Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

I'll be honest. I have never been a huge Farrah Fawcett fan. In fact, when I heard that she had a documentary showing her journey through cancer, I must admit it ticked me off a little. I mean, why should we care about this? Millions of average joes are diagnosed with and fight cancer on a daily basis. This whole "let me use my celebrity to put a 'face' on cancer" business just irritated me like a pebble in a shoe. The 'face' I put on cancer is that of my friend, Jenster. My grandfather. Li'l G's German oma back in Georgia. A hardcore Army wife. These are the real faces of real people that have been faced with cancer and kicked it square in the face and said, "Not today; not on my watch." Thanks anyhow, Farrah -- already have a meaningful association here without Hollywood attempting to create meaning here.

And then I watched her film, "Farrah's Story."

And then I felt like a jackass.

What I saw was not some blonde chickie who was famous in Hollywood. What I saw was a child of God, looking with eyes of bewilderment at life, at creation, and how death is not near as far away as many of us might think. I saw in her eyes fear, hope, caution, exhaustion, delight in simplicity, wonder. What I saw was a fellow human, trying to navigate her way in this sea of the uncertain human experience.

I was so touched. True, I really don't need to watch a movie to have an epiphany on the effects of a disease on a person, but in an age where we all drool like Pavlovian subjects at the mention of "reality television" or infidelity between Jon and Kate, this was reality. I believe the Discovery channel calls it "actuality." We do not need films like "Farrah's Story" to make cancer, alzheimers, or children with autism finally seem real to us; we need them to retain a sense of connection during very human experiences -- life, death, birth, love, grief, affliction -- all these things which God calls us to yoke alongside one another and experience in community.

I do not know if NBC will replay "Farrah's Story;" however, if it is rerun, do yourself a favor. Turn off the "Jon & Kate" episodes you DVRed and watch. It is a shining example of how one woman refuses to give up on herself, and those around her cannot help but love and support her and her tenacity. May we all go down fighting.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

--Dylan Thomas

C.S. Lewis: Narnia? Not Quite...

Let me lay the ground work; then, we'll get to the comments about C.S. Lewis...

So I've embarked on this journey of trying to gird my brains with information this summer. Information that will hopefully be a resource as I attempt to piece together a care giving ministry at my church. When my pastor initially discussed this with me, I was surprisingly excited about the task at hand. My normal reaction would be one of, "Oh, no, not me. I'm not qualified/ordained/organized/"holy" enough..." So many times I would be tempted to back out of leading such an effort, but this time I met his gaze with some enthusiasm. It's an area of ministry that I would have never picked out to be involved with, much less coordinate or lead others' efforts. So hopefully that's a seed of God-planted affirmation.

My second reaction was, "Uh oh. I am really not qualified." I graduated from an informal, two year training of "average joes" who want to step up their involvement in their church and congregation. I am not any sort of professional counselor, pastor, etc. When my pastor left in late January, I saw a need to pick up a neglected ministry and fulfill a need. I began visiting with and taking communion to the sick and immobile people who cannot make it to church anymore, and I have received enough positive feedback to know that my efforts are appreciated. However, this should not and cannot be a pastor-centered ministry. There are too many people, both in our congregation and the world at-large, who need this type of one-on-one ministry. It's called care giving. My favorite way of putting it: ministry of presence. A ministry of presence is something that we're all qualified and called to do as believers. My job will be to gather a dedicated group of volunteers and connect them with those in need of this intentional fellowship.

So it occurs to me that the only experience I have is that of being literally plopped into people's homes and apartments, praying that God would be amongst our fellowship and keep me from doing or saying anything stupid. If I am to serve as a servant leader, I need to have some resources. Essentially, I need some tools in my belt. Out of all the books I have chosen to read, this is the one I have finished first:

"A Grief Observed," by C.S. Lewis. I had heard about this book and wanted to read it for some time but had forgotten about it. Having lost a spouse, I am able to relate on some level to those who have also gone through this type of loss, but I'm constantly trying to find a way to express thoughts, glimpses, wrestlings with God that I have experienced to those who have not had to go through this. This book gives a voice to those of us who have been down this road but can't quite put a finger on how to describe it. If you have been through the death of a spouse, please read this book. If you are married, please read this book. C.S. Lewis, like myself, had to do some serious restructuring of how he perceived death, marriage, eternal life, Heaven, God, and so forth. For us, we had to go through our grief as we navigated these murky spiritual waters. Do yourself a favor now and really take a hard look at how you answer some of these questions:

1) What is the role of death in a marriage?
2) Regardless of what my religion tells me, do I expect to be reunited with my spouse and/or loved ones?
3) Where, geographically, is Heaven?
4) What type of awareness does one have after death?
5) Do relationships continue on after death?
6) What is the point of enduring pain?

Most of the people I know who read my blog (if they haven't given up on me yet! haha!) will have a Bible verse for each of these answers. I encourage you here: put away the Bible. Step away from the reliable comfort of the Word and go into a graduate level application without your notes. Close your eyes, and picture your spouse gone. Their smell, gone. Their snoring, gone. Their companionship, gone. The heat of their body pressed against you as you sleep at night, gone. And not deployed, either. Gone. Imagine forgetting the sound of their voice. Imagine wondering if the way you remember him/her is really the way he/she was at all. All of these factors, and many more that we cannot perceive ahead of time, weigh heavily on a person's heart and affects the answers to those questions. The type of relationship you have with God prior to an event like this significantly affects how you navigate grief and loss, but the experience itself gets equal billing in the decision making process of someone left in the wake of their absent mate.

Clive Staples Lewis (yes, that's what C.S. stands for) apparently never intended to publish these four journals, now chapters, that he penned after the death of his wife. Writing being his mode of expression, he worked out his grief ponderings on paper and left us a gift therein. What you witness is a man desperately in love, desperately lost, wrestling with himself, God, and the "grief process." His words are tender, raw, scathing, sorrowful, hopeful, realistic, searching, disturbing -- he is real about what he is experiencing. You will not find theology in this book. There are no fictional allegories about Aslan, no floral writing about "glory to God" or "let it be Thy will." Instead, you will take a peek into the mind of a one who has had part of him amputated and realizes he must somehow survive.

From the first paragraph of Chapter One, Lewis hits the nail on the head: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness... At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed." Chapter Two is not for the faint of heart. Here is where he gets to the dirty work of wrestling with God, reality, and eternity. He speaks at length about one's faith being like a rope and the level of trust we assign to our beliefs. Sure, we trust a rope to keep a box tied shut. There is no stress on its fibers. However, "suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it?" (p. 23) He also muses over how our beliefs and our faith is like a delicate house of cards that, however carefully constructed, is easily demolished. He comes around in Chapter Four to a beautiful change in perspective about his house of cards, demonstrating that this type of spiritual questioning and challenging is necessary to prune our spiritual bushes in order to stimulate healthy growth.

One of the most profound observations he made was regarding death and marriage. For many of us, we see these two concepts in perhaps one of two ways:

1) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies. When the second partner dies, the relationship continues, almost as if it had been paused in the meantime. We're reunited, walking hand in hand for eternity; or,

2) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies, at which time we are free to search for a partner and remarry. Wash; rinse; repeat. Reunification in heaven, maybe yes, maybe no.

In other words, we see death as either a cosmic pause in our relationship, or the finite end to it. Lewis believes that "bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love. It follows marriage as normally as marriage follows courtship or as autumn follows summer. It is not a truncation of the process but one of its phases; not the interruption of the dance, but the next figure." (p. 50) I felt as if someone had taken my hands out of cuffs the minute I read that. How freeing! For me, this makes marriage possible -- I don't have to fear death as being the unknown or the end. It is part of the process, the natural cycle of life and love, put into place by Life and Love Himself. It certainly does not remove pain, as pain is part of the natural experience of living as much as happiness or love. For some reason, it helps to make sense of pain to me.

I know this post may seem a little academic, and in a way, I would feel guilty reviewing C.S. Lewis and not paying closer attention to some of his details. I think this book was a great starting point for me, both personally and "professionally." Personally, I'm always in search of connecting with others who "get it." Professionally, I'm not a professional anything, besides maybe a speculator, but this is a great tool to hand to others who have not had this experience firsthand. It is a great tool for those going through a similar circumstance. Rather than preaching to people about what the Bible says about death, no more tears in Heaven, God will be your husband, and all the other ridiculous crap people have thrown my way, however well-intentioned it was at the time, I would rather hand this book to them and encourage them to see it as a conversation with a real person, looking realistically and practically at life, death, and love through a holy lens.

Class of 2021

It's hard to fathom, as you look at your squirming, bewildered newborn, that they will not always be tiny and helpless. Making a connection between this little stocking-capped person who can curl up in the crook of your arm and the lanky teenager smelling up your house isn't one easily made. And while my children are still quite young, the ways in which they have grown both delight and depress me. Simply put, they are growing up, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Case and point: Kindergarten graduation. Seriously, who came up with this? Someone who exacts emotional revenge on parents of five- and six-year olds, that's who. Is the growth chart on the bathroom wall not enough of a reminder that this precious, chubby person would rather watch High School Musical than Backyardigans, which WAS her favorite show until she left the soft, sweet cocoon of preschool? Do you just enjoy watching me in pain?!?

All drama aside, Li'l G did, in fact, graduate from Kindergarten today. Given the recent events in my family, as you can read from the previous post, my emotions have been maintaining the red-line area for a couple of weeks, so I was determined to keep it together for Li'l G's sake if for no other reason. This was actually quite simple to do, as I was shooting her daggers with my eyes since she and the little girl sitting next to her were giggling and pushing for the majority of the occasion. But, as per usual, I was struck by several precious moments during graduation that pressed through the floodgates and tore me up good.

After each student had walked the stage and received his or her awards and diploma, all of the Kindergarteners gathered on the stage to sing their sweet, innocent version of that song that says, "The world is a rainbow, made of many colors..." This song puts into simple language, that even they can understand, the concept of living in harmony with people who are different from us. What a profound Kindergarten concept with which we adults continue to struggle! What I saw on their faces: joy, opportunity, promise. I wanted to cherish that space in time for each of them, a time when children genuinely care about the well-being of every student in their class, a time when they know that, if only for that eight hour span of time at school, the adults in their lives love them and want to help them succeed. I watched each child walk across that stage, and I wondered what they would look like at high school graduation, if they made it that far. I watched the kids I knew well from Li'l G's class and cried because I was so stinkin' proud of each of them. These precious little people.

At the end of the gala event, yet another sadistic person had put together a slide show, a poignant compilation of pictures and song that captured each class and showcased the kids doing what they do in Kindergarten. Of course, the only dry eyes in the room belonged to Bud, who was begging to go home by this point in the show. All the while, I was literally willing myself not to cry. As the lights lifted and children were dismissed to accompany their parents back to their respective classrooms is when the bomb dropped on my house.

Li'l G was upset. She was crying, had apparently been crying for several minutes during the slide show. At first, I assumed that the events of the day had caught up with her and she realized she would miss her friends and teachers during the summer. (Keep in mind this is the child who weeps over sad books, cartoons and movies like, "Velveteen Rabbit," and, "Little One.") I asked her why she was so sad and was mentally preparing the salve for her little breaking heart when she said, "I'm sad because I miss Daddy."

Of course, this same thought had been playing in my head during all of graduation. We have reached the beginning of many milestones in life that will come and go without the presence of T. by her side to cheer her on and be her Number One fan. It's a day I have dreaded since November 30, 2005. The mother in me grieves for my children that they will experience their loss over and over again every time something like this comes up. As wonderful as today was, there was no denying its bittersweet aftertaste. The Christian in me reasons back at Grief, reminding me that death has been conquered by the Risen Christ and that the connection between T. and his children is still there and remains forever, albeit behind a gossamer-thin veil that is just opaque enough to always leave room for them to doubt his eternal love of them and how proud he will always be of who they are. In the end, we just sat there, Li'l G and I, and had a good, ugly cry, the world of happy mommies, daddies, and grandparents swirling around us, completely oblivious about the little girl with the broken heart huddled with her mother who could do nothing but quietly cry with her.

What Li'l G and I experienced together was only part of what occupied my thoughts. After I thought of what a loss it was for T. not to see his children grow up, blossom, and move through life, I thought what an opportunity this would've been for R. to have been here today. If we are ever going to transition to being a blended family, R. will have to be there for these milestones. What I have learned thus far, and will no doubt be doing graduate-level research on this summer, is that the transition time of learning how to blend a family makes the milestones less bittersweet. R.'s presence, be it simply in our lives or physically being there, is tangible evidence of the cycle of life, continuing to grow and change into a new person or a new situation. R. brings continuity to a life that has felt like the pause button was pushed almost four years ago. His presence does not erase the pain; rather, it demonstrates that it can be survived and that life, most assuredly, goes on.

The date today is June 2, 2009. I've got 12 more years of living and loving to prepare for Li'l G's next big step into the world. Congratulations, Little Lady. I'm so proud of you.

"I thank my God every time I remember you... he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." -- Philippians 1:4, 6

Legacies

I have had a million things on my mind about which to blog: an unbelievable show I watched recently about Amish teenagers, some of the lessons I've been learning as my involvement in ministry grows and changes, personal updates, etc. All of that came to a screeching halt on the Friday before the Memorial Day holiday weekend when my grandmother suffered an acute gall bladder attack that nearly took her life and left my family completely rattled.



The circumstances of how things began are nothing short of miraculous. Any other day of the week, she would've experienced the beginning of her symptoms in a quiet, empty house as my grandfather ran his usual errands around town. (Although he is an octogenarian, his energy and drive puts many of us whippersnappers right in our place. I have definitely inherited some of his "ADD"-like behaviors, haha...) At any rate, my grandparents had company -- my uncle from California -- who was able to get her quickly to medical care. Had he not been there, all of us would hate to put together the picture of how this story could have played out. At any rate, the random timing of his short visit didn't seem so random after seeing this happen.



As I write this, we have had many ups and downs with my grandmother's physical and mental condition. The life-saving surgery she requires is too risky at this point, so the best thing for her is to rest and regain her strength; however, in the back of my mind, I'm wondering how long until we see a repeat of her extreme pain and agony if this flares up again before she is strong enough for surgery.



Something that has frightened some family members is her willingness to go Home. As far back as I can remember, my grandmother has made very clear to me that we all have important work to do "in the highways and hedges" for the Lord until we are called Home, which is where our hearts should ultimately be pointed. When we have talked of injustices and violence going on in the world, especially in regards to children who are abused or starving, she is always moved to tears, her spirit grieving for the Lord to return and bring His own unto Him. While I would love to see her make a full recovery and return to her St. Francis of Assissi-like love and care for her birds and squirrels at her home, as well as her music ministry at a local nursing home, I know that both physically and mentally she is exhausted and weary. I know that she yearns to see Jesus and add her voice to the chorus of those worshipping at the throne. I will be honored to see her through whichever journey God sees fit to send her on, be it here or there. But what moved me to tears was thinking about what she will leave behind.



"Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same." This quote by Flavia has always been a profound truth for me. Especially after T. died, I could really relate. But what I think about today is the legacy my grandmother leaves behind, what each of us will leave behind. We hear a lot in today's media about presidents and their legacies, how they have shaped the nation in various ways during their time in office. In our own personal lives, we each leave behind a legacy. I've also heard the analogy that children are like glasses, and parents leave behind some kind of indelible fingerprint on the glass, while some parents crack or completely destroy this fragile material. The way we act, think, dress, virtually everything about us impacts those around us and leaves a lasting impression, hopefully a good one if we're lucky.



The legacy my grandmother has already created was so easy to see on the faces and in the hands of my family over the last week or so. There were eight to ten of us waiting to take shifts and sit with her, feed her, or console her at any time during the day or night. The sense of family connection in the ICU waiting room was virtually palpable. But consider who we have learned this from: this is a woman who has hardly sat still a day in her life to eat a complete meal. She is the most selfless serving person I have ever seen, somehow being both Mary and Martha at the same time. Even as she worked hard alongside my grandfather to care of five children of her own, she also tirelessly cared for the sick and elderly in her neighborhood, worked around the clock to care for her own ailing mother and mother-in-law. She lived through the Great Depression as the daughter of a widow and still manages to have a song in her heart and a smile on her face. She is kind and gentle to animals and children alike, and is a prayer warrior to make Mother Teresa look like a complete slacker. She wears her "Good News" pin everywhere she goes as a conversation starter so that she can tell people about Jesus when they inquire about what her pin means. She is Jesus in the flesh.



Her legacy lives on in me as well. Many people firmly believe that, unless you have a "come to Jesus" moment, then you have not really accepted Christ into your heart and made your choice for Him. (Which I have a massive theological difference with, but we'll just save that for another blog...) I was raised with Jesus. He has been a constant presence in my life, as much as my own parents and siblings. My grandmother has everything to do with that. She also frightened me to death about what Hell was going to be like, but again, that's another blog. I have never questioned: a) that Jesus loves me, b) that He is always present with me, even when I feel abandoned and alone, c) I could never stray so far away from Him that He will not always love me, d) that He is the one true Son of God, e) that He died on my behalf so that I might be forgiven of all my sins, etc. You can see where this is going. She didn't cram a bunch of scriptures down my throat and tell me I couldn't listen to pop radio in the '80s or that I had to wear long dresses and never cut my hair. She simply modeled what it means to be a Christian in a fallen world. She explained things to me, sang with me, prayed with and for me, taught me to love others and to be kind. She taught me to bring my faith in a meaningful way to others, not through pleading or judgment, but through example and service. As I embark on care giving ministry at my church, I feel like my life has come full circle, in many ways because of the tiny seed which she planted thirty-something years ago.



As I wrestle over what it's like to watch someone fighting for their life, possibly dying before my eyes, I'm realizing that growing older and aging can be a scary thing, but not the frightening experience I once envisioned. It can be a brave, graceful experience journeying slowly back to God, one that I am humbled and honored to be a part of. I only pray that He loans her to us for a little while yet -- there is so much I feel I have left to learn before she is gone.



"For God so loved the world He sent His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life." --John 3:16