During the first week of every month I spend some time reading over the previous month’s journal entries.
Here are some thoughts from October that jumped out at me.

– It’s apparent that love has nothing to do with what we have done or what we may do in the future. I loved my daughters and grandchildren when I first saw them, actually before I even saw them. They had not done one single thing to benefit humanity. And, I love my father, mother, and others who have died even though their race is run. Why is it such a struggle for me to accept that I am loved? Why do I think my being worthy of love is connected to what I have done or promise to do in the future?

– “Be still and know” The more still we are, the more we know God is God. Anxiety, fear, control, or vainly seeking to become worthy, all scramble the signal.

– No matter how the election turns out, my job description remains the same. Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with God.

– “Be still and know” Could it be that the gift of death is that we are finally still enough to truly know. To know that we have been in God’s presence; living, moving, being all along.

– If God suffers with us, is it making God too human, too vulnerable, to say to the Creator, “I’m sorry for your pain?”

– Finally, one of my favorite quotes from my father, whose memorial service was in October. He said this countless times from his wheelchair in the nursing home where he died. “There’s a blessing in every moment and every moment is a blessing.”

As I mentioned in my last post, over the last few weeks I have been spending an inordinate amount of time arguing with folks in my head. Actually, I guess any amount of time doing this would be inordinate.

My best guess is that this is a symptom of our divided times. Apparently this stuff is starting to wear on me more than I thought. Most days I like to think my friends who see things differently than me and I are looking at the same rock but from different sides. Occasionally though, and there seem to be more and more of these occasions, it feels like some of us are looking at rocks that don’t exist at all, imaginary rocks that serve only to affirm our fears and biases.

Like I said in the post, it is my hope to somehow redeem this compulsion of inner arguing by using it as a trigger to call myself to prayer. Those people in my head aren’t actually present so speaking to God, who is, would be infinitely more beneficial. It is my hope that pursuing this new habit will improve my chances of passing any pop tests measuring my sanity but I think I may require a bit of heart work and refocusing as well in order to fully recover my balance.

My plan is to spend more time heeding the “higher angels” and not give so much air time to the lower ones like self interests, party, and camp. Higher angels remind us that the call is to love others as though they are a part of us and that is a call that makes winning arguments a poor goal.

The lower angels pull us toward separation and division. They allow labeling that leads to discounting and they herd us toward a loyalty to party and camp that make us defensive. Its a loyalty they don’t deserve. Respect and true listening are out the window when these lower angels are in the driver’s seat.

Full disclosure, I find this stance to be pretty doggone hard, especially when I am being lumped in with “you Democrats,” “you progressives,” and “you Trump haters” and truth is, I am likely to vote with Democrats, stand with progressives, and while I don’t hate him, I can not imagine the circumstances that would cause me to vote for the president. But, somehow I need to find a way to transcend these labels and stay in touch with my heart’s mission to find the best way to love neighbor as myself and remember that my vote is only one part, perhaps a small part, of the total life I desire to live. Labels make us little. Following our heart’s mission makes us human.

Since that previous paragraph has some of you muttering “stupid Democrat” and others screaming, “No! Don’t diminish the importance of this vote!” let me try to get in one sentence before you go. Obedience to the way of love is the call, not camp loyalty. Hopefully the only label we accept for ourselves or use when thinking of others is something along the lines of “Child of God.” (Okay, two sentences)

One of my favorite, and slightly mysterious, scenes in the Bible comes from the book of Joshua, chapter 5. Joshua has a vision in which he comes upon an angel of the Lord and it’s not one of those Valentine cherubs, it’s a bad ass angel. Joshua notices the angel’s sword and as you would expect asks, “Whose side are you on, ours or our adversary’s?”

Hear the angel’s answer, “Neither. I am commander of the army of Yahweh. Remove your sandals for you are on holy ground.” Can you see that even Moses’ successor was called to lift his vision beyond camp and sides? Later, Jesus must have somehow made this stance clear when he called tax collectors, who partnered with with Romans, and zealots, that occasionally assassinated Romans, to come and follow him in the way.

I guess it comes down to what it always seems to come down to. It’s not about me convincing you that I’m right. It’s not about our puny parties and camps. It’s about me following as closely as I can and hopefully that’ll bring a little more justice and mercy into my corner of the world.

Oh, and doing my best to make sure I’m not looking at imaginary rocks.

During the first week of every month I spend some time reading over the previous month’s journal entries.
Hear are some thoughts from September that jumped out at me.

– Read the story of the Prodigal Son this morning. I’ve often heard that when we read this passage it is helpful to ask ourselves which character we identify with. This morning I’m the father, waiting for me to come home.

– Why and how did the song, “Kum Ba Yah” become something silly and not worthwhile? Someone’s praying, someone’s crying, come by here; that’s silly?

-As the election draws near I find that I am spending an inordinate amount time arguing in my head with people who aren’t actually here. I am hoping that when I catch myself doing that in the future I will use it as a trigger to remind myself to pray to the one who is here.

– We went camping with my daughter and her two children. One morning my daughter looked at me and asked, “Why are you smiling?” I answered, “I have a better question, why wouldn’t I be?”

– From Mary Oliver’s, “Just Lying on the Grass at Blackwater,”
“My thoughts simplify, I have not done a thousand things
or a hundred things but, perhaps, a few.”
I add, perhaps a couple more.

During the first week of every month I spend some time reading over the previous month’s journal entries.
Hear are some thoughts from August that jumped out at me.

– I wouldn’t give even a tiny piece of the wisdom I’ve earned through the years via failure, pain, and loss to be able to do a forward roll without fearing I’d make Humpty’s fall look like a skinned knee.

– Blue days are inevitable but it’s amazing how a little time with your dog, a walk in the woods, and a friendly hello from one of your neighbors can lighten things.

– Sure it’s often said that just when you think things couldn’t get worse they do but it’s kinda cool how often I think things can’t get better but they do.

– If you are seeking signs that prove bears live in your woods look for marked trees, paw prints, and scat. Cigarette butts have nothing to do with bears. If you are seeking signs that affirm God’s presence in your life look for the signs that God actually leaves. Sometimes the things we look for have as much to to with God as cigarette butts do with bears.

– And in closing, a poetic lament I call, “Upon Reading Your Letter to the Editor.”

When we came to that fork in the road, I took it. I guess you took the other one.
We walked together for some time:
adventure, set-back, celebration, pain, occasionally lost, occasionally found.
Together we (we were we) wrestled Spirit while journeying through sacred texts.
I chose my fork because it called true, hopeful, loving.
I know you would not have chosen yours because you sought other.
But our paths angle far from one another and upon reading your letter to the editor I can now barely see you.

Thank you to my friend, Evey McKellar, for exposing me to enough of the poet Mary Oliver that I finally realized I needed a book of my own. Got it and there I found, I Wake Close to Morning.

Why do people keep asking to see
God’s identity papers
when the darkness opening into morning
is more than enough?
Certainly any god might turn away in disgust.
Think of Sheba approaching
the kingdom of Solomon,
Do you think she had to ask,
“Is this the place?”

I love that poem. I think, at least as much as beauty can be got, I get it. But, it occurs to me that Oliver could be seen as a little too matter of fact in her wondering why one would ask to see God’s identity papers. It’s true enough that darkness turning into morning is a wondrous thing and surely Solomon’s place was so spectacular that Sheba didn’t feel compelled to ask if she had the right house. But, how about when life doesn’t feel that obvious?

What about the times we aren’t so sure we have the right place? For instance, let’s say there’s a pandemic, a loved one dies, the country you love is terribly divided, some of your friends are expressing their pain, saying it feels like someone’s knee is on their neck but what they hear in return is, “get over it,” and maybe you wake up one morning while it’s still dark but you don’t feel the wonder, you feel lonely. You would really like to hug some of your loved ones that you haven’t seen in long time, some of whom are on the other side of the veil. I know that sounds like a stretch but it could happen, right? Would it be okay to ask God for some ID then?

John the Baptist seems to have had one of those days. The Gospels tell us of a time he sent some of his disciples to ask Jesus if he were indeed the one or if we were still waiting. Of course, John was in prison at that time, facing a beheading so one can appreciate how he could possibly not feel like Sheba in Solomon’s palace and he could be wondering if he was in the right place, hitched to the right guy.

It’s interesting how Jesus answered. He didn’t say, “Here’s my ID. Note how it says, ‘Jesus, The One. Soon to be known as Christ.’” He said, “Tell John what you see, what you hear. The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have the good news brought to them.”

“What you see, what you hear.” It always comes down to paying attention, being observant. Noting what is.

So, today, as I ride this spinning planet through the universe, watching darkness turn to morning, afternoon turn to dusk, thinking that each full moon is fuller than I remembered and there really are a bunch of stars; I notice.

I notice that I am seeing more clearly, with more empathy. I am not lame, I am able to help. God does not call me unclean and cast me away, my wounds are healing and I am slowly but persistently being transformed into God’s image. I am not deaf, I do hear the cries of the needy. I am not dead, I am alive, very alive. And, I have seen the good news of God’s love and presence come to the despairing.

Of course this is the place. No ID required.

When a loved a one dies a lot of people tell you, “they’ll always be with you,” and “they’ll live on in your memories.” To be honest and perhaps a little cynical, for most of my life I when I heard this I thought; nope, that’s just remembering. They’re gone. We may meet up again some how, some way but for now, we are separated.

Julian of Norwich, the 14’th century mystic, has helped me reconsider that. She said, “The love of God creates in us such a oneing that when it is seen no person can separate themselves from another.” I think this oneing that she wrote about is true for this life and for this life after death. And, yes I meant to say “this life” twice. We don’t have two lives.

The Apostle Paul points at this unbreakable connectedness when he is making a rather extensive list of things that can not separate us from God or one another, and he includes that which we would think is surely able to separate us if anything is able, death (Romans 8). No, it is not able.

The truth that Julian and Paul proclaim is that we are connected, held together by God and by God’s love. We are one. Another way to put this is that we, and all things, are in God; held together in God. Paul again, “In God we live and move and have our being.”

Could there be a more powerful concept that speaks of connection than the simple word, one. In God, all are one. There is no separation, not even the seeming separation between the living and the dead. We are one.

Obviously, there are ethical implications to this idea. When we start to get it, we even read the command to love our neighbor as our self differently. If we are one, the commandment isn’t telling us to love our neighbor like we love ourselves, it is saying our neighbor is a part of our self. In other words, love your neighbor because your neighbor and you are one. Your neighbor as your self.

But, back to those who have passed.

If this is true, then it’s real. And, if it’s real, it can be experienced. How is it experienced? I’m throwing it out there that it is experienced like all those truisms say. Our loved ones are with us in our heart, in our grief, and in our blessed memories. All that we feel is real, not “just feelings and memories” They are with us and their hand is on our heart.

In fact, if I’m tracking Julian and Paul, it’s more than just a matter of their being with us. They are a part of us and we remain a part of them.

I find a good deal of comfort in the idea that just as I remember and continue to love those on the other side of the veil, they continue to remember and love me. We remain connected. We are together. We are one. The veil is thin.

Amen.

The other day I realized that I was in bad need of some time away, a retreat. I know that seems a little odd in the midst of the isolation brought to us by Covid-19 but that’s actually the reason I needed to get away.

About the time this stuff got serious my father died. We weren’t able to have a memorial service so I’ve been going through life like a guy who’s wound was left open after major surgery. In addition to that, we’d been planning a family vacation with my daughter and her family since October. A wonderful cruise was lined up, tickets purchased, and excursions planned. Nope. No cruise and it’s been weeks since I hugged my grands. Oh, and our portfolio (kind of important to retired folks) has taken a sizable hit. Sprinkle in a few barnyard crazy conspiracy theories and you get Jim with a nice case of stress, thinking John Lennon had no idea when he sang, “Nobody told me there’d be days like this.” But that’s just me.

As you can probably guess, as I have talked with others, there are a lot of people out there who know very well the kick in the gut that comes when you catch yourself thinking, I need to remember to tell Dad that joke and then you remember he’s gone. A lot of folks have lost vacations, graduations, weddings, honeymoons, and funerals; not to mention Palm Sunday and Easter. And, while most of our financial loss is still on paper, way too many have been furloughed or are wondering if their business will survive this. Now, sprinkle in a growing number of friends and neighbors that are requesting prayer for their child, uncle, or grandmother who is suffering from this virus and it can start to feel like the world is hurting all over.

I’ve been sighing a lot, drinking a lot, and eating way too much. I needed to get away.

So I did. Not to a different place geographically. I didn’t go anywhere, I just tweaked my days a bit and declared a three day retreat.

For three days I called myself to prayer four times a days, some kind of morning, midday, early evening, and bedtime praying/pondering. I did a little more sacred reading, cut back on tracking current events, left beer alone, paid attention to what I was eating, spent a little more time outside, wrote some, talked to my dog a good bit, and rested. None of this was a to do list, except the beer and a goal of hitting a high percentage of the prayer times. If anything started to feel like a chore or a requirement that I needed to fulfill if I wanted to do retreat right, I quit, moved on to something that felt lighter. That was my three day retreat.

I came out feeling like it was the most common sense thing I could have done. It was like a coach calling a time out when the game is getting out of hand. I needed it, badly.

Nothing magic happened, nothing changed, but I am feeling more centered and a little more able to share the pain others are carrying.

And there’s this. There was a moment I experienced during one of my prayer times.

I was centering myself, taking a few breaths after going through that afternoon’s order. Inhale, exhale… Most of the time when I’m doing something like this I imagine love in, love out or peace in, peace out. That day, I wasn’t feeling much love and peace so I found myself moving more toward gathering myself for something like a roar on the inhales and then giving an imaginary loud, forest shaking roar of pain when I breathed out. All in my imagination but just as satisfying as if I were actually hurting my throat when I did it. In, a gathering; out, a primal roar, “I’m hurting!” In, a gathering; out “I’m grieving!” In, out more than a few times then I realized hurting and grieving weren’t exactly the words I was looking for.

In, deeper this time; out, more emphatically this time, “I’M LOST! I’m lost! Somebody help me!” And, a word came from the Presence that never leaves us or forsakes us, “You’re not lost. You’re just leaving familiar territory.”

Felt timely. It was the word of God for me, perhaps for you.

I got my brother’s text just as we hit the driveway. He, Sam, was asking where I was and I was delighted to tell him, at exactly 3:36, that we were arriving at Dad’s house. You see, an hour before we left for our 280 mile trip I had told him that our ETA was 3:30. That was a non-google maps assisted call and I was impressed with myself.

He texted back that he would see me at the nursing home in a few. That’s Hunter talk for. “If you want to see Dad alive, get here soon.” We unloaded the dogs and headed to AutumnCare.

When we got to the room, we found Dad unresponsive except his restless breathing would ease a bit when we turned him or rubbed his back. Occasionally, when I bent down to look in his face, his eyes would look in my direction but the blue twinkle I’d known all my life wasn’t there.

I started trying to remember our last conversation. I know we talked about Jesus always being with us after I read the Upper Room devotional to him a few days before. And, of course he told me that he loved me and I said that I loved him too when I left. But, the last conversation may have been when I was feeding him lunch and I got him to eat one more cooked carrot from his beef stew.

“I’m tired. Now that I’ve eaten a carrot and can see again, I’m done.”

“Come on Dad, one more carrot?”

He took the second carrot from the fork, slowly chewed and swallowed. “Oh no! The lights are too bright! Turn them off!” An apparent overdose of eye health due to one carrot too many.

We sat and watched. After a couple of hours, Kathryn and Vikki, Sam’s wife, went back to the house to feed the dogs and let them out. It was just Sam, Dad, and me when Dad’s eyes rolled back and he tried to throw up. We rushed to the bed to get him off his back. After we rolled him, he settled into a soft, shallow breathing pattern, punctuated with an occasional long, sighing exhale. When his breathing slowed, Sam put his finger on his pulse. “It’s weakening.”

One last, long sigh and the breathing stopped. Sam pressed his wrist, “nothing.” I stared at my father’s still body and began to weep. Sam patted my back and offered a prayer of thanks. I gathered myself and started to offer a prayer as well. My father took a deep breath.

“What the hell?” That was me. Sam shook his head, chuckled and said, “I thought he was gone.” “I did too!”

A few minutes later Flo, who over the last four and a half years has become a family member, and April, another C.N.A., came in to change Dad’s gown. Leaving out the “what the hell” part, I told them what had happened.

“Is that what you call a ronafor?” asked April. I found it fascinating that such events actually have a name, ronafors. Sam later acknowledged that his thought was, “How should I know? You’re the one that went to nursing school.” But he asked, “What’s a ronafor?”

April looked puzzled and said, “Is that why you were in the hall looking for Rhonda?” Rhonda was the head nurse that night; Sam had gone to the desk to ask her if she could give Dad something for his restlessness. That’s what he called Rhonda for.

I snorted. Flo said, “I thought you said ronafor too.” Sam and I burst out laughing! I thought we were going to lose it right there but we gathered ourselves and acted semi-mature long enough for Flo and April to change Dad’s gown and fix his sheets. As soon as they left, we lost it and when Kathryn and Vikki came back they thought we had gone crazy. Who’s to argue?

We had a couple more ronafors that night. Each time he timed it perfectly. Just when we thought he was gone, he’d come back. Each time my brother and I were completely inappropriate. Our father was literally minutes away from dying and his two sons, both of whom qualify for the senior discount, were acting like fourth graders headed for a spanking as soon as church was over.

Death did come. The four of us were standing around his bed when Vikki silently leaned down and gave Dad a hug. As she held him, he passed through the veil.

When we were sure, Sam said he’d go get Rhonda so she could call it. It didn’t occur to me until I was planning to write this line but for some reason I let one last chance for a ronafor joke slip past me.

Sam and Vikki went to get the information for the funeral home and Kathryn stepped out to call our daughters. I was in the room alone with Dad when Flo and April came back to clean him up. I said, “We’d like for you put this East Carolina shirt and pants on him. We think he’d like purple and gold better than a hospital gown.” “Of course.”

They were gentle and respectful. They cleaned him, dressed him, then stood back to see how he looked. They weren’t satisfied so they adjusted him a little to get him just right. I thought about the women who had followed Jesus preparing him for the tomb.

When they left I told them thanks. Then I looked at Dad and a part of me wondered if he would say thanks as well or say one of the little things he used say to tease Flo. He didn’t.

A few hours later I stood at the door of my father’s house, watching the morning get stronger. There was a male cardinal on the other side of the driveway, bright red, and I remembered the legend that cardinals bring greetings from the other side. I thought it’d be nice to see a female too so I could believe Momma and Dad were together. There she was, on a limb above him, and just as a I spotted her she flew down next to her mate. Then I heard creation whisper, “They said to tell you, they’re fine.”

My brother and I are agreed, our father is in his last chapter. He is almost ninety-three, suffered a debilitating stroke four years ago, and a couple of weeks ago we thought it was time to plan the funeral but apparently he had a couple more pages before the end.

He’s very weak, sleeps a lot, doesn’t eat much, but still tries to get a story out now and then. The other night he was telling Kathryn and me about a man who had a German Shepherd who’s girlfriend took it with her when they broke up and now he wants to go home but he can’t because he’s not allowed on the sofa. Then he paused, wrinkled his brow, smiled, and said, “I’m not sure that’s exactly how it goes.” I’ve got no idea where we were headed with that German Shepherd but I couldn’t imagine a better ending. Life lesson: sometimes it’s best just to stop. shrug, and smile.

What else have you taught me, Dad? Certainly to be honest. Go one more round even if you think you’ve lost. Keep doing one more day, maybe they’ll plan your funeral too early. Grow when life’s seasons change. Love one woman the best you can. Smile when a friend walks in the room, even if you’re on your deathbed. How to live the last chapter.

We all have a last chapter. Sitting with my first and best hero as he goes through his is hard, sweet, holy, earthy, real, surreal, sacred, funny, tragic, tiring… life. I’m anxious about what my next chapter will be like without him in it.

Sometimes I know exactly what to do: drive a bit so I can spend a few days with him, tell him I love him, cut up his pancakes, put his teeth in the cup for the night, put lotion on his face after shaving him, and try to support my brother who is the primary caregiver. (a woman once told me that if I was half the man my brother is, I’m alright. I told her half sounded about right)

Sometimes I have no idea. No idea. This is my first time watching my father die.

Sometimes all I know to do is breathe, be honest, go one more round, love the best I can, start a good story and remember to smile when I realize that’s not exactly how I thought it went.

A little girl asked her mom, “Since love hurts, why do we love?” It’s a child’s question. Surely any semi-thoughtful adult would be able to field it while doing the dishes and listening to the evening news.

Well move me out of the semi-thoughtful adult column because I’m calling that one a stumper. Especially when I walk past the picture of my mother, a daughter of Pageland SC, “the watermelon capital of the world,” and she’s laughing because we just gave her a huge watermelon with a bow on it. I pause and look into her eyes and I can still hear the laugh. I smile because she’s smiling but my heart triples in weight and cries yet again, as it has for almost thirteen years, “I want my Momma.”

Or maybe I’m watching my sleeping father with his newly acquired oxygen tube and I’m wondering, just what would I give for one more round of golf? To relive one of those games where I, or he, I don’t care which, is only assured of winning on the last green.

Why do we love? The question itself hurts. I hate that a little girl already knows enough hurt to ask it. This early in life does she already get that the people we love all eventually leave? Surely she hasn’t noticed that those who are most precious sometimes hurt us the most. Or worse, we hurt them. Why do we love? Forget people, sometimes I wonder why we ever get a new dog?

But then I try to imagine my life without memories of my mother’s laugh; my life without memories of golf balls that went in from 20 yards out or just missed to the left, again it doesn’t matter, I was with my dad; my life without silly puppies that jumped for joy just because I came home. What would your life be like if that precious person who could hurt you like no other had never been in it? Empty? Void? Colorless? Would it really be life?

It occurs to me that when we are loving we are living life at its most real, most alive level. I believe we are built for it, created for it. Scripture proclaims that God is love and that God is the God of life so if you ask me, when we love we are experiencing God’s presence in our lives. We love because it makes us truly alive. We love because it makes us us.

I’ll go even further. It’s not just when we are laughing at watermelons or riding in golf carts. We are experiencing God’s presence in our lives when we hurt, sigh, and long for a day that feels like it’s gone forever. The apostle Paul says that is God’s Spirit joining with ours in those moments too deep for words. He says that in those moments we join with all creation in longing for the day when everything and everyone says, “This is right. This is good. This is wondrous.” We love because it’s more us than breath itself. It’s God’s best gift, a part of God’s self.

Thanks for asking your mother the question, young one. You make me want to love on. Let’s not be afraid of the hurt. I believe that Love will teach us how to do that.