the Journey.”<br /><br />And it’s recently become an even bigger turn. As of just two weeks ago, Jessica and I became engaged. I am getting to experience a love that I never thought I’d see again. Since December 2009 I’ve told myself that I will hold out for nothing less than what I’ve experienced before. I was sure that that vow would keep me single for life.<br /><br />Until now.<br /><br />I’m a blessed man.<br /><br />You learn a lot from losing love. And now, I am getting to apply what I’ve learned, as well as experience an entirely new and different love. I appreciate being able to share with you about this turn. It’s made me realize something about this journey. It’s not about me (although most posts are Bear-centric). It’s not about Dana. It’s about God. It’s about His love for us. It’s about His merciful stamps assuring all of us that He is near and in this process.<br /><br />And now for the bigger turn.<br /><br />Jessica and I are getting married, in a small, private ceremony convenient for us (given our schedules and travel, especially Jessica’s), and then a full-on celebration with our friends and family down the calendar pike. Within a couple days of our engagement, which happened in Montana at the end of August, we began to explore scenarios and dates of how we would marry. As we considered options, we began to channel a line that Dana used for our somewhat-quick engagement: When you know what the rest of your life is going to be, you might as well get started.<br /><br />The wedding date? My birthday, September 13.<br /><br />Yep, I know. On paper, it looks crazy. I’ve seen people move this fast before and thought “How can they know what they’re doing???” Maybe those folks did or didn’t know what they were doing. I know what love is. Jessica knows what love is…and what it isn’t. We’ve been in a constant state of “oh wow” regarding how we’ve seemingly been custom-journeyed for each other.<br /><br />I know this news is a surprise. And so many wonderful people in our lives deserve a personal call or lunch or breakfast or cup of coffee to share this news. But that obviously isn’t feasible.<br /><br />Jessica and I are excitedly and adventurously committed to entering into the next era of our relationship: a covenant relationship that builds on the love we’ve already developed; a relationship that gives us both a chance to be the first to sacrifice for the other; a relationship that gives each of us an opportunity to develop a love that casts out fear; a relationship that gives me a chance to love her as Christ loves the church, and a chance for her to experience that level of love.<br /><br />In my last post I briefly mentioned some God stamp moments in this journey. The first week that Jessica and I met we were driving on a short trip and within 10 minutes we saw a deer and a rainbow. Jessica knew both stories and we glanced at each other curiously, sort of saying, “Let’s not over-interpret here, but that was wild.”<br /><br />And then after a couple weeks of knowing that we were onto something special, we looked up in the sky and saw the cloud you see at the top of this blog. That is not a photo-shopped image.<br /><br />There is still much to mine out from my journey of loss and grief. God is up to something. We’re eager to explore what that might be.<br /><br />And if I might make one more comment. We’ve had some beautiful conversations with Mama Sue and Dana’s family over the past weeks. We all share a deep love for each other. I know that this kind of step brings reminders of the permanence of Dana’s death. For me it’s a permanence I’ve dealt with minute-by-minute since 9:10 a.m., December 23, 2009. For others of us the permanence comes in waves or stages, and I know the news of this blog will be a big wave.<br /><br />When a permanence settles in, we seem to open ourselves up to a new level of recovery (or more grieving). I hope to explore that, and many other facets, in the coming months of this journey.<br /><br /><br />Much love and gratitude,<br /><br />BarryBarry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-70422776242652486362011-08-20T09:40:00.028-04:002011-08-21T16:26:14.257-04:00A Turn in the Journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ax1RtypalcOt3tBH7YN4lzqBtZ5L3outkFag8tFjDY7AUCFvLZPmWSOGSgoMIZnY4Rk15_mGi6L0DTK6HHwHCD2xm-8UyNSdrHiDBj8KqgPiCptv2Ye0hyphenhyphenWIQ3lM-6Gls9VVqCFyDKI/s1600/journey+turn+focus+cropped2+BOOSTED.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 249px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643298643864069314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ax1RtypalcOt3tBH7YN4lzqBtZ5L3outkFag8tFjDY7AUCFvLZPmWSOGSgoMIZnY4Rk15_mGi6L0DTK6HHwHCD2xm-8UyNSdrHiDBj8KqgPiCptv2Ye0hyphenhyphenWIQ3lM-6Gls9VVqCFyDKI/s400/journey+turn+focus+cropped2+BOOSTED.jpg" /></a>
<br />
<br /><div>The journey has taken a surprising turn.
<br />
<br />In short,
<br />
<br />I’ve met someone.
<br />
<br />Yes, it’s <em>that</em> kind of “met” and <em>that</em> kind of “someone.” It’s not a cloaking euphemism with a surprise meaning. It’s as in, a relationship. And yes, it’s unexpected. Out of the blue. From the blind side. And it’s a beautiful, wonderful thing.
<br />
<br />Let me pause for a moment to let you get used to the idea.
<br />
<br />Actually, this whole post may be a pause to let you get used to the idea. No pictures. No detailed story. In fact, I’M still getting used to the idea.
<br />
<br />I’m not sure exactly how to bring you up to speed. So, let me start with Dana. A few posts ago I posed the question: What does the best loved man in the world do when he’s lost the source of that love? My knee-jerk reaction to that question has simply been: He curls up into a fetal position and stays there. It’s that simple. Luckily, that was only a knee-jerk reaction and not the more seasoned response that came rather quickly. While I think there are several answers to that question, the one that came to me early on, and seems to have some staying power, is simply this: I will love well. I know what it feels like to be gloriously loved. I know what it feels like to love deeply. I will take that knowledge, that growth, that insight, and I will infuse it with any relationship of love I experience, whether romantic, family, friends, or pet (Pud is looking over my shoulder; of course, “pet” would be included anyway ).
<br />
<br />As Dana and I navigated the waters of recurrent breast cancer, we chose to keep our little boat floating in the current of hope. Some folks take the approach of writing goodbye letters to loved ones (ala, Elizabeth Edwards) and preparing for the end game. We chose the route of hope: either that God would do some wild and crazy thing or that we would skate through on the tiny statistical sliver that recurrent breast cancer offers as a tease. We knew the odds were against us and that we’d be battling this for life for however long; but we let hope rule the day. It’s not a bad way to travel and I must say, we did not miss one lick of life through the battle.
<br />
<br />With that in mind, you can get a sense of the gravity of the most serious conversation Dana and I had regarding life without her. It went something like this:
<br />
<br />Dane: <em>Bear, if anything happens to me, I would want you to be happy. And I know that means love. And I know that means marriage. And I want you to be happy.
<br /></em>Bear: <em>Same here. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. And I would want you to be happy.
<br />
<br /></em>We reflected. We cried. We basked in the beautiful, glorious love that we had. We couldn’t imagine that it would ever end.
<br />
<br />As we all know, the relationship has ended. But the love never will.
<br />
<br />That conversation haunted me since the moment it was over. But no more. It makes me smile. And I’m happy.
<br />
<br />This past May a good friend of Dana’s and mine, Lois Bock, sent me an email saying she had a friend, Jessica Rivera, who was an opera soprano and would be rehearsing and performing with the Cincinnati Opera in the month of June. Lois, who lost her dear husband Fred 13 years ago this past July, suggested that I might enjoy coffee with Jessica and that she could probably get me a ticket to the opera. Because there is a high level of trust between widows and widowers, I knew this wasn’t a “set up” and felt comfortable about the connection. Lois even back-channeled to Mama Sue that this definitely was NOT a set up--but an opportunity for me to get out of the house and add some opera culture to this journey of mine. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Jessica was cute (opera sopranos have websites!). So, I was game.
<br />
<br />Within a few days of Jessica arriving in Cincinnati, we met for supper.
<br />
<br />And then we met for June.
<br />
<br />We both obviously felt very safe with each other, which may have been the soft soil that let feelings take root. I knew that Jessica was committed to her singing career, and in our first supper conversation she joked about turning off the “husband search” switch a few years ago and comfortably accepting who she is and what she is able to do. I shared about living off the love of Dane for the rest of my life and being very okay with that. Since I had such a high standard of love, I was sure I’d never experience it again.
<br />
<br />Over the course of the few days after that first supper, we looked for times when our free time overlapped. And after a week of overlapping free time (which included baking a cake for my mom’s birthday!), we knew there was something good going on.
<br />
<br />Once we acknowledged to each other, almost in unison, that “this is good,” we morphed from casually pursuing free time to intentionally pursuing relationship. Or at least I was pursuing her, and she was running slowly. In fact, her forward movement was imperceptible, she would admit.
<br />
<br />When you have loved and lost, you learn things about love that you would not have learned otherwise. Obviously, I’d rather not learn those things. But since I’m here, I might as well take advantage of my position. And to be honest, I’ve been content to learn those things about love and just sit on them, not knowing if they would ever see the light of day.
<br />
<br />They are seeing light. And it’s rather radiant.
<br />
<br />Some of you “busted me out” from my last post, reading between the lines of “Is ‘Moving On’ Overrated?” For some it was a post that made you go “hmmm…” Others of you pinged me with, “So, anything you need to tell me?” Some of you thought it’s now a matter of time. I am blessed with smart, discerning friends!
<br />
<br />I’m actually quite blown away at the concurrence of entertaining thoughts about “moving” or “repurposing” (I’m still running the contest to replace the phrase “moving on”) and the budding of relationship. Yes, my June had already happened when I posted, but the “moving” thoughts had been bubbling up for a couple months. Maybe the presence of someone in my life gave me the resolve to embrace “moving”? Or maybe my embryonic resolve of “moving” made room for the presence of someone in my life? Who knows? (God, of course, knows. In fact, I think that God, along with Dana, are having a private joke. I have evidence to prove it...more on that as we blog along this journey.)
<br />
<br />This may be enough for now. There’s something, though, that I want to add. Some may say, “Okay, Barry’s met someone, he’s taken care of. Time to quit following the blog. I can take him off my prayer list.” To which I would respond: Please don’t. The journey continues. I am still mining out all that God wants to teach me about love, loss, and living through that loss. I am still collecting God stamps. I, along with you, am still remembering and honoring Dana. I am still probing my journey for how it may help others. I am exploring how best to live out 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 which says: <em>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><blockquote><em>3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of
<br />compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so
<br />that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive
<br />from God.
<br />
<br /></em></blockquote></em>I can honestly say that I have received more than my fair share of comfort in my troubles. It is my personal act of obedience, then, to comfort those in their trouble. This, I think, is the ultimate “pay it forward.” I covet your prayers for this. I may need you now more than ever in observing this journey. </div>
<br />
<br /><div>Thank you!</div>
<br />
<br />
<br /><div>Barry</div>
<br />
<br />
<br /><div>P.S. By the way, as you might expect, it's a little strange sharing this kind of personal information in an impersonal blog post. I feel I should be having face-to-face conversations with all who might be reading. But I'm glad we have this channel, and this is all certainly a part of the journey. Feel free to drop me a note!</div></div></div></div>
<br />Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-73939965573877220162011-07-09T10:16:00.008-04:002011-07-09T10:37:42.217-04:00Is "Moving On" Overrated?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0AtYi9mF_GaLaeIPKdDk-Wtelqe74_KyxJgXqCTiGwsBdC14sNoucci-4Qthxc8_QWNW8-_NKGJ4-Sulx3AysDcMwiidd3MoK0W9l7oDk-zMryxUtE9oUFHhw2R0zVLlkezwHeF4tvY/s1600/iStock_000007449611XSmall.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 212px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627357654725812994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0AtYi9mF_GaLaeIPKdDk-Wtelqe74_KyxJgXqCTiGwsBdC14sNoucci-4Qthxc8_QWNW8-_NKGJ4-Sulx3AysDcMwiidd3MoK0W9l7oDk-zMryxUtE9oUFHhw2R0zVLlkezwHeF4tvY/s320/iStock_000007449611XSmall.jpg" /></a><br />Many months ago I found myself candidly asking the question: Is moving on overrated? I found myself thinking things like: What’s the big deal about moving on? Isn’t that just a value judgment on someone’s journey? (namely, MY journey?) I mean think about it: what’s the worst that could come of you if you didn’t “move on”? You could still function in society, you could appear normal, and you would have the benefit of missing the pain involved with moving on. You could relish in the deep love of your past relationship, even explore its many facets in greater detail. You could explore loss and gain rich perspective. Maybe even write a book and be famously known as “The One Who Did Not Move On.”<br /><br />In fact, I don’t even think one could come up with a spiritual reason behind the value of moving on. Perhaps if staying put meant being stuck in anger and bitterness, then you do run the risk of grieving as one who has no hope, which doesn’t speak well of faith. But there is no spiritual discipline called “moving on” and there is no commandment that says “thou shalt move on after thou hast lost a loved one.”<br /><br />And what makes a “mover on-er” more noble than a “stayer put-er”? These are simply honest questions one has in the journey.<br /><br />But…<br /><br />A few weeks ago I had an image pop into my head that somewhat describes what I’m feeling these days. I saw my feet firmly planted in the Dana/Barry era, with the next era just on the other side of a line. I then took one foot and barely touched the top of the grass on the other side of that line, just enough to bend the grass blades…and then I snapped my foot right back to its comfortable spot in the Dana/Barry era. This is what my mind and my heart have been doing.<br /><br />I think, with that mental image, I have begun to process ever so slightly the emotional, spiritual and even physical aspects of what “moving on” might look like.<br /><br />[Side note: we need a better phrase for “moving on.” …maybe moving through, or journeying on, or journeying through. Or re-hatching, or emerging, or re-purposing. Something. Anything besides “moving on.” That phrase seems so flippant to me; yet there is not one ounce of flippancy in the actual act of “moving on.” Maybe a new phrase could be a windfall contribution to society out of this journey.]<br /><br />In processing the emotional, spiritual and physical aspects of moving on, I’ve been hit with the thought that “moving on” does not come naturally. There will always be some element of inertia to overcome, an intentional step that is to be taken. Thankfully, God seems to be nudging me a bit, and maybe that’s what I’ve needed. Somewhere in my journey over the past few months, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when, I had the gracious moment of having words injected into my mind that seemed to come directly from God. And the words were this:<br /><br />“Recover well.”<br /><br />Obviously when you think you’re getting some words from God you’d like to get a little more detail than that. But this is all I got. And in God’s infinite wisdom, it’s obviously all I need.<br /><br />There is hope in those words. You can hear God saying, “There will be life after recovery. You will be used. You need to recover well.”<br /><br />So what does “recovering well” look like? Here’s what I have so far:<br /><br />a. I will take all that I am to become, all that Dana built into me, and let myself be molded into a healthy vibrant soul. I will not let one facet of our relationship go unused, not let one thread of our love left dangling. Everything will continue to build into who and what I’m becoming.<br /><br />b. I will keep bitterness and anger at bay. Thankfully, I feel I’ve done “better than the average bear” on this. And that’s a God thing. On paper, I have good reason to be bitter. But, in reality, I’m not. Regarding anger: I’m not angry at God. That has somehow, mercifully, eluded me. What I do find myself getting angry at: gas pumps that don’t give me a receipt, my vacuum cleaner when it gets hung up in the closet, my keys when I can’t find them. It’s more the emotional load that tends to bubble to the top, not specific anger toward God. And I’m getting better at handling that emotional load (the local gas mart cashiers seem to appreciate that).<br /><br />c. I will explore the strata that this journey has taken me to. Loss takes you places you do not want to go. But here’s the thing: you might as well take advantage or your perspective while you’re there. Yes, I would have preferred no loss. But I did have loss. So, I will touch the deep geology of this journey that I see, geology that I would not have seen otherwise, and I will take advantage of what I see. I am committed to learning what I’m to learn, and to teach what I learn.<br /><br />I feel that at times I’ve had glimpses of what “moving on” looks like. At first glance, it looks hard, but rich. Unnerving, but invigorating. Risky, but peaceable. Difficult, but necessary.<br /><br />I see it as necessary in this respect: All that I am becoming because of this journey needs a place to play out. I will love deeper. I will laugh harder. I will cherish greater. I will care. I will enjoy. I will laugh.<br /><br />I was at my folks' house this past Fourth of July and I noticed a medium-sized tree smack in the middle of the front yard. It's a tree that's hard to miss. Yet I hadn't remembered seeing it before. Then I pictured how big it would have been five years ago, when this journey really got started. It would have been small enough then to miss. Now I'm seeing it. I think I'm waking up.<br /><br />And so, maybe “journeying through” (my first go at a new phrase; I also like “re-purposing”) isn’t overrated. Perhaps it does have value. But that is not for me to judge.<br /><br />Thank you for your continued prayers and help with this journey.Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033387628110371790.post-9905452810926696222011-05-30T10:40:00.005-04:002011-05-30T10:46:37.860-04:00I don't know what I'm doing, but...<div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-xyzkUaK9cjjuKn2lh_p7BhxE44g4I9Gevt-8hneinPI3HvV8K-Jb0OfudfvDyy91G9xSB_fyC0iWhLuL_6dzwGA2CEbupm4F5PfmR18DSxIkUYUekKv-Si9-xm2cfIe7KIgfA_O3Fs/s1600/109.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612519832759082786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-xyzkUaK9cjjuKn2lh_p7BhxE44g4I9Gevt-8hneinPI3HvV8K-Jb0OfudfvDyy91G9xSB_fyC0iWhLuL_6dzwGA2CEbupm4F5PfmR18DSxIkUYUekKv-Si9-xm2cfIe7KIgfA_O3Fs/s320/109.JPG" /></a>I’m in the process of going through Dana’s main Bible (as opposed to her Bible study notebooks and her emergency backup Bibles); it’s not a note by note, underline by underline process (that will come some day) but more a sweep-through to make sure I’m not missing a verse she might have noted in the margin “good headstone verse.” Yes, embarrassingly, I’m still working on the headstone project. And it seems like Memorial Day is a good day to confess that.<br /><br />As I’m leafing through I am noting a few things that stand out here and there; in that vein I ran across a verse she had underlined in 2 Chronicles (20:12, to be exact). It was a prayer from God’s people to God. They had enemies all around them ready to attack and they had few weapons for defense. Things looked bleak and here is what they prayed:<br /><br /><em>“We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”<br /></em><br />I was so struck by that prayer from many directions but what caught me the most was the fact that just a couple days earlier I had spoken the following thought out loud to myself (and to Pud…again, I’m turning into the Garfield comic strip):<br /><br /><em>“I bet I say at least 10 times a day, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’”<br /></em><br />And it’s usually around time number seven or eight that I cave. At least half of the 10 instances of not knowing what to do are normal exclamations of frustration: tax questions, yard restoration, computer glitches, golf (I’ve reverted to first-year level of play for some reason). But when I mix in a few that have to do with this journey the best response is a good old fashioned cave in.<br /><br />I think what has struck me is the fact that I focus, maybe obsess, over the first half of the statement, “We do not know what to do.” Of course, any of us can find ourselves in a predicament of not knowing what to do. It is not unique to loss or grief, and so maybe my observations in this little twist might have some wider application.<br /><br />Here goes.<br /><br />There is a strange calm that comes over me when I imagine myself keeping my eyes on God in the middle of action ignorance or paralysis (aka, not knowing what to do). The prayer from 2 Chronicles tells me that it’s actually okay that I don’t know what to do. What’s not okay is when I let that confusion or anxiety define who I am or make me nervous about the future. There can be a certain amount (maybe a huge amount) of confusion and anxiety that churns underneath the line of sight between God and me.<br /><br />But as long as I have that line of sight clear, the confusion and anxiety will eventually thin out and things will become clear. Admittedly, I’m still in the “research and development” stage of this truth, still trying to figure out what “keeping my eyes on God” looks like on a day-to-day basis. I think I might be stumbling on to something, and it is tied in to Memorial Day (perhaps in a contrived sort of way, but it’s working for me right now).<br /><br />The image at the top of this post is the grave and monument of a Union soldier from Preble County who was killed at Gettysburg. The grave is in Dana’s cemetery. I didn’t learn of this soldier’s burial until just before Memorial Day last year, nearly five months after laying Dana’s “jar of clay” in that same cemetery. My hope is that she has already found this guy in heaven and they’ve made their cemetery connection (I’m all about connections!). Dana and I were Civil War enthusiasts, even visited Gettysburg at our peak enthusiasm. We of course joked that the Mason-Dixon line actually passed right through the middle of our bedroom; having grown up in the south (and taught about the “war of Northern aggression”), Dana loved her southern boys.<br /><br />This picture was taken on Memorial Day last year. My whole family made a run to the cemetery to pay a visit to Dana and to locate this Gettysburg soldier. What’s significant about that visit is that it was the first time I visited the cemetery with anyone. When I’m there I simply feel nothing but sad and to ask anyone to join me is just an invitation to come watch me cry. Not fun. And I’m an ugly crier. But as you might expect, it ends up being an invitation for all of us to cry together. And this, I think, is a very roundabout way, or perhaps a very small baby step, to keeping my eyes on God when I don’t know what to do.<br /><br />God did not wire us to cry alone. I think that when we face unknowns, or are racked with paralysis from not knowing what to do, or are anxious about the future for whatever reason, if we surround ourselves with people who cry with us, love us, pray for us, speak light and life into us, then we are well on our way to keeping our eyes on God. It’s this input and encouragement that helps keep the line of sight clear between God and me.<br /><br />And then, not knowing what to do isn’t so scary.<br /><br />More to come on this subject.<br /><br />I leave you with the image below of my dad, a U.S. Army vet, tending to the Gettysburg soldier’s insignia of Union Civil War vets (G.A.R., Grand Army of the Republic). There is something artful, poetic and patriotic about that image.<br /><br />Love to all,<br />Barry<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6uTxqD1Qfcc_Vh53J5vdxSWE5kYsw6obfuOiInxnF5-9XUpUPyIfrAp9nay67GA7fU0wv2gfbZW3tNn7pYHUQgQrxgwItcfixvFhs1UwdQCQoBJdv4mPnYvZHKr1ULrYS1cf4lagSnMI/s1600/108.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612520038255719058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6uTxqD1Qfcc_Vh53J5vdxSWE5kYsw6obfuOiInxnF5-9XUpUPyIfrAp9nay67GA7fU0wv2gfbZW3tNn7pYHUQgQrxgwItcfixvFhs1UwdQCQoBJdv4mPnYvZHKr1ULrYS1cf4lagSnMI/s320/108.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErtmBjY6e-l32ktNgKFcSn4jDtHn9iqIOdZCiSMJypTKB8oCn_Q8fWO9uGpSiOVk732QzOQA37jsz1aUrecFJ10zket-bNqOPrUSQ2yYzMsETPAq0e3bUDFes7_g8_h7e6jGKWCFcEEo/s1600/106.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612520182497514562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErtmBjY6e-l32ktNgKFcSn4jDtHn9iqIOdZCiSMJypTKB8oCn_Q8fWO9uGpSiOVk732QzOQA37jsz1aUrecFJ10zket-bNqOPrUSQ2yYzMsETPAq0e3bUDFes7_g8_h7e6jGKWCFcEEo/s320/106.JPG" /></a> </div></div>Barry (Bear)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10724185231811872261noreply@blogger.com0