Thanksgiving Thoughts

I don't remember the year exactly, but it was in the early 70's that my maternal grandfather died. I know I was driving my 1970 Olds Cutlass that I had bought brand new; and I don't think I had owned it more than a year at the time. On this rather strange occasion, I had gone home to visit my family - especially my Mom. My maternal grandmother had died the previous year, so on this trip, I decided I would drop in and see my grandpa on the way home.

The experience was shocking. When we pulled up to the old house where he lived, there were a few cars there already. Grandpa never had a car, never drove as far as I knew. So, he obviously had company. But this was in the daytime and on a weekday. At the door, I was greeted by an aunt who invited us in. The cars belonged to aunts and uncles I quickly learned. The news came fast. "Pop died this morning."

The body had just been discovered by one of the aunts early that morning. Grandpa was just sitting on his couch - dead - when she came in. The authorities had already come and taken his body away. All the aunts and uncles that were physically close were notified and assembled at the house. My Mom had not been notified.

It was a shocking experience to learn that Grandpa had already died. But there was something more shocking. Grandma and Grandpa had 11 children. Grandpa was an alcoholic; well, I guess I should say he was a drunk since he never went to any of those blasted meetings. He was not a heavy drinker all the time. He was more of a monthly binge drinker. He would get his Army pension check on the 1st of the month and he would routinely drink a good part of it away.

They were very poor people. They lived in a small four-room house on a large lot right beside the railroad track that ran through town. Somehow they had gotten water plumbed into the kitchen sink; that was all. And the water there was only cold water. The house had no water heater. The old house was heated with a large coal stove in the living room. An outhouse near the alley in the back was the only bathroom facility. And this was the way it was the day Grandpa died.

The most valuable possession they had was a television. And it was nothing spectacular.

So what shocked me more than learning that Grandpa had died was watching my aunts and uncles interact. They were arguing over who was going to get what. I cannot describe the disgust I felt. Grandpa's body was barely down to room temperature and these jerks are arguing over his stuff. I was in my mid 20's at the time and I had more stuff than what was in that house. I listened to the bickering for a few minutes and I had all I could stand. I told them so, in no uncertain terms.

One of my uncles, whom we had visited several times in prison when I was a kid, responded to my rebuke with a threatening one of his own. He said something to the effect of "If you know what is good for you, you'll keep your mouth shut, Nonie" (I guess that's how you spell it; I never saw it in writing; it was just what a lot of family called me back then. It was pronounced "NO-knee".) Since I never knew what this uncle was in prison for, I quickly shut up and left the premises. I have had no desire to be around any of them since. I have seen a couple of my aunts and an uncle that were not there that day.

Maybe Grandpa deserved kids like that. Maybe not. Though I heard plenty of stories about his alcohol abuse, I never saw him either drinking or drunk. He was always really nice to me. I liked him and he liked me. I don't like most of his kids though. I choose better friends than that.

I am very thankful for one of his children, my Mom, the second of the 11. This is my first Thanksgiving without her. I wish you were here. I'm glad you're not here anymore.

Doing Funeral Services

In almost 33 years of ministry as an ordained minister, I have officiated at more funerals, memorials, and graveside services than I can count (or at least remember). Most were services for elderly people whose deaths were not shocking to the family. I've done some funerals for people whose death was untimely, unexpected, shocking. For instance, I served two families who had adult sons who committed suicide. I performed a graveside service once for an elderly man I had never known. A funeral home contacted me for the three of four elderly survivors who could attend a service. It was a very brief ceremony and one of the least rewarding services I have ever performed. Individuals who die are all unique, their families are all different from one another, the ages and circumstances of the death differ which makes each funeral in ways unique. This weekend I performed one that shall forever be in a category of its own.

On Saturday afternoon, April 28th, I performed a graveside service for my mother and led a memorial gathering of family and friends afterward. My mother's expressed wish was that I would do her graveside service. That was all she wanted done, just a graveside service - no funeral. She restricted viewing of her in the casket to one hour before the graveside service. She didn't like the idea of people fussing over her, looking at her or talking about her when she wasn't there. So, she controlled as much of that as she could. With due respect for what Mom wanted, her other children and I, our spouses and our children controlled what was important to us.

We planned a memorial gathering at Mom's church after the graveside service. There we could have a little more relaxed setting to share thoughts and memories about our loved one with others who knew her and loved her, too. Would Mom have approved? Doubtful, but then we didn't ask. In fact, we weren't consulted about what we wanted in this time. (Word to the wise: You can only control so much stuff after you are dead and gone.)

At the grave site, I shared some of the significant bio information that was printed in her obituary. She was the second born of 11 children. As such, she had responsibilities in the home to help care for the younger siblings. She was a responsible child, hard-working, reliable and trustworthy. I knew that Mom had grown up in the Great Depression, but I hadn't done the math until I prepared for her service. She was 9 1/2 when the stock market crashed in 1929. Like many of her peers, she was a frugal lady. I told at the graveside how she would go from grocery to grocer to get the food to feed her family, shopping the sales at each store. She watched sales like a hawk. And she watched the store clerks at the cash registers even closer. They made mistakes, but few if any that my Mom didn't catch. If she didn't catch the mistake at the time, she would go over her receipt at home; and when she found a mistake, it would mean a trip back to the store (even for a nickle or a dime).

Now, when I was a kid gas was 15 to 20 cents a gallon. Mom would spend the gas money to get her dime back from the store. If it were today, with gas at over $3.50 per gallon, she would still want to go back and get her nickle or dime. The injustice of being overcharged trumped all mathematics.

Mom did have a strong sense of justice. She wanted things to be right and fair. This world in not always right or fair. And my Mom knew this experientially. She experienced a lot of wrong and unfair treatment. I was a witness to some of it - from my own father. Couple with Mom's passion for justice was difficulty forgiving people who had had treated her unjustly, especially if it were a repeated offense.

Mom was a saint, in the true sense of the word. In the New Testament, a saint was not some exceptional version of a Christian - a Super-Christian; saint was the term used for Christians in general. Those who believed in Jesus, who chose to follow Him in faith were known as saints. And that was my Mom.

She knew she had a sin-debt with God. She believed that Jesus settled that debt on the Cross. She believed that Jesus was coming back for her. In fact, she - not so secretly - hoped that He would come back before she would have to face death. She believed that He went to prepare a place for her - a WONDERFUL place. She believed that He would give her a new body - one with no weakness or limitations, no pains or sickness. She believed in a place where He "would wipe every tear from [her] eyes", where there would be "no more death or mourning or crying or pain".

I stood with the few family members and friends, who gathered there at Fall Cemetery under a tent at her grave site on that chilly April day, and proclaimed what I believe. She now has that for which she hoped. I even believe she has more than she hoped for. I think heaven offers us more than we can imagine. Whatever she had in mind about life on the other side, while she contemplated it from here, fell woefully short of the reality there. I am sure that every faculty she ever possessed is more than restored; it is hers in upgraded form. She can see like she never saw in her life. She can see God's hand at work in her life in ways she never realized.

Before we committed her body back to the earth, I shared how in my last eight years at home we lived at 1270 Pike Street in Wabash. Since then, we had all moved away from 1270 Pike Street. It used to be our home, but it no longer is our home. Likewise, the body in the casket used to be Mom's home, but it no longer is. So, it was fitting that we store away that home in Falls Cemetery. And we did.

My Mom Died

This morning I received a call from my brother, Terry. It is not usual that I get a call from him, especially in the morning. When I saw his name on the caller ID, I thought I was in for news about Mom. I thought she might have died; I thought something might have happened and she had been taken to the hospital. I was right.

The nursing center had just called him to say that our mother had passed from this life. She had been declining substantially in her mental functions in recent weeks. So I was not surprised.

I called my sister to inform her. She had the same experience as I; seeing my name on the caller ID, she was braced for what I had to tell her.

We both took the news well, at least initially. I shed some tears an hour or so later, after talking with Mom's nurse. She assured me that Mom had had a pleasant morning, ate a nice breakfast and slipped away peacefully between 10:30 and 11:00 after finishing her mid-morning snack. It was just exactly what I have prayed for, that she would go quickly and peacefully.

Thank you Jesus for my Mom and the hope I have of seeing her again - but in perfect health next time. I hold onto this hope, not just a hope of seeing my mother again, but seeing her fully healthy and fully satisfied.

My mom had a decent life in America, but a life of struggle. My dad was not a good husband, to say the least. After divorcing him, she never remarried. Though she loved her children dearly, we were busy with our own family lives in adulthood. I'm sure she battled a lot of loneliness. She struggled with health issues of various kinds. At least a couple of decades ago, she had a viral infection that destroyed her sense of smell. This largely impaired her enjoyment of food. Her brain had been deteriorating in recent years - short-term memory almost non-existent for the past two years. Thankfully, she knew us kids to the end, though she could hardly communicate in recent weeks. So, my hope is that Mom is in that place where she is whole and there is no distraction from the joy of Life.

My Sister Died

A week ago I received a call from a brother that Myrna was in the hospital and not expected to live long, a few days at best. She had had a heart attack and doctors were not able to help her beyond keeping her comfortable. Myrna was my half-sister, my dad’s only daughter by his first wife. She was his firstborn, born in 1934. She didn’t quite make it to her 78th birthday, later this month.

My sister’s death is a strange experience for me, hard for others to understand, hard for me to explain. I am saddened by the loss. Whenever I make a trip to California again, I won’t get to see her. Because we have both trusted Jesus as our Savior, I will get to see her again. This second truth is the more important truth, of course; but it does not eliminate that first truth.

In Dad’s first marriage, he had Myrna and four sons. I’m not really sure how long that marriage lasted – at least long enough to have five children. Dad’s drinking and abusive ways had to have been strong contributors to the demise of that marriage.

My mom was a young single-parent, raising her son without the help of his father. Mom was a very attractive woman. Dad was a handsome man who could be as charming as he was abusive. I doubt Dad was single very long before he and Mom got hitched.

There were already six children between them. I’m sure Dad was not interested in begetting more kids – but he did. Two of us. Me and then my little sister, three years later.

Dad was not a good husband to either of these wives. Neither was he a good dad to any of the seven children who knew him as Dad.

Divorce back in the early ‘40’s was not like it is today. There was considerable shame attached. It was a family secret. Family secrets are sometimes hard to keep with children. So this secret was kept in my family by not providing me information that I might pass along to neighborhood friends.

When we would go visit Dad’s kids or they would visit us, I didn’t know – until I was at least 10 – that they were my siblings. These visits only happened when the oldest two siblings, Myrna and Burel were young married adults. Perhaps we visited them earlier, but I have no memory of that. My guess is that Dad visited them without us present until this point.

When these visits happened, I had no sense that these were my siblings. I don’t know what I thought the relationships were.

Because there was substantial age difference between me and them, I wound up pretty uninvolved. I would just play with my younger sister while the adults visited. I remembered liking Myrna and Burel. I don’t remember much about Myrna’s first husband (the only one I knew). I remember thinking how beautiful Myrna and Burel’s wife were. Well, I was a boy. And I remember arguments that would almost always erupt between my Dad and Burel.

Through my young adult life I had no contact with my half-siblings. We had no effective bonding that drew us to want to connect. That was the way it was for me until 1986, the year our Dad died. In the wake of his passing, Burel reached out to me via mail. He wrote me a lengthy letter, telling me about his life and family and requested that I reciprocate. I did. Then he encouraged me to come for a visit the next time I returned to Indiana. Another brother, Arlis, lived in the area. So we made that happen a year or two after Dad died. Myrna had moved to California as had my sister, Diane.

It is impossible to explain what happened inside me at that time. I found myself drawn to Burel and his family. I wanted to get to know them. We shared blood. We had all been hurt by the same man. Our times together were not about those hurts – it was about discovering gifts, each other.

I have not had the opportunity to build relationship with the two younger brothers. They moved off to other states, too. Myrna and I have corresponded in those years since Dad’s passing. I have kept up with her through Burel and Diane, too.

I talked about my two sisters in California. That is a fascinating story. Both of them moved to San Diego without the other’s knowledge. They went to work at the very same company. One day, my sister saw Myrna’s name on a time card in the rack. She intended to meet the lady, just to tell her that she has a sister by the very same name. Major surprise for both when they did meet!

For the past 40 years or so they have lived in the same area and have had more contact and bonding as a result.

Myrna’s passing has been very hard on Diane. She will naturally feel the loss more intensely than I. Some of what I feel is the sadness for her and for Burel and for Arlis. I know Burel and Arlis must be feeling what I would feel if Diane had died. I would want no one to think that I don’t have my own feelings of loss; I do. They are just mixed in with feeling sympathy for those who feel this loss even more intensely than I.

I look forward to the great family reunion we shall have on the other side.

Death Sucks

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints”, according to Psalm 116:15. That is a view of death from heaven’s perspective. Now for a view from down here on planet earth: death sucks!

For about 10 days now I have been adjusting to the death of a friend, just five years older than me, who died suddenly of a heart attack. Ted had had heart trouble for about 15 years. In fact, just over two months ago he was talking with me about the fact that the doctors originally told him that he MIGHT live another 10 years with his serious heart condition. In March, it seemed he would live several more years. It has been hard to believe that he is gone for good.

Now, I believe that my friend is in a better place, an incredibly better place. But I am not. I am still in THIS place, and now with one less friend.

I’m glad to know that my friend, Ted Self, lived to honor Jesus with his life. I just wish he could have stayed here honoring Him with us much longer.

I’m really glad he didn’t have to suffer long in his parting. I just wish he could have parted without much suffering in 2014 or so.

We can try to see things from God’s perspective. We should try to see things from God’s perspective. It is the most healthy perspective. Still, it is not our only perspective, nor even our most impressive perspective. As I honestly attempt to view my friends passing as a “precious” occasion, I must honestly admit that his death on May 16th, 2009 sucked to me. I know that heaven gained; but we certainly lost. And I know that heaven’s gain is more important than our loss. But our loss is not, therefore, unimportant. I lost a real friend. And that sucks!

Someday, perhaps sooner than I hope and sooner than my friends and family expect, I will experience what God views as precious. I will come home – home to the Land of Friends. You see, I am a friend of God. So was Ted. I hope to see you there someday.