I Heard the Bells on Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day is one date I don’t struggle with too much. Dana and I put that one in the “Hallmark marketing” category; plus, she was usually playing the harp, and while we weren’t sappy about it, we liked to think that every day had some Valentine’s Day element to it. Still, I think about the love when this date rolls around (jewelry companies make sure of that).

On Valentine’s Day evening I took a little neighborhood walk at about 6 p.m. and heard the church bells (to see why I would call them the church bells, you may want to check out this post, The Deer Story). I decided to let myself listen to what they were pealing, to let the hymns encourage me. Hymn 1: “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” You cannot get more resolute than that! And there’s something about “a bulwark never failing” echoing across a quiet neighborhood to give you some needed assurance. And then Hymn 2: “God of our Fathers,” which, as strange as it may sound, could not have been a more appropriate Valentine’s Day song for me.

Dane, one to eschew tradition when it’s just for the sake of tradition, planned a few things in our wedding ceremony that diverted from expected wedding ceremony paths, one of which, using a hymn for a wedding march. The church where we were married, Vine Street Christian, in Nashville, had an incredible pipe organ and we had an incredible organist, Carol Tornquist. Those elements needed to be featured. And while Dane was the bride and the one in white, she wanted to be sure that God was the star of the show. We actually had two “congregational” hymn sings (since then, whenever we heard “Joyful Joyful” anywhere we’d look longingly at each other and say, “Ahhh, they’re playing our song.”) And the wedding march? “God of our Fathers.”

It was all as big and majestic as you could imagine.

So here I am taking a walk on Valentine’s Day, listening to our wedding march being chimed out on the bells that ministered so deeply to Dana in her cancer battle, the bells that gave me the “deer God stamp” that has ministered to all of us. I’m thinking there must be something to this, besides making me cry in front of my neighbors.

I’m still not to the point where thoughts of our wedding or memories of other special life events generate warm feelings of gratitude. They will someday but right now those thoughts still bring on a pretty tough emotional ride. However, I have begun to process this question: What is a best-loved guy to do after he’s lost the source of that love, and lost the object of his great love? I think there will be a nice list of good answers as I continue to process that question. I get the sense that that question is a seed for resolve and perspective. As the seed takes root and the resolve and perspective form I will begin to see who and what I am to be as a person as a result of having loved greatly and lost greatly. For now I will hold to one of the verses of that great hymn. I think that’s the “something” that I’m to hold to from this brief Valentine’s Day God Stamp:

Refresh Thy people on their toilsome way,
Lead us from night to never ending day;
Fill all our lives with love and grace divine,
And glory, laud, and praise be ever Thine.

This verse captures the essence of this journey so far, with particular regard to the God Stamps. There have been a couple things I can say with assurance about this journey: it is a toilsome way; God has been near from night to day; He has filled my life with love and grace divine.

I’m eager to share a couple experiences over these past couple weeks. I’m planning to post them soon: I am currently in a “run to the fire” experience, skiing in Montana with our friends Kay and Randy Creech which included our second annual “Dine and Ski” event in honor of Dana; also, I have now seen and held new “buzzin’” August Christopher Chaney; and of course, there's the matter of the Super Bowl champs, the Green Bay Packers. More to share soon.

With much love and gratitude,

Barry

It’s Not All Subtraction

In November of 1989 my uncle Bud, my mom’s brother, was diagnosed with cancer and passed away within a span of about two weeks. Our families (my Uncle Bud’s family is my Aunt Bea (yes, I have an Aunt Bea!) and cousins Cindi, Carla, Carl and Crista) spent several days in a hospital vigil---building beds out of waiting room chairs, trying to keep Bud comfortable, trying to comfort each other. My niece Maggie had been born in June that year. The first scene greeting me when I got to the hospital was my cousin Cindi walking down the hallway carrying cute Maggie. Maggie was a bundle of hope that we all sort of passed around while we navigated a very hard, sad life situation.

My mom later observed that Maggie’s presence was a therapeutic reminder that “life isn’t all subtraction,” which is what you think it is when you’re in the middle of a subtraction journey.

I was reminded of this a few days ago, January 20, when “buzzin” Cara (Dana’s “beloved cousin”) and her husband Aaron brought 8 lbs and 1 oz. of life into this world, a bundle of hope named August Christopher Chaney, pictured above. Life is not all subtraction.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more glowing set of parents and grandparents (Dane’s aunt and uncle, Jon and Becky), aunt (our other “buzzin” Kirby) and great aunt (Mama Sue!). And August would make anyone’s list of top five beautiful babies of all time!

Cara and Aaron’s pregnancy and delivery has hit me at about every level of emotion available, of joy and of grief. I don’t think anything has yet touched me any deeper than when I think about how Dane would be LOVING this experience: pride over Cara and Aaron, love for them and their new family, a glow over Jon and Becky’s evolution into grandparent-hood, joy in the new Aunt Kirby, and Dana-grade enthusiasm over whatever she’d be knitting. It’s impossible not to experience these kinds of life events without the filter of “Dana would love this.”

The knitting element was really tearing me up, and then it struck me that I could ask our knitter friends to knit something out of Dana’s “stash” (the official yarn word for a knitter’s stored yarn). Dane’s knitter friends beat me to it. When I called knitter Carrie before Christmas with this idea (for a Christmas present) she said they had already been thinking about asking me to do that. And so I was able to give to Cara and Aaron for Christmas a hat (on August’s head in the picture above) and booties knitted out of yarn Dana had picked out. Everyone needs a group of knitting friends in life.

I’m also going to be hand-delivering a couple other knitted items. In fact, when knitter Carrie came by to look at Dana’s stash, we found a pair of baby booties that Dane had knit…not knowingly for anyone but as a project for a class. Wow. Those will be in the baby rotation along with a hat the knitters knit out of the same yarn and a beautiful baby wrap from Dane’s stash. (And speaking of knitting, if you’ve not read the post on “The Afgan,” you might want to give it a look. You can click here; it's a great story of love.)

A few evenings ago I was thinking about this whole concept of addition and subtraction. I was thinking about Maggie’s presence in light of losing Bud over 20 years ago, and about August’s presence in light of losing Dane. As I pondered this my eyes went to a stack of artful old books on the end table in the living room. One of them is the diary of my grandpa Clarence Shafer, my dad’s dad, chronicling the last year of his life, 1961. This was the year I was born. In fact, Grandpa Shafer passed away in August. I was born in September. I guess I was the addition that year.

And I guess all of us were an addition of some sort when we were brought into this world. This motivates me a bit. I want to be a worthy addition.

August Christopher was born January 20. I realized somewhere around January 28 that I blew right through January 23, a monthly mark of the date of Dane’s passing (December 23, which is also my other niece Katie's birthday, a nice addition reminder); I hadn't given the 23rd a thought this month. That’s the first time I’ve done that. I was obviously so caught up in the addition brought into the world that I was distracted from the subtraction.

Maybe as we journey through life it might be good to look for the additions. These aren’t replacements for our loss, but they are additions and they will help us heal through our subtractions.

I leave you with some images from my latest life addition, and a current photo of my nieces and nephew that shows Maggie today.

Surprised By Exuberance

One thing I’ve observed about the journey of loss and recovery (a word I’m trying to use more of these days; it might be forced, but it’s hopeful) is that the journey is not so much a progression as it is a collection of moments. Even Elizabeth Kubler-Ross explained that her stages weren’t meant to suggest a sequence we pass through, but rather feelings we’ll experience in the journey.

As these moments collect, some moments bring deposits of hope and resolve and add a bounce to the step. Other moments buckle the knees and subtract from the deposits. As I moved through the holidays and the one-year mark, I had some positive moments, but the knee-buckling moments took away more than was put in.

And then I had a surprising moment of exuberance this recent New Year’s Day that put the deposits over the top.

The moment should not have been a surprise, however, given that it came just minutes after a grandma’s prayer for her grandson, a prayer that included the request, “May his heart be filled to overflowing.”

This past January 1, I spent a good part of the day doing what I’ve done nearly every New Year’s Day of my life: watching football with my family. (And I must add, this was usually much to the chagrin of Dane; she saw New Year’s Day as a day for many more useful things than gorging on football; I eventually came around, realizing I don’t HAVE to go wall-to-wall football all day; I mean there are still three games to watch after 5:00 p.m.!)For the past few years the New Year’s family has also included my grandma, Ruth Swart, my mom’s mom (the same grandma I wrote about in a Carepage entry, who said from a tube-connected hospital bed: “We think about heaven all our lives and then we cry like a baby when we get close”). She lives with my parents, the blessed Miles and Bonnie, and also receives some shared care-giving from my sister Beck’s family. These days Grandma, if she’s not at church, her hair appointment or an occasional family gathering, you’ll find her in an easy chair, a wheel chair, her walker or her bed.

She’s daintily frail, but she’s alert. She can follow a football game. And she can dish out the trash talk in a hardy round of Phase 10. And this March she’ll be 100 years old. As I was leaving my folks this past New Year’s Day, I kissed Grandma goodbye and she said “We should pray if you have time.”

Who can NOT have time for that?!

So my folks and I gathered around her chair. I was expecting Mom, Dad and me, or a combo thereof, to pray. Before we all were kneeling, Grandma started in. (To start praying before all are kneeled is a bit of an etiquette breach, but, it’s Grandma.) Some quick background: As part of the frailties that come from 100 years of life, Grandma has what I’ve called the Katharine Hepburn voice quiver. So she’s sometimes hard to understand. That’s one reason why I wasn’t expecting her to pray.

It was the most forceful, understandable and eloquent I’ve heard her in 10 years. I caught every word, nearly every one of which was directed toward me. She prayed that God would direct me. She prayed that I would be open to His direction. We had talked earlier in the evening about a couple churches I might volunteer with. I wasn’t sure she understood the conversation. In her prayer she prayed, with detail, for both situations. She prayed that God would be with me in my aloneness in my home. She prayed that my heart would be filled to overflowing. It was a loving grandmother praying for one of her hurting grandsons.

About a fourth of the way into her surprisingly lengthy prayer I was overwhelmed with the historic nature of this moment—picturing Christmases she and Grandpa spent in Australia a long away from their precious grandkids. And I thought “I should hit ‘record’ on my voice recorder phone app” and then I re-thought: “this is a prayer, Bear, not a speech. Enter in and let yourself be prayed for.” So I did; and I was.

It’s a special gift to have someone in your life of great faith praying forcefully and specifically for you. It’s a bonus when you’re a middle-aged adult and that person is your grandma. At the “amen” there was no need for any of us to add a thing. It was all covered, including the “services” the next morning, “wherever the gospel is preached.”

As I walked outside the house to leave I was struck with the crisp clearness of the night sky. With a full heart, I toyed with stopping by an all-night park on my way home for some stargazing, but the single digit temperature knocked that thought away. Then it dawned on me that I was already out in the middle of nowhere (a beauty of Preble County), so before I got too far away from my folks’ house, on a dark country road, surrounded by flat fields of frozen corn stubble, I stopped, got out, and let myself be hugged by the stars.

Before I started star-hopping the constellations I’ve come to know, my first stop was, of course, “our star” in the Big Dipper (if you’d like a refresher on that story, click here to see the post). I pondered, and thought, and imagined conversation with Dane. I began to have a strange awareness that I was here, and she was There, the big There, the over the rainbow There, the beyond the stars There, the with Jesus There. It’s not like I had an open pipeline to the Megrez star, our star, in the Big Dipper, but I felt very sensitized to the fact that the spirit of Dane that I got to enjoy on this earth, the spirit that I was one with, is now on the other side of the stars. I don’t yet have a way to describe the feeling other than the fact that I was hyperaware of the contrasting realities between here and There.

Then I remembered that the date was January 1. January 1 was Dane’s spiritual birthday. On December 31, 1985, after several tumultuous months that included wrestling and arguing with God about His existence, Dane went to bed praying, “God, if I wake up tomorrow, I’m yours.” I could show you right now in her worn brown Bible, on the “Church Record” page, the first entry: “January 1, 1986 - - I am His”.

As I stood under a dome of stars in the middle of that quiet Preble Country road exactly 25 years to the day from that entry, I was overwhelmed with the fact that it was because of that spiritual birthday that Dane is now able to be beyond the stars. She is free. She is alive. She is whole. She is dancing. She is flying. She is playing. She is star-hopping.

I don’t know when I’ve felt more exuberant. The tools of grief dulled for the moment. Pain was distant. Loss was irrelevant. Hurt lost its sting. Tears contained joy, surprisingly. The overpowering feeling was gratitude.

It’s been the most profound instance of strength yet—a marker with deep roots that will not be lost.

And then I realized I was freezing.

Before I drove on I created a mental altar in my mind of this spot—this spot that I had ridden past on a school bus many times, this spot that I had jogged through in my teen/college-age years with my dad (probably telling him about this new great friend Dana in the college-age years), this spot that Dane and I had driven over countless times on our way to my folks. This spot is now the place on this earth where I felt my first real tinge of gratitude that my loss is Dana’s gain.

My heart…was…overflowing.

Grandma’s prayer was already bearing fruit.

I wanted to bottle up the spot. That not being practical, I did the next best thing. I peed on it. It’s what we Preble County boys do out in the middle of nowhere.

I'm praying and hoping that gratitude and exuberance for "There" will continue to win the day over the journey of "here."

Souvlaki for the Soul

Written on December 30, 2010; the one-year mark of Dana’s celebration and graveside services.

I’ve thought a lot about how losing Dane has completely rocked my world. And then today my world literally rocked, as in a 3.8 magnitude quake in middle Indiana that rattled the glass in my china cabinet —some 150 miles away.

It was one year ago today that we returned Dane’s jar of clay (2 Corinthians 4:7) to the earth. The significance is not lost on me that the day I’m remembering the return to earth is the day the earth gives a rare shake in this part of the world. Analogies and metaphors abound.

But what has made this day stand out more than a rare quake is this: This evening I was having supper at Brown’s Run Country Club when several of the workers called my attention to outside the window where there was a family of deer. What a moment. And when I returned to my plate, a paint commercial on the TV was talking about rainbows. A double God stamp moment on this day of commemoration.

If you’re a newbie to this blog, the links below will help bring you up to speed on why deer and rainbow would pull me from a warm plate of grilled Grouper. You also might want to search “deer” or “rainbow” in the search feature of this blog.

Rainbow Story in Middletown Journal

Deer blog post

These God “stamps” have served to remind me that God is near. He is with me. He is with all of us. Of course, in my most honest moments I’ve thought: that’s great, but I’d rather have Dane with me and near me. But she’s not. And here’s the thing. God doesn’t have to give me these gracious reminders. He’s told me over and over in His Word that He’s with me. But He still gives these reminders. And here’s part of what that means to me: We all would love to have some kind of physical link to eternal life, something tangible that takes all the questioning and guess work out of the deal. That of course, would take all the faith out of the deal. And as Scripture tells us, it’s impossible to please God without faith. So faith will always be a part of the path to eternal life. But these stamps from God are about as close as you can get without seeing heaven itself.

This effectively equips me with a perspective of hope. Because if God is near, then He is real. And if God is real, heaven is real. And if heaven is real, I can endure. And I cannot wait!

We had a beautiful, wonderful gathering of folks for a come-go luncheon on December 23. Lots of friends, family, writing and musician friends, and one of our hospice nurses, Lori. We were all nurtured by our mutual love for Dane, by remembering, and by consuming mass quantities of Maria’s wonderful Greek food (for those Greek foodies scoring at home, the menu was pastichio, spanikopita, souvlaki, potatoes, tzatziki sauce; desserts of karoubethes, galaktoboureko and some other wonderful bonus cake--I have no idea what it was). I can’t think of a better way to navigate a hard day. I’ll let you Google the names as a Greek food exercise. Karoubethes are pictured at the top of this post—a simple Greek dessert that was one of Dane’s faves. (And in full disclosure: I borrowed the title of this blog from where I copied that picture. The phrase captures the essence of our commemoration.)

During the morning hour of Dane’s passing I let my heart and my head go wherever they wanted to go. I read out of Dane’s Bible some of the chapters in Revelation we had read those last days. I flipped through some psalms. Most of that hour felt heavy and painful. But I felt distinctly tied into our eternal hope. The veil felt thin.

When the clock on my cable box clicked to the “official” time I simply stared at the clock for that entire minute. And when the clock ticked to the next minute I heard my mind say, “Okay, on to year two.”

And then I commemorated with friends. And ate Greek.

Opa Dane!

Love and Happy New Year to all,
Bear

P.S. I will figure out how to get to you all a pdf of the Revelation 21 sheet we distributed at the lunch. It records the special moments Dana and I shared in making the last book of the Bible a part of Dana’s last days on earth.

P.P.S. Many have shared some things they're doing as part of the Dana challenge...and I have a couple more items to add. More soon!

2 Corinthians 4:7--
But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

Marking a Year

First a Moment…
Then a Minute.
Next an Hour…
Which becomes a Day.
And then a Week…
Which becomes a Month.

And now,

A Year.

In those first moments of losing Dana, it seemed that I would never be removed from that scene. I felt like time stopped, that this was now my existence forever—in a somewhat frenzied mental state, not being able to see beyond the end of Dana’s bed. And too, there was a sacredness, a holiness—a spiritual residue left from Dana slipping from here to There that I didn’t want to walk away from. I think I had the sense to know that as soon as I stepped away from her bed that the grieving would start and the loss would flood in. Which, of course, it did. So here we are, a day away from marking the 365th day (Dec. 23) from when Dana went Home for her first Christmas (or in the words of her “Unkie” Jon, took up “a better offer” on where to spend Christmas). This blog post is a little different than the others; not so much writing, but requesting. I certainly have thoughts to process and share (and hope to do that over the next few days), but as I’ve approached this one-year mark, I’m finding myself wanting to be about things that honor and remember Dana. I’m seeing this past year as a year of “getting by,” doing whatever it takes to get through a week, or a day, or even an hour. I’m wanting (hoping?) year two to lean toward honoring and remembering, which may encourage the emotion of “cherishing” to come alongside the emotion of “hurting.” Of course, in the grief world, increments of time are ambiguous segments. While some cultures seem to have emotions keyed into timeframes (a time to mourn and then you’re done) ours doesn’t. Or at least not my culture.

So, I have two requests. One is in the form of gathering information, the other is in the form of a challenge. First the information.

Occasionally someone will share with me something Dana told them or advice she gave and they’re relieved that I appreciate hearing it. I guess it’s easy to think it might break my heart (and it might, but that’s okay). Here’s the thing: I WANT that kind of information; I crave it. A few months ago I retrieved over a year’s worth of instant messaging between Dana and me. That is a gift. And I’m thinking there is more out there from Dana. So, here we go:

Stuff Dana said (or did, or laughed at, or reacted to, or taught, or Tweeted, or anything in general):

Maybe you have some of her Facebook posts, or Tweets, or e-mails. Maybe you can remember a conversation, either in detail or in general. Maybe she helped you with a decision (she was the queen of “cut to the chase”). I would LOVE to have this.

How to share “stuff Dana said”:
Feel free to e-mail me at barry@inword.org, or post as a comment to this blog or on the CarePage. Feel free to let me know if you want the details to be private (and in that case send it via e-mail), but I would love to compile this information and pass it along in some fashion.


The Dana Challenge:
(I think she would hate that title, but it’s all I got right now)

Perhaps you’d like to do something in honor of Dana this year. Dane’s family of “Mama, buzzins, unkies and Pammies” and I have started a list (keyword: “started”) below. Nominations are not closed, so feel free to add to this list. Meanwhile, you may want to take one of these suggestions and run with it or do a few of them.

1. Take a ski lesson. Or if you’re a skier, ski a mountain in Dana’s honor. Or pay for someone’s ski lesson.
2. Take a knitting lesson. Or if you’re a knitter, knit something that celebrates life.
3. Scrapbook a trip or an event.
4. Take a bike ride through crunchy leaves in the fall.
5. Try a food you’ve never had.
6. Fill out a bracket for the NCAA March Madness tournament using nothing but mascots as your criteria—think logic (a boilermaker would smash a buckeye), philosophy (devils always lose) or food chain (cats beat birds; actually, cats beat anything). For tiebreakers (i.e., two cats facing off), go with your favorite team colors or the mascot that is less cartoony.
7. Organize a junk basket or drawer in your life (“God is a God of order, not chaos”).
8. Memorize Rev. 21:1-4 (or any other bite-sized chunk of Scripture). Ramp it up a notch by joining a Precept Bible study or taking a one-day Precept training seminar.
9. Find a harp teacher and randomly offer to pay for a lesson or two for a student in need. Or hire a harpist for an event you hold or attend and tell others about the amazing woman who inspired you to do so. If you find yourself at a symphony, listen for the harp, which is always a challenge, especially when brass is involved.
10. Help a friend on chemo.
11. “Do a puz with your cuz for no other reason just be cuz.”
12. Memorize “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” (or at least your favorite segment) and have it ready to go in your head for next year.
13. Get with a friend and can a batch of old-fashioned lime pickles. And give Barry a jar :-) .
14. Make shrimp salad at your favorite beach and share it with your favorite people and a good book.
15. Read a book about heaven (one of Dane’s faves: Intra Muros, now titled “Within Heaven’s Gates”)
16. Give to an organization (e.g., a church, a ministry, a health-care foundation).
17. Call up your favorite friend or your “Unkie” or most anyone, and listen and care.
18. Get excited about most anything and talk and laugh really loud.
19. Be brave. Don’t let any crisis define you; let the delicious moments define you.
20. Love.

Disclaimer: Sorry, but I can’t accept responsibility for any injuries (physical or emotional) that might result in trying any of these activities or exercises. I would, of course, love to hear a review of anything anyone tries.

I love you all tremendously. Your thoughts, prayers, comments, prayers, notes, prayers and prayers are the biggest reasons why I’m able to say that Year One was a year of “getting by” and not a year of “caving in.”

More soon,
Barry

Thanksgiving Momentum

The photo above was taken and produced by my good friend Owen Brock. Entitled “Harvest,” it’s the final in a series of photos he took of a vineyard at the Abbey of Gethsemani monastery in Kentucky. This is a photo series Dana and I both loved (and have long loved Owen’s work (and Owen!): you may want to check out his work at http://www.visualfluency.com/). The clusters of grapes seem to capture what the Pilgrims’ thanksgivings were all about (and the Israelites’, the forerunner to the Pilgrims’ thanksgivings).

I’ve been thinking about that first Pilgrim Thanksgiving. There had to have been more than one Pilgrim who was thinking by that time, “This is NOT what I signed up for.” They knew it would be hard, but I’m thinking it still caught a few of them by surprise. And so I wonder how many willed themselves to be thankful? I understand that over half of the Pilgrims did not survive the first winter. So there’s a strong likelihood that there was a 40-something Pilgrim guy who had lost the love of his life…thankfulness through gritted teeth.

I’m finding myself in the same boat (pun sort of intended, as in Mayflower).

This post began as an exercise in resolve, WILLING myself to be thankful…it’s been that time of year, and it just seems that thankfulness is a good discipline. It’s a fulfilling state of mind and heart and I thought I might use that as some therapeutic momentum. So, I started, pretty much through self-coercion. In my current state of self-pity it took a moment for something to come to mind. But something did. And as I expressed thanks in my mind, another item popped into my mind. Then another. And before too long, there was actually a line of items waiting to be acknowledged and thanked. As my list grew, something rather wonderful happened…I began to experience actual (not coerced) thanksgiving and real gratitude. My prayer, and if you’d like something specific to pray for you can add this to the list, is that these seeds of thankfulness would take deep, deep root.

So, without putting much thought to this, and therefore at the risk of missing something big, below is what comes quickly to mind of things I’m thankful for.


Eternal perspective and God stamps:
I’ve found that the best proven therapy so far is simply thinking of Dane in her full splendor. It pulls me out of the deep cries. The thought of her experiencing all the things we’ve studied in Scripture or imagined in our hearts is actually pretty exhilarating. And God has graciously poked through the thin veil between here and There with rainbows and deer and so much more (the God stamps that have defined this journey). These are merciful reminders that there is so much more than what we see here.

Tears:
In a strange way, tears give the same satisfaction as a good sneeze.

The ability to hike, bike, golf and ski:
These activities give me the opportunity to experience the best this world has to offer---mountains, fall colors, good friends---and give me a chance to let my mind take a break from its whirlwind of thinking. Of course, golf also brings the worst this world has to offer, as in frustration, so that activity might be a wash.

“Me too” friends:
I have been blessed with more than my fair share of friends, new and familiar, who have experienced loss—fellow journey-ers. I’ve learned there’s not a more encouraging phrase than simply, “me too!” after you’ve expressed a particular sorrow or pain.

Dane’s family:
I love Dane’s family. And we are all walking together in the loss of our precious daughter, niece, sister, buzzin/cousin and wife.

Pammie:
Outside of Dane’s family, the person who has experienced the loss of Dane on near-equal footing with me is Dane’s friend Pam. When we talk on the phone, we simply cry. Good cries and sad cries. I am thankful for that shared sorrow. In a strange way, it helps.

The love and the “flipped switch”:
And Pam is the one who offered the encouraging words to Dana that “flipped the switch” of Dana falling in love with me…finally!! (More on that wonderful story at some point.) And I’m finding that the thought of the “flipped switch” is my first handle in being grateful for my and Dana’s love. Up till now, to reflect on and remember our relationship has been nearly as painful as it was on day one of losing her. And this, I think, is where the rubber meets the road from the standpoint of grief. When I can begin to be thankful for the things Dana and I shared, to be grateful for the beauty, then I can draw strength from our relationship and begin to heal. We’ve long said we had one of the top five loves of all time. And yet that love almost didn’t happen. But it did, thanks to the “flipped switch.” And to mix in an old cliché, I would rather have had that love and lost it than not have had it at all. And that realization, that tired cliché, is something I can build on and I feel I’ve laid some foundation.

My family:
I’ve long thought that I’ve been blessed with a model family, and I’m right. My parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, my nieces and nephew, and my 99-year old grandma are all an incredible help. Of course, I’ve been thinking I’ll be able to wrap up all this grief in about 30 years, when I’m pushing 80. Grandma’s longevity tells me otherwise. And then there is the bevy of cousins, aunts, uncles—many of whom have paved this road of loss for me—lifting and encouraging me. Cousin Carl and I were able to meet for special suppers nearly every week for a stretch when he was transitioning from Columbus to Cincinnati. What a gift.

Pud:
Even though I’ve realized I am now a living Garfield comic strip (a guy with a cat), this house would be a different deal without Pud. And I must say, I think he knows that. Within a minute or two of my sitting down he is on top of me. He’s always been a cat who wanted to be where Dane and I were (and yes, we’re the only people in the world he is that way toward) but he’s certainly ramped up the affection.

Your comments and encouragement:
I have received over 1,000 comments through CarePages and the blog over these months. I am overwhelmed. Several months ago our CarePages page received a sticker/reward saying “Community over 500” meaning over 500 unique visitors have stopped in. Unfortunately the CarePages set up doesn’t allow me to respond to commenters personally (although that might be good) but every word is read, embraced and taken to heart (and probably cried over).

The church bells:
I’m listening to them right now. For those with whom I’ve shared Dana’s story “Kill the Deer” or those who attended the celebration service, you know what I mean (and here’s the post). Their pealing immediately brings to mind Dana’s bravery, resolve and trust in God. Every time I hear those bells I say to myself, “I can do this.”

My Tuesday Group:
For several years now, including many years prior to recurrence, Dana and I have met with a special collection of friends every Tuesday night for laughing, eating, enjoying Scripture, challenging each other, encouraging each other, hugging each other. Honestly, I questioned whether I could continue in this group without Dane; and thankfully, I haven’t missed a beat. This group is my portal into perspective, my reality check. And they display an incredible graciousness as I turn nearly every point into an analogy/metaphor/parallel about loss…more specifically, my loss.

My “Verizon Network”:
At Dane’s celebration service I declared all in attendance, and all not in attendance, to be my Verizon network of support (you’ve seen those commercials). You all have certainly lived up to the name. I am blessed beyond measure for such a supportive, empathetic cadre of friends and family.

The era we live in:
This might sound weird, but it’s a good time to grieve. It’s one thing to have a Verizon network (see above), it’s another thing to be connected to that network. My computer is a lifeline. And to be sitting at a table with friends/family and be able to Google on a smart phone a book title (or anything else) I can’t recall? Priceless.

Knitting:
I’ve coined a phrase for a certain level of grief: “afghan moments.” Dane had worked off-and-ne for many months on what’s known as the “Great American Afghan,” an afghan of 1-foot squares, each square a different pattern or scene. She was knitting it specifically for me; her knitter friends finished it for her while we were in home hospice mode and presented it to us (I blogged about this here if you’d like to take a peak). So the “afghan moments” are those times when Dana’s absence is so prevalent, almost numbing. I pull the afghan off the rack, head to the big comfy chair, lay under the afghan and feel comforted. I have several other of her items around the house…to look at each stitch and to know she put those stitches in place is a unique pacifier.

I leave you with Owen’s vineyard series. The photos are entitled simply:
Open up the Earth
Promise of More
Harvest

Thank you!

The Season of Cunchy Leaves

The bike paths these past few weeks have been what we’d call “Dane’s bike paths,” as in covered with crunchy leaves. Of course, the recent cool days and crunchy paths have whisked my mind and heart back to exactly a year ago, when I would take little breaks in the day from hospice care to take a bike ride and hit the driving range. For whatever reason, my mind has been drawn to a specific memory from that season: It was during the pedaling and between golf balls last fall that I found my heart swirling with questions. One question in particular that haunted me then as I faced the prospect of losing Dane was simply this: Where will I find comfort?

This was more than a random question in that I could see some road blocks developing between me and my main source for comfort, God.

To be honest, you can’t help but feel some distance from God in a journey like Dana’s and mine. It seemed that every opportunity we had for some God intervention, He didn’t come through (obviously based on our definition of “come through”). And to be blatantly honest, this feeling of distance will stop a prayer life dead in its tracks. So how will I find comfort in prayer?

But perhaps the scariest question: How will I find comfort in Scripture?

Of the myriad deep connections that Dana and I shared, Scripture was one of the deepest. One of our favorite types of conversation was simply sharing epiphanies, the “Oh Wow!” moments, that came to us as we experienced God’s Word, even finding the common ground between theologically contradictory camps (Armenian vs. Calvinist, for one). And if this doesn’t sound like a particularly fun time, remember, Dana and I could make ANYTHING fun and funny! So my honest, gut-wrenching thought was: Will Scripture comfort me? Will the hurt be too deep to even be able to open a Bible?

And, to top it off, here I am leading a ministry (InWord) dedicated to advancing one of God’s most powerful tools on this earth—His written Word, while I am experiencing pain from one of the world’s deepest losses—losing Dana. Here’s what has really scared me: What if I find the promises to be empty? What if I conclude that things God said just don’t comfort me? What if Scripture doesn’t come through?

I can honestly say, so far, so good. Surprisingly so. But it’s been a nice surprise as to how God has used Scripture to help me out.

I’m finding that it’s not only the promises that comfort me (i.e., God is ever-present), but also the real-life examples that Scripture gives me such as the lives of Ezekiel (see Ezekiel 24:18; this one blew me away) and John the Baptist and the gut-candid writings in the Psalms. These examples show how God-followers navigated the pain and loss of this broken world. I’ll admit it’s easy for promises in Scripture to be so familiar that they lose their punch. But the life stories. They pack a different punch. Especially the life of John the Baptist.

As my Tuesday Bible study group was finishing up our study of the book Plan B, we looked at the life of John the Baptist. What a great example of someone who might have wondered if God was on his side. In fact, if heaven has cars, you’ll know you’re behind John the Baptist if you see a bumper sticker that says “Life sucks…then you’re beheaded.” The man led an austere, spiritually disciplined life, spent his remaining months in prison, and then, well, was beheaded.

But the scene that has touched me profoundly is when John was in prison and sent a desperate, heartfelt question to Jesus: “Are you the One?” I feel like John was saying, “I’m going through crap here and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better. But if you’re the One, I can do this. I can endure. It’s worth it.” Jesus simply told the messengers, “Tell John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor.”

‘Nuff said. Jesus gave John a list of God stamps.

I’m not seeing lame people walk or blind people see. But I continue to see deer and rainbows at strangely timed instances—long-ago declared stamps of God’s presence in this journey. I am being gently assured that, like John, Jesus is the One. It’s worth it.

In fact…

A few days ago I decided to take a walk and listen to some music that has ministered to Dana and me over the years. I’ve sorta shied away from this genre of music because it’s just too heavy. So I trekked out with my Nano and my playlist of “faith” music, a good mix of new and nostalgic: Casting Crowns, David Crowder, Matt Redman, Rich Mullins, Twyla Paris, and…First Call. For those who were at Dana’s celebration service, you got to hear First Call artist Bonnie Keen, one of Dana’s (and my) favorite friends, sing one of our favorite First Call songs, “Let the Healing Begin.” Musician extraordinaire and dear friend Lynn Hodges filled in and the two were backed up by a choir of beloved Nashville friends. An incredible celebration moment. (BTW, it’s a driving, powerful song. You should get it from iTunes.) So naturally, when that song began to play in my ears on my walk I commenced to cry-walk; boo-hoo walk in fact. And then, as if on cue…no, ON cue, on DIVINE cue actually, two deer popped out of the woods and just stared at me. While I’m listening to a song that ministered to both Dana and me and then to me as part of Dana’s celebration, God delivered a stamp of His presence. It's noteworthy that this was the first time I had decided to walk with meaningful music, and it was the first time I saw deer on this particular walk-path since Dane's passing.

Jesus might as well have popped out of the woods Himself and said, in the same manner as sending His message back to John the Baptist, “Barry, I’m the One. The lame walk; the blind see; the deaf hear; the grieving are comforted…I am near the broken-hearted; and all of this has a mind-blowing pay-off in the end. It’s all very real. Hang in there Bear.”

I’m encouraged by the parallels between my journey and the journeys taken by those brave, faithful people in Scripture. So as I ride the trails the Dana way, swerving to HIT the crunchy leaves, and as I miss her in new ways every day, I can say with thanksgiving that God’s Word is just what God said it is: it’s enduring, it’s faithful, it’s comforting.

Regarding comfort in my prayer life, I’m still working on that.

I am so aware of everyone’s prayer and support. Thank you!

Barry

P.S. Pud says Hey!

P.P.S. One of my recent strangely timed deer and rainbow instances: our friend Marcie sent me a two-page ad for the Honda Odyssey with a deer AND a rainbow in the ad. Nicely done. I guess I know my next vehicle. Or at least my vehicle for heaven, when I’m following John T. Baptist around.