Thursday, September 5, 2013
Reflection on a dead bug.
Whenever I hear people say they experience the presence of God in nature I sort of feel like there is a little club I don't belong to. That club is called, "God made the mountains so of course when you look at mountains, you can see God. The hand of God. The creativity of God. The hugeness of God." When I look at a mountain, I see a mountain. Meh.....shrug. I KNOW RIGHT? You don't have to read on. Five dollars says you will.
Before you give me an honorary club membership or defend nature, you need to know what club I belong to. What draws me deeply into the presence of God, is the dead bug that is squished on the upper wall in my shower. I refuse to wash it off. And if in someone's absent mindedness, they think they are doing me a favor by removing it, not to worry, there are plenty of other bugs that I can squish in its place. The bottom line is that for now, I need that dead bug. I need to see it everyday before I start my day....I do.
You see, the presence of God involves all the senses, touch, site, sound, taste, and smell. As well as heart, mind, and soul. That is a lot of layers. Before you think I'm crazy about the taste part I want to remind you what Psalm 34:8 says, "Taste and see that the Lord is good." When I sit in this Psalm a little while the image of coming home from college comes to mind. I am reminded that college was an uncomfortable place full of new things and risk, and feeling over my head. When I would go home my mom would ask me, "What would you like me to make you for dinner?" and I would get to request my favorite home cooked meal, usually meatloaf. I would get to sit at a familiar table, with familiar family, in a familiar house, tasting food that my mommy made and being reminded that I am loved. Psalm 34:8 becomes..."Taste my mom's cooking and see that the Lord is good." When I reflect on that verse, I am brought to an image, which brings me to a feeling, which brings me to the Truth that I am loved. And that automatically brings me to the Presence of God. Feeling loved reminds me of my Father in heaven. The goodness of mercy. The goodness of knowing that at any point I can rest because Jesus has made His home in me.
The dead bug does this for me in the same way.....
You'd think that looking at the dead bug would be an unhealthy focus on morbid things, but not so. When I see the dead bug I am reminded of the fact that this is not my home, this place. I am reminded that the goal for my day isn't my personal gain, but to lift others up and stand with them through hard things. If I didn't have the bug I would forget that the goal isn't perfection and happy things. The goal isn't to make things better, but to be real sometimes and sit in hard things and let them just be hard..... .
I am reminded of Truth that God is still in control even if there is pain in life. This is not heaven quiet yet and pain doesn't mean that God isn't working. I am reminded that even though Jesus healed Lazarus... he eventually died. This is not our home.
You see, if I don't reflect on the dead bug then I go through my day thinking that pain is wrong and if pain is wrong then I better DO something....because God isn't doing anything about it. If I think God isn't doing anything about it...well then...I will! If I go to a meeting and it isn't being lead, then I'm going to lead! And if I think someone is mad, I'm going to try to convince them not to be mad. And if someone is hurt then I'm going to do inner healing prayer and get 'er DONE!!
Our panic to control, and our panic to fix things....says a lot about who we think God is, and what He can do... or what He is supposed to do.
The weekend that I gained clarity about God was a Saturday when Don was gone. I was cleaning the barbeque and a huge chunk of the grill sprang up into my eye. I knew it was bad immediately and went in the house to flush it out with water. After about 45 minutes I knew I needed extra help and asked friends on facebook if they knew am eye doctor I could call on a Saturday. My whole side of my face was turning red and my eye was so swollen. My kids were starting to get worried. I didn't know what to do. I leaned over the sink and yelled at God, "DO YOU EVEN SEE ME?" and then I started crying. It was the Truth of the dead bug.
If God isn't doing anything to fix it....does he even see me?
After about another 1/2 hour of trying to flush out the chunk in my eye, I resolved to just go sit in the living room. On my way to the couch, the sensation went away. I stopped. Moved my eye around and thought, "huh. That was weird." I gave myself time to reflect on how I really felt about God. Does He see me? And how many times have I tried to fix thing because I believe that God obviously doesn't care?
I tried an experiment after that day. I paid attention to all the times that I said the words, "I thought that little problem was fixed!" or "Why are we still dealing with this?" and my favorite, "Maybe this time it will be better." Every time I caught myself saying those words I stopped, got in touch with the pain I was trying to fix. I felt it. And invited God to be with me.
When I invited God to be with me in the pain I am reminded of the people who went before me. God did not apologize when he asked Mary to bring Jesus into this world. He didn't. I think about her pregnancy as a single young lady. I think about her being nine months pregnant and riding on that donkey across the land and then in the end, she had to give birth in a dirty barn. Did God see her? I think about Jesus in the garden asking for the cup to be taken away but in the end surrendering, "Thy will be done." Did God see Him? Yes. Just because there are hard things, like death, and unemployment, and learning disabilities, and deer that eat our vegetables.... doesn't mean that God isn't doing anything. I don't know what the heck He IS doing. But He is doing.
Last night my youngest was asked for the first time to contribute to the household. He sat on the bed for a long time. Then when he finally was held accountable to fold his shirts he cried the whole time he did it. One hour. Then when he had to go to bed right away because he spent so much time doing his chores, he cried while he got ready for bed. Then he cried while he was in bed for another hour.
I went in to stare at him and he said, "I have to do everything around here. I have to fold my own shirts... I have to go to school all day.... I have to walk ALL the way home from school!" and I just watched his crying face. I wondered how much of our prayers are like this. God watches our struggles and knows that it's really all just a part of growing up and that our serving muscles or our confrontation muscles, or our making due with little muscles are just small, and sore. I think God sometimes looks at us and says, "I'm sorry, but I don't see any problem really." Last night the crying of my youngest wasn't a sign that something was wrong. His crying was a sign that everything was right. He should feel the pain of sacrifice. He should. On his own...he won't fold his own shirts.
On our own. We will run from hard things. We will. I will. I do.
When we have little children we encourage them to be creative and pretend. Now is the time to play "real". Invite God into the shower. Maybe God will just look into your crying face and smile. Maybe he will encourage, heal. Maybe He will tell you to confront. Maybe he will just dance with you. Maybe he will fix it, and maybe he won't. Just be with Him, and surrender. He sees you.
Now excuse me, I got a date with a dead bug.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Feeding Sheep
Just got back from Great Escape and wanted to share my thoughts not only on the awesome week, but the deeper meaning behind it for me.
The scripture grabbing me is... "Do you love me Peter?.....(Yes Lord).....Then feed my sheep."
Usually I get to feed the adult sheep, using my gifts. I get to have them in my home safe in the comforts of my home, or church, doing the things I love, the way I love to do them.
But Middle School sheep. They are different. They want to be outside swimming in cold water, playing tug-o-war in mud pits...
If I had it my way, I would create the safest, most low-bar way to feed middle school sheep. Could I drive by their fields in my car with sheep food and a bunch of plastic spoons? Could I roll down the window and fling the food at them with the plastic spoons, knowing that they will find it eventually? Chucking food is fun. I would be in a warm car and they could try to catch food? Win for both of us!
Unfortunately, chucking food at them, is not feeding them.
Before I left for Great Escape this year, I had a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I was excited to go but the part of me that hates cold water, bug bites, or watching children play in fields and play games that could lead to getting hurt was really fighting hard against making the trip.
I hugged my husband goodbye and said, "I don't know. I just don't know." and he laughed and said, "Get on that bus Wendy." I walked toward the bus and heard the words from Jesus, "Wendy do you love me?....(yes Lord I do)....Then feed my middle school sheep. Get on that bus." And I did.
When we arrived at camp, we got off the bus and we went to our rooms and got our suits on and went straight to the lake. I dipped my feet in and the water was cold. I didn't get in. I couldn't do it. I saw the other youth leaders putting the middle school sheep on their shoulders and playing chicken and they were having a great time while I watched protecting myself.
We had a great night of worship and the speaker was wonderful. We were inside and safe. But guess what? The kids didn't understand being inside and worship and being taught scripture. They kept asking for a drink and wanting to get up and go to the bathroom to get out of the room. I couldn't understand why they didn't want to stay. This is great! We are getting fed! We get to be with the Father Shepherd right now! I watched and tried to help them stay.
They next day we went with our group of students to recreate with them. To do what they like to do. We played in a field. In a grass field with mosquitoes. I walked up to the field and saw it for what it was.....a biting bug infested playground. I walked forward and heard the words in my heart, "Do you love me Wendy?......(yes Lord I do).....then get in that field and get bitten by those bugs! It would've been great if it ended there. But in that field were games with cold water. You had to fill a cup and run across the field to dump it in your team's bucket. If you got tagged you had to dump that cold water over your head. I'm pretty sure they didn't get the memo that pouring water over your head isn't fun. Guess who it is fun for? You guessed it. Middle school people sheep. They LOVE it. So I played that game with only 1/3 heart. When I got tagged, I leaned over and poured the water over the top of my head so it would run down onto the grass. I did feel proud of myself though because I played.....I played.
We couldn't finish the games that day because the storm came and for safety we had to get the kids inside. I walked back to my room and had a moment of regret. The rain was pouring down on me. It was drenching my hair, my clothes, my shoes and my back pack. I was all the way wet. I kept thinking, "I should've just played. I missed out. I'm all wet now, and it isn't really that bad. What is so hard about getting wet? I should've played with my whole heart. The kids are way more important than my comfort and even my safety"
That night we saw the kids eyes open to being fed scripture. We saw them loving worship and sitting quietly to listen to what the speaker had to say. No one got up to use the bathroom or get a drink. We had built trust by doing what they wanted to do in the mornings, we went to their level and they knew they were loved. So when evening came they were interested and listened to the speaker, they were willing to eat the food we gave them. In the evening family time, they were talking about how God was deeply moving them. It was beautiful.
Not only was it beautiful, it was peaceful. I stopped seeing the games as a place where I was getting bit, and cold and wet, but as a place where I could play and have fun with the sheep. The games seemed less risky physically and more of an adventure to laugh and maybe even win.
The last day we do a huge shaving cream war and it is the best thing ever. Getting silly and dirty is not a problem for me. Maybe that's what you protect yourself from, but I have a great time with that sort of thing. I look forward to that shaving cream fight every year. This year however, I forgot that at the end of the fight, you have to get hosed down with water that is as cold as the water in the lake that made my body seize when I was a kid. There is no way around it. You have to do it. I let it sprinkle at first, but when you let it sprinkle the shaving cream melts and starts to run down your face and into your eyes. I thought about running away and living a homeless life. It's pretty desperate when you would be willing to live homeless with shaving cream all over you, instead of getting into ice cold water. Then in my heart I heard, "Do you love me Wendy?.....(Yes I do Lord).....then get in that water! and so for three seconds at a time, I did. It took me about 1/2 hour to get the shaving cream off of me. But I did it.
Unfortunately this is not the end of the story. We went back to the room to take showers and after the third shower the water ran out. I'm not saying the hot water ran out, I'm saying there was not enough water pressure for the amount of people taking showers at the exact same time. There literally was no water coming out of the shower. After the hose off of ice cold water, I could not shower. Do you love me Wendy?...(yes I do Lord)....then put your clothes back on and go to lunch.
What is the cost of feeding sheep? It depends on who they are. Is that cost worth paying so they can have life? It is my testimony that the depth of faith that is in those kid sheep right now is worth the price that all of us youth directors, and counselors and parents paid. The beauty of changed lives is worth my bug bites around my ankles. It's worth that special shaving cream smell that I just can't seem to get out of my hair and my sore tail bone.
What are you willing to pay, so that someone can be fed? What would you do and where would you go? Would you eat green things or spam? Would you get cold and wet? Would you fly in a plane even though you hate flying? Would you hold a baby even though you don't know how to do it? Would you read a book even though you hate reading?
Lose your life to gain it.... Do what you hate, so that others can live. It's that simple folks because you are very in tune with what you would NEVER do.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Building a room....
Let's talk construction.
I know so many of us have done it...and why? To build a room. To make a place for people we love. Or to fix something because it's rotted or broken, or eaten by termites.
It's always a shock to me when someone says, "We are redoing our house and we don't have a kitchen right now. We haven't had one for two months." Maybe you are chuckling to yourself or even rolling your eyes because you can remember when this was your story.
It doesn't matter the reason for construction, people who do it are willing to give up self comfort and sacrifice their life for a couple days, or a long time. Even the most selfish, spoiled, and entitled folks are willing to give up their comfort to remodel. To make a room.
Turns out, God Himself knows something about making a room. John 14:2 says, "My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I'm going there to prepare a place for you?"
Sometimes when I interact with folks about heaven, we joke about what we will have there, in our very special room. My husband says that in his room there will be a weightless basketball court. In my room there is going to be a full gourmet kitchen and I'm going to help God cook the great banquet along with all of my favorite Food Network chefs. I've heard people say their rooms are going to be all pink or stuffed with a bunch of pillows.
I always have thought of that room in heaven as my own special place full of things just for me. Luxuries or things that are personal because God knows me by name. But what if it's deeper than that?
As some of you know, my inlaws are living downstairs while we are preparing a place for them upstairs. We are transforming our garage into a room that is theirs. It's a process that has caused me to reflect on what's true about this very special place God is building for us. It's a sacrifice to build. It's costing us money and time. Things aren't going the way we want. It has taken a year longer than expected. My inlaws are living underneath us and enduring lots of footsteps over their heads. And why is it that when someone lives underneath you THAT'S when you drop things over and over? When you are building, you need help and it's humbling to ask for things when you can't do it yourself.
The other day I said to maw before she went downstairs, "I love you and I like living with you!" and to that she replied, "Somedays are better than others! Praise God!" and I laughed. It's so true. Sometimes I think this time of waiting for this new room, and living together, is harder for them than it is for us. They have had to move away from their friends and home church and years of building a life. They live in a house with different foods and different systems and different social life and different ways of spending time and money. There are plenty of times for all of us to practice patience. And it's vulnerable. They are doing their marriage in front of us, and we are parenting in front of them. There are days that the kids throw huge fits and stomp their feet hard and go screaming into their bedrooms which are right above the inlaw's heads.
And yet.....there is always a yet isn't there? Something else is happening to us as well. We have markings of love all around our house. When I go downstairs there are cards that we have given each other. Little things the kids have made for maw and paw. When I go downstairs I also see things they have made for each other. Presents and things that mean a lot to them. I have pictures and videos of paw and I on facebook and little jokes that just he and I understand.. When I go into my kitchen I rarely have a dirty dish because maw often will do them. When I put my dirty clothes downstairs, they magically appear upstairs all cleaned and ready for me to put away.
A room is marked with the relationships that we are in. The deeper the sacrifice we have for each other, the deeper the room is marked.
Matthew 25:34-40 says, "Then the King will say to the people on his right, 'Come, you that are blessed by my Father! Come and possess the kingdom which has been prepared for you ever since the creation of the world. I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink; I was a stranger and you received me in your homes, naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me, in prison and you visited me.' The righteous will then answer him, 'When, Lord, did we ever see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we ever see you a stranger and welcome you in our homes, or naked and clothe you? When did we ever see you sick or in prison, and visit you?' The King will reply, 'I tell you whenever you did this for one of the least important of these brothers of mine, you did it for me!'"
I read this on the day there were nails being pounding in the garage and I closed my eyes and pictured God himself pounding nails into the room he is preparing for me. As I saw him building, I didn't picture a gourmet kitchen or a special color that he would paint, but I pictured Jesus making a scrapbook about the memories I'm making right now with him. That made me teary a bit I have to admit. I said in my heart, "I know you God!" I imagined pictures on the wall of the least that I have loved. I imagined trophies that might be in there from God for the times that I chose to confront those who hurt me and those I had hurt. And if you have read my other blogs you will understand that those trophies had a bird hanging by the nerve. I imagined a plaque on the wall of names. The names of people who had forgiven me and the names of people I had forgiven. I heard a music box that was playing the melody Jesus sang over me when I went through my dark times. There were holograms of the angels that had been watching over me. The room was less about all of the things that are physically specially to me, but a way for God to communicate to me how proud he is that I'm his daughter. And just as a parent have a baby book of their kids first steps, so I imagined a book of my first steps of faith. Little things I did when I started to risk. A book of firsts....first bible studies that I was terrified to lead....first people I attempted to share my faith with....first yes to a mission trip I didn't have the money for.
What a beautiful picture that was for me. To spend time in the memories that me and Jesus were making together was a meaningful time. A sweet time.
What about your room? Is it full of memories yet? What does this image bring to mind for you and your room? Maybe your book of firsts is being written right now. Maybe you're getting to know Jesus for the first time. Maybe you have sacrificed a ton and it's refreshing to picture how proud of you Jesus is that you are his son or daughter. Building memories with Jesus isn't the physical sacrifice of pounding nails, but it's a sacrifice of loving when it's hard. Forgiving when it hurts. And going when he calls you even if you don't feel good or have the money.
A room is marked by our relationships....
Over my desk I have a big piece of paper that my maw gave me with my name on it. She wrote a bunch of words that describe me on it. Things that are "wendy." Here's the list that she wrote:
Child of God
Funny
Does not carry a grudge
Creative cook
Desires to see everyone whole
Deep thinker
Every year you get more interesting and better!
Gives herself grace
Forgiving
Wendy/Jesus/Don a chord of three is not easily broken
Earnestly seeks God's presence
Compassionate
Allows her household to be transformed to a new normal so Buzz and Nancy can experience God's unconditional love.
Enjoys her family
Keeps secrets
Her actions glorify God Discerning
Admits when she is wrong
An honest friend
Enjoys cuddling with her children
Cares for her children as God cares for his children
Prayer/Intercessor
Forgets what is behind and follows the light
Is surprising
Good listener
Always willing to help
She is a giver
Do you know what it meant to read this list from her? She knows me. She sees me and loves me and wrote these words because she wanted me to celebrate me. Can you imagine what it's going to be like....when we walk to the place that God is preparing, and see our name on that door? To see the words written underneath it that he speaks about me....about you? What will be inside the room that will express our time together here? What little things will he put in that room that will communicate how proud he is of you.
It's worth the sacrifice......building a room.
I know so many of us have done it...and why? To build a room. To make a place for people we love. Or to fix something because it's rotted or broken, or eaten by termites.
It's always a shock to me when someone says, "We are redoing our house and we don't have a kitchen right now. We haven't had one for two months." Maybe you are chuckling to yourself or even rolling your eyes because you can remember when this was your story.
It doesn't matter the reason for construction, people who do it are willing to give up self comfort and sacrifice their life for a couple days, or a long time. Even the most selfish, spoiled, and entitled folks are willing to give up their comfort to remodel. To make a room.
Turns out, God Himself knows something about making a room. John 14:2 says, "My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I'm going there to prepare a place for you?"
Sometimes when I interact with folks about heaven, we joke about what we will have there, in our very special room. My husband says that in his room there will be a weightless basketball court. In my room there is going to be a full gourmet kitchen and I'm going to help God cook the great banquet along with all of my favorite Food Network chefs. I've heard people say their rooms are going to be all pink or stuffed with a bunch of pillows.
I always have thought of that room in heaven as my own special place full of things just for me. Luxuries or things that are personal because God knows me by name. But what if it's deeper than that?
As some of you know, my inlaws are living downstairs while we are preparing a place for them upstairs. We are transforming our garage into a room that is theirs. It's a process that has caused me to reflect on what's true about this very special place God is building for us. It's a sacrifice to build. It's costing us money and time. Things aren't going the way we want. It has taken a year longer than expected. My inlaws are living underneath us and enduring lots of footsteps over their heads. And why is it that when someone lives underneath you THAT'S when you drop things over and over? When you are building, you need help and it's humbling to ask for things when you can't do it yourself.
The other day I said to maw before she went downstairs, "I love you and I like living with you!" and to that she replied, "Somedays are better than others! Praise God!" and I laughed. It's so true. Sometimes I think this time of waiting for this new room, and living together, is harder for them than it is for us. They have had to move away from their friends and home church and years of building a life. They live in a house with different foods and different systems and different social life and different ways of spending time and money. There are plenty of times for all of us to practice patience. And it's vulnerable. They are doing their marriage in front of us, and we are parenting in front of them. There are days that the kids throw huge fits and stomp their feet hard and go screaming into their bedrooms which are right above the inlaw's heads.
And yet.....there is always a yet isn't there? Something else is happening to us as well. We have markings of love all around our house. When I go downstairs there are cards that we have given each other. Little things the kids have made for maw and paw. When I go downstairs I also see things they have made for each other. Presents and things that mean a lot to them. I have pictures and videos of paw and I on facebook and little jokes that just he and I understand.. When I go into my kitchen I rarely have a dirty dish because maw often will do them. When I put my dirty clothes downstairs, they magically appear upstairs all cleaned and ready for me to put away.
A room is marked with the relationships that we are in. The deeper the sacrifice we have for each other, the deeper the room is marked.
Matthew 25:34-40 says, "Then the King will say to the people on his right, 'Come, you that are blessed by my Father! Come and possess the kingdom which has been prepared for you ever since the creation of the world. I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink; I was a stranger and you received me in your homes, naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me, in prison and you visited me.' The righteous will then answer him, 'When, Lord, did we ever see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we ever see you a stranger and welcome you in our homes, or naked and clothe you? When did we ever see you sick or in prison, and visit you?' The King will reply, 'I tell you whenever you did this for one of the least important of these brothers of mine, you did it for me!'"
I read this on the day there were nails being pounding in the garage and I closed my eyes and pictured God himself pounding nails into the room he is preparing for me. As I saw him building, I didn't picture a gourmet kitchen or a special color that he would paint, but I pictured Jesus making a scrapbook about the memories I'm making right now with him. That made me teary a bit I have to admit. I said in my heart, "I know you God!" I imagined pictures on the wall of the least that I have loved. I imagined trophies that might be in there from God for the times that I chose to confront those who hurt me and those I had hurt. And if you have read my other blogs you will understand that those trophies had a bird hanging by the nerve. I imagined a plaque on the wall of names. The names of people who had forgiven me and the names of people I had forgiven. I heard a music box that was playing the melody Jesus sang over me when I went through my dark times. There were holograms of the angels that had been watching over me. The room was less about all of the things that are physically specially to me, but a way for God to communicate to me how proud he is that I'm his daughter. And just as a parent have a baby book of their kids first steps, so I imagined a book of my first steps of faith. Little things I did when I started to risk. A book of firsts....first bible studies that I was terrified to lead....first people I attempted to share my faith with....first yes to a mission trip I didn't have the money for.
What a beautiful picture that was for me. To spend time in the memories that me and Jesus were making together was a meaningful time. A sweet time.
What about your room? Is it full of memories yet? What does this image bring to mind for you and your room? Maybe your book of firsts is being written right now. Maybe you're getting to know Jesus for the first time. Maybe you have sacrificed a ton and it's refreshing to picture how proud of you Jesus is that you are his son or daughter. Building memories with Jesus isn't the physical sacrifice of pounding nails, but it's a sacrifice of loving when it's hard. Forgiving when it hurts. And going when he calls you even if you don't feel good or have the money.
A room is marked by our relationships....
Over my desk I have a big piece of paper that my maw gave me with my name on it. She wrote a bunch of words that describe me on it. Things that are "wendy." Here's the list that she wrote:
Child of God
Funny
Does not carry a grudge
Creative cook
Desires to see everyone whole
Deep thinker
Every year you get more interesting and better!
Gives herself grace
Forgiving
Wendy/Jesus/Don a chord of three is not easily broken
Earnestly seeks God's presence
Compassionate
Allows her household to be transformed to a new normal so Buzz and Nancy can experience God's unconditional love.
Enjoys her family
Keeps secrets
Her actions glorify God Discerning
Admits when she is wrong
An honest friend
Enjoys cuddling with her children
Cares for her children as God cares for his children
Prayer/Intercessor
Forgets what is behind and follows the light
Is surprising
Good listener
Always willing to help
She is a giver
Do you know what it meant to read this list from her? She knows me. She sees me and loves me and wrote these words because she wanted me to celebrate me. Can you imagine what it's going to be like....when we walk to the place that God is preparing, and see our name on that door? To see the words written underneath it that he speaks about me....about you? What will be inside the room that will express our time together here? What little things will he put in that room that will communicate how proud he is of you.
It's worth the sacrifice......building a room.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Watching my dad die...
Today I'm going to talk about deep things. Because I want to go there. And I want you to go there. I feel we've gotten to know each other well enough to go on this journey. And so today we talk about death. I want to tell you the story about how my dad died.
I always had a special connection with my dad. It was the kind of connection that sweet little girls have. I remember sitting in his lap and watching t.v. with him. I remember sitting so long I didn't even know where I ended and he began. I would sit with him, and study him. I remember rubbing his fingernails and looking at mine to see if they were the same. I remember his nails were flat as a pancake and his middle fingers were crooked just like mine. I remember he had a mole on his forehead that would fade over time. I remember his crooked teeth, and his smile, and his laugh. I remember that I loved him.
I also remember that my love for him didn't change when he would go through seasons. The seasons.... of mental illness. The ups and downs of well to not well. Thinking clearly to paranoid. Chatty and laughy, to quiet and stern. Interested to distant. Good decisions to crazy decisions that would make my mom mad and hurt our family. Over....and over. Year after year. Through it all, the thing that remained constant, was that I always would love to sit in his lap. I was his little girl.
When things started getting more tough and public with his illness, we would have him committed and taken away to the hospital. There he would be forced to get better and take his medicine for schizophrenia and we would watch him sleep for hours until he came out of it, somewhat able to be healthy. Somewhat himself, whatever that was. I watched as my mom emotionally deteriorated and started to not be able to deal with it. I started to wonder how much longer she could take it. After about ten years, the well times would be fewer and the sick times would be more. And my heart was sick all the time.
Until one day. We were done. We just couldn't do it anymore. We left him. Not only as a family, but me. I left him. My heart needed a break. I wanted out. We sent him to go live alone, and we quickly found out that he couldn't handle that situation and other family members stepped up to the plate to take him in as they could handle it. He lived in Montana for a while and was far enough away that I didn't have to see him at all.
This is the part in the story where we get to the crossroads. A place where I could go either way. This is where the backstory makes a big difference in the end of my fathers life. It's the part of how I entered back in, after I had decided to leave.
Taking time gave me a chance to heal. Taking time allowed me to be angry that my dad wasn't the kind of dad that I really wanted. And boy was I angry. Taking time gave me a chance to run to Jesus and let him be the dad that I never had. Taking time let me see my dad..... Him. Not my expectations of what I wanted, but who God gave me. And what I found, was delightful. I found a man that was simple and brave and humble. I found a man that was quick to forgive and always assume the best of people. I found a man that was getting progressively tired, but was always willing to play ping pong with me. I found a man that was interested in others and wanted to help. I found a man that cared deeply about his children and also his ex wife. And even though she had married again, he was always willing to enter into that relationship as it was, with an open heart. He became my dad who struggled with schizophrenia, and not my schizophrenic dad. I saw clearly that he was a man who, even on medicine, would always have a radio of paranoid thoughts roaming through his head. They were never quiet...and that made me sad....not angry anymore.
Being on antipsychotic drugs for a long long time ruins your body. I watched him deteriorate and I never knew what would happen to him. He just kept getting more tired and more tired, and more weak and more weak. You don't die of paranoid thoughts. His heart was strong. I remember asking people, "what is going to happen to him? What will the end look like?" I wanted to know. Not because I wanted him dead, but because I wanted to know how he would suffer and try to stop it. The answer was clear. The antipsychotic medicine was giving him induced parkinsons. We had a choice. To help him function mentally, and slowly kill his brains ability to move his muscles? Or let him live with the delusions and put others and himself in harms way? It was the kind of no brainer that feels like you have just stabbed yourself in the heart. We kept him on medicine that would eventually kill him....slowly.
As my family grew and we would live far away from him, our visits would be sweet for me. I wasn't always great about calling but I remember spending hours a day listening to him when I would be in town. I loved to hear his thoughts, even if they were full of concerns about a crises that was coming and whether or not he was Jesus, Adam, and Moses all at the same time. We would often talk about the Bible which was near to my heart and he loved to pray. He would sometimes call me just because he heard a sermon and wanted to make sure that I had either accepted Christ with my whole heart, or not turned away. When I came to town we always went to church together and every time there was an alter call, he would stand up, yet again, to accept Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior. That man was saved more than anyone else I know.
My journey had taken me to a place where I finally hated to live so far away from him, and so when my auntie called and told me to come home because dad was weak with infection in the hospital, I knew it wasn't good. When I walked into his room he had that tight see through skin look and he was breathing hard with his mouth open. Maybe if I hadn't watched so many Mother Thereas video's I wouldn't have assumed he was dying. Maybe a daughter just knows. But I sat with him and loved all over him, despite the fact that he had MRSA bacterial infection. I had bought a one way plane ticket and I was staying. I was staying because I was born his. Then my heart left him. And then God brought me back to a place where he became mine and I wasn't leaving until my daddy didn't need me anymore.
It was a Monday morning and I had told my brother to come and he was on his way. So when my dad looked me in the eye that same morning and said, "Okay. I'm ready to die now." I calmly said, "You are? Well.... that's okay dad, but you should know that Brian is coming. Do you want to wait so that you can see him again?" and his eyes lit up. "He is? Oh yes!"
We spent three days with my brother and laughed and talked. Although my dad couldn't choose to swallow by himself, he was getting an IV and was seemingly quite perky since my brother had arrived. I wasn't sure he was dying after all, until I arrived on the Thursday morning and the nurse asked to talk to me. She said, "Wendy, he has made a decision. His body is shutting down. We don't know quite how long it will take, but he is dying." I nodded with resolve to let her know that I understood and went to the room. I wanted to yell, "Stop! Stop! You don't have to do this! I am not ready yet." I didn't though. I just cried and told him it was okay. That we would be okay. That he could go whenever he wanted to.
During this time my brother and I began such a depth of discussion. In the end is when you think about life, and how you lived it, even if it isn't yours. My brother had wondered if he was a good son. He kept saying, "I should've called him more. I should've visited more. I didn't really do enough for him." I understood exactly what he was saying, because we all could've done more for him. He lived alone and suffered for so much of his life. Our whole family had abandoned him. And we all entered back in as we could and my brother had never reconciled how fully he entered back in because he had always compared himself to me. I was the one that would spend hours with dad in the rehab centers when he was weakening. I was the one that would come to town and stay with him a couple days. His guilt was so strong. It was the kind of guilt that had eaten him up and I could tell that there was a deeper question underneath it all. A question between a son and his dad. Where do I stand? Does he know that I love him? Does he forgive me that at times I ran from him? Does he love me?
The last night, I stayed by my dad and waited with him. Sometimes he would come out of a sleep and look around and I reminded him that I was right there. As much as I wanted to be the one that could last to the end, I was exhausted in the morning and called my brother in for a shift and I sacked out. At 9:30 that same morning, my brother called crying, "Wendy....he's gone. He's dead." and I was filled with such humility and saw the grace my dad had for my brother. Even though I was the daughter that was always there for my dad when he was sick,my dad chose him. "Brian" I said, "he chose you. He could've died with either one of us, and he chose you. You don't have to wonder anymore how he felt about you." and it was perfect. Exactly as it should've been. He chose my brother because he loved him just as he loved me. At that moment it was very clear to me, and maybe I'm weird for this to be the first thought that came to mind at such an intense moment of my life... My thought went to the cross where Jesus was hanging, and as he hung there with all the people he knew best, his disciples, his mom, his brothers....I saw him and he was looking right at me. He chose me just as my dad had chosen my brother.
That's why to this day, I remember the death of my dad during the week of Easter. I can't even tell you the month or day that he really did die. I can't separate the two because the image and the lesson was so clear. In the humble death of my dad, I understood that all of my questions were answered. Does Jesus know how much I love him? Does he know that even though I'm broken and have tried to come near that I've done my very best? Does he....love me? And in his eyes I see the yes. I see the care and tenderness that he was looking for me just as he looks for everyone.
It was in my dad's death, that my understanding of mercy was truly born. Two new births that day.
I always had a special connection with my dad. It was the kind of connection that sweet little girls have. I remember sitting in his lap and watching t.v. with him. I remember sitting so long I didn't even know where I ended and he began. I would sit with him, and study him. I remember rubbing his fingernails and looking at mine to see if they were the same. I remember his nails were flat as a pancake and his middle fingers were crooked just like mine. I remember he had a mole on his forehead that would fade over time. I remember his crooked teeth, and his smile, and his laugh. I remember that I loved him.
I also remember that my love for him didn't change when he would go through seasons. The seasons.... of mental illness. The ups and downs of well to not well. Thinking clearly to paranoid. Chatty and laughy, to quiet and stern. Interested to distant. Good decisions to crazy decisions that would make my mom mad and hurt our family. Over....and over. Year after year. Through it all, the thing that remained constant, was that I always would love to sit in his lap. I was his little girl.
When things started getting more tough and public with his illness, we would have him committed and taken away to the hospital. There he would be forced to get better and take his medicine for schizophrenia and we would watch him sleep for hours until he came out of it, somewhat able to be healthy. Somewhat himself, whatever that was. I watched as my mom emotionally deteriorated and started to not be able to deal with it. I started to wonder how much longer she could take it. After about ten years, the well times would be fewer and the sick times would be more. And my heart was sick all the time.
Until one day. We were done. We just couldn't do it anymore. We left him. Not only as a family, but me. I left him. My heart needed a break. I wanted out. We sent him to go live alone, and we quickly found out that he couldn't handle that situation and other family members stepped up to the plate to take him in as they could handle it. He lived in Montana for a while and was far enough away that I didn't have to see him at all.
This is the part in the story where we get to the crossroads. A place where I could go either way. This is where the backstory makes a big difference in the end of my fathers life. It's the part of how I entered back in, after I had decided to leave.
Taking time gave me a chance to heal. Taking time allowed me to be angry that my dad wasn't the kind of dad that I really wanted. And boy was I angry. Taking time gave me a chance to run to Jesus and let him be the dad that I never had. Taking time let me see my dad..... Him. Not my expectations of what I wanted, but who God gave me. And what I found, was delightful. I found a man that was simple and brave and humble. I found a man that was quick to forgive and always assume the best of people. I found a man that was getting progressively tired, but was always willing to play ping pong with me. I found a man that was interested in others and wanted to help. I found a man that cared deeply about his children and also his ex wife. And even though she had married again, he was always willing to enter into that relationship as it was, with an open heart. He became my dad who struggled with schizophrenia, and not my schizophrenic dad. I saw clearly that he was a man who, even on medicine, would always have a radio of paranoid thoughts roaming through his head. They were never quiet...and that made me sad....not angry anymore.
Being on antipsychotic drugs for a long long time ruins your body. I watched him deteriorate and I never knew what would happen to him. He just kept getting more tired and more tired, and more weak and more weak. You don't die of paranoid thoughts. His heart was strong. I remember asking people, "what is going to happen to him? What will the end look like?" I wanted to know. Not because I wanted him dead, but because I wanted to know how he would suffer and try to stop it. The answer was clear. The antipsychotic medicine was giving him induced parkinsons. We had a choice. To help him function mentally, and slowly kill his brains ability to move his muscles? Or let him live with the delusions and put others and himself in harms way? It was the kind of no brainer that feels like you have just stabbed yourself in the heart. We kept him on medicine that would eventually kill him....slowly.
As my family grew and we would live far away from him, our visits would be sweet for me. I wasn't always great about calling but I remember spending hours a day listening to him when I would be in town. I loved to hear his thoughts, even if they were full of concerns about a crises that was coming and whether or not he was Jesus, Adam, and Moses all at the same time. We would often talk about the Bible which was near to my heart and he loved to pray. He would sometimes call me just because he heard a sermon and wanted to make sure that I had either accepted Christ with my whole heart, or not turned away. When I came to town we always went to church together and every time there was an alter call, he would stand up, yet again, to accept Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior. That man was saved more than anyone else I know.
My journey had taken me to a place where I finally hated to live so far away from him, and so when my auntie called and told me to come home because dad was weak with infection in the hospital, I knew it wasn't good. When I walked into his room he had that tight see through skin look and he was breathing hard with his mouth open. Maybe if I hadn't watched so many Mother Thereas video's I wouldn't have assumed he was dying. Maybe a daughter just knows. But I sat with him and loved all over him, despite the fact that he had MRSA bacterial infection. I had bought a one way plane ticket and I was staying. I was staying because I was born his. Then my heart left him. And then God brought me back to a place where he became mine and I wasn't leaving until my daddy didn't need me anymore.
It was a Monday morning and I had told my brother to come and he was on his way. So when my dad looked me in the eye that same morning and said, "Okay. I'm ready to die now." I calmly said, "You are? Well.... that's okay dad, but you should know that Brian is coming. Do you want to wait so that you can see him again?" and his eyes lit up. "He is? Oh yes!"
We spent three days with my brother and laughed and talked. Although my dad couldn't choose to swallow by himself, he was getting an IV and was seemingly quite perky since my brother had arrived. I wasn't sure he was dying after all, until I arrived on the Thursday morning and the nurse asked to talk to me. She said, "Wendy, he has made a decision. His body is shutting down. We don't know quite how long it will take, but he is dying." I nodded with resolve to let her know that I understood and went to the room. I wanted to yell, "Stop! Stop! You don't have to do this! I am not ready yet." I didn't though. I just cried and told him it was okay. That we would be okay. That he could go whenever he wanted to.
During this time my brother and I began such a depth of discussion. In the end is when you think about life, and how you lived it, even if it isn't yours. My brother had wondered if he was a good son. He kept saying, "I should've called him more. I should've visited more. I didn't really do enough for him." I understood exactly what he was saying, because we all could've done more for him. He lived alone and suffered for so much of his life. Our whole family had abandoned him. And we all entered back in as we could and my brother had never reconciled how fully he entered back in because he had always compared himself to me. I was the one that would spend hours with dad in the rehab centers when he was weakening. I was the one that would come to town and stay with him a couple days. His guilt was so strong. It was the kind of guilt that had eaten him up and I could tell that there was a deeper question underneath it all. A question between a son and his dad. Where do I stand? Does he know that I love him? Does he forgive me that at times I ran from him? Does he love me?
The last night, I stayed by my dad and waited with him. Sometimes he would come out of a sleep and look around and I reminded him that I was right there. As much as I wanted to be the one that could last to the end, I was exhausted in the morning and called my brother in for a shift and I sacked out. At 9:30 that same morning, my brother called crying, "Wendy....he's gone. He's dead." and I was filled with such humility and saw the grace my dad had for my brother. Even though I was the daughter that was always there for my dad when he was sick,my dad chose him. "Brian" I said, "he chose you. He could've died with either one of us, and he chose you. You don't have to wonder anymore how he felt about you." and it was perfect. Exactly as it should've been. He chose my brother because he loved him just as he loved me. At that moment it was very clear to me, and maybe I'm weird for this to be the first thought that came to mind at such an intense moment of my life... My thought went to the cross where Jesus was hanging, and as he hung there with all the people he knew best, his disciples, his mom, his brothers....I saw him and he was looking right at me. He chose me just as my dad had chosen my brother.
That's why to this day, I remember the death of my dad during the week of Easter. I can't even tell you the month or day that he really did die. I can't separate the two because the image and the lesson was so clear. In the humble death of my dad, I understood that all of my questions were answered. Does Jesus know how much I love him? Does he know that even though I'm broken and have tried to come near that I've done my very best? Does he....love me? And in his eyes I see the yes. I see the care and tenderness that he was looking for me just as he looks for everyone.
It was in my dad's death, that my understanding of mercy was truly born. Two new births that day.
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