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.

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

Good Grief

No, this is not a post about Charlie Brown. I've been doing a little digging around today on some professional resources for care giving and contemplating some of my errands and have had a minor epiphany. Sort of, I think.

I met with the current pastor at church today. As many of you know, I completed training as a Parish Lay Minister in January and have been involved in a care giving sort of ministry to people who, for whatever reason, cannot make it to church any more. We spoke for a couple of hours about the work I've been doing, current needs, what we'd like to see this evolve into, what needs we'd like to anticipate or programs that should be developed. In short, it's too much work to pile upon a pastor, or even to share between a pastor and one or two other people who volunteer to help. What we need is a swat team of caregivers, which is basically what I've been charged to develop.

Uh, ok. Just how in the heck am I supposed to do this?!? I've barely got any experience doing this myself, much less be the one coordinating and training volunteers! So where can I turn for resources on care giving, I asked the pastor. He sent me to the Stephen Ministries website. Some of you may have heard of this incredible caregiving ministry that is offered in churches of all denominations. It is one-on-one support between the care receiver and a lay person (i.e., trained "average joe," not a pastor), and there is extensive training for those who are said ministers. I don't know all the details, but you can read up on it by hitting the link.

Anyhoo, I stumbled upon a book that I ordered that I would love to buy for every person on planet Earth to manditorily read: "Don't Sing Songs to a Heavy Heart: How to Relate to Those Who Are Suffering." It's written by the man who got this ministry started, and I can't wait to read it. It immediately made me think of Job's friends who thought so highly of themselves and of the godly words they thought they were offering, when actually they were being insufferably cruel. It's kind of funny, actually. I remember reading the book of Job some time after Tom died, and some of my Christian friends assumed that I was reading it to identify with Job being faithful to God despite his overwhelming grief. Actually, I turned to Job to know how to deal with people who thought they were bringing help into my life when, in fact, they were crushing my heart and adding to my grief. And don't get me wrong -- we see how God deals with Job, who got it right up to a point. But I am infinitely glad that there is a book in circulation that deals with this problem.

So many people earnestly and innocently believe that offering words of hope and scripture are a way to shed holy, loving light on loss. To the person on the receiving end, it's a real crap shoot as to whether or not those words will be received in the way in which they were intended. And while the person trying to offer support and comfort might feel hurt by the rejection of their sentiments, it would be soooo helpful if they could remember: it's not about them. To expect someone experiencing raw emotions and navigating the pea-soupy waters of grief to be socially acceptable, gracious, understanding, etc., of this is really asking a lot. Not everyone is able to look past it and know that you didn't mean to hurt them, or you're just trying to share your faith, or whatever your reasons might have been. The best thing to say is...

Nothing. Just be there.

At least, that has been my experience and that of many others I have known who have gone through loss of any sort. And loss doesn't necessarily mean death, but that's another post althogether...

At any rate, if you find yourself working with people, working in a church setting, etc., this book might be worth the read. I'll let you know in a month or so what I think about it.

The other thing that has got my hamsters jogging is non-traditional living. And by that I don't mean gay marriage, so just don't even go there. Let me explain...

As I was happily Googling before pilates this morning, over my cup of Hawai'ian joe, I googled something to the effect of "fathers day second dad," "fathers day dad in training," etc. What I was going for was gift or card ideas for the man in my children's lives who loves and adores them, shares in their care and discipline when we are together, etc. What I found were dozens of posts on discussion boards of women wondering how to honor these kinds of men in their lives. Some of the answers back were interesting, funny, and downright rude. What stuck out to me was this:

1) I'm not the only one going through this.

2) There's a growing need in our society to address the non-traditional sector. Like it or not, I think we're here to stay, y'all.

I know that this may not affect many of you, but once it does, it becomes stark and apparent to you in every area of your life. I have had to explain for three years now why my kids attend the Father's Day luncheon with their grandfather and hope and pray that it doesn't make them sad. My kids don't have active memory of T. -- R. is the only father figure they have known. I cringe every time we pass a little girl wearing a "Daddy's little princess" t-shirt now that Li'l G can read. What section of Hallmark do you head to in order to find a Father's Day card for a widow, or a Mother's Day card for a widower? Where exactly are the "Not-So-Merry Christmas" cards for those going through their first holiday after losing a loved one? Is it possible to find a Father's Day card for a man who has not biologically fathered children with you yet, but yet fathers your children? What kind of sentiment is passed along to a foster parent or other family member functioning like a parent? What about those of us who want to celebrate major milestones in our lives, like being cancer-free for an entire month or year, or becoming a "hyster-sister?" I don't point these things out to get to wear my martyr pin again, but these are just the things I was pondering today...

While I am certainly not the fount of creativity from which this line of alternative Hallmark will spring, but if I was smart, I'd come up with something and slap a copyright on it because non-traditional life and experiences are actually becoming pretty commonplace.

What I've walked away with is this: the amount of need in this world is overwhelming to a human, but thankfully, not so for God.