A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.

Three Months?!

My blog is the first of three home pages that greet me every time I open my web browser.  Every day I think, "You should post something today.  People are counting on you.  You have something to say."  While it may be untrue that people are counting on me, I should post "today," and I do have something to say.  But every day life takes more time than the sun and moon are willing to allot.  So every day I say nothing.

The other day, though, I looked at FunnyWriterMommy when I opened my web browser, and I thought three months?!  THREE MONTHS?!  Seriously?  Something must be done.  Three months is a very long time. 

That was one week ago.

I didn't know when I began that day what the day would bring, had already brought.  And, reflecting on the past three months, I didn't think about what that amount of time really meant.

Three months is, indeed, a long time.  But, somehow, by the end of last week Monday, it seemed like a very short time.  Three months ago, we baptized Addison, giving her to God, acknowledging that she had always been His, and thanking Him for the short life of Baby Zion.  Then, we got back to living our lives.  Since then, Addie has learned to eat "real" food.  She has learned to roll over from her front to her back and back over again.  She babbles now, and she giggles.  Megan speaks much more clearly now and is learning to potty on the toilet, and Ellie has really learned to read.  For us, it has been a long time.

But for one family, the time was too short. 

Three months ago, Vaughn Arthur Barckholtz wasn't sick.  He was just a healthy, four-year-old boy learning to enjoy books and loving his mom, his dad, his cousins, his flashlight, and his every day.  He was full of life.  Then he started to get bruises.  He started to have pain where he didn't before.  He started to get sick.

Less than three months ago, he was diagnosed with ALL Leukemia, and he was sent to the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor.  In March, he beat his leukemia.  But then he got RSV and pneumonia.  He beat the RSV, though his lungs were severely damaged, but he couldn't beat the pneumonia.  It was diagnosed as MRSA.  Then, by a miracle, he beat that, too.  Machines were keeping him alive as treatments tried to fix his lungs.  But he was alive.  And he was free of all those letters that had tried to take him from his family.

Then, on a Saturday, he started bleeding.  Doctors couldn't understand where the bleeding was coming from, or why.  Two days later, one week ago today, his heart rate skyrocketed while his blood pressure plummeted.  His family gathered, and they told him they loved him.  Because they did.  The last three months hadn't changed that.  But it wasn't enough.  For reasons we won't understand until they cease to matter as we stand at the feet of our Savior, God called him home.  Just a couple of days shy of 4 and a 1/2 years after God delivered him into the arms of his parents, God called him home.  That wasn't long enough, God.  It just wasn't.  How can three months seem like such a long time while 4 1/2 years isn't long enough?  And how can three months be a long time for some but be far too sudden for a little boy to go from healthy to gone from this world?

I don't know.  But I know that Beau's cousin Chad and his wife Sarahbeth will never fully recover from this three months.

O God, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust Vaughn to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. 

Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding: Deal graciously with Chad and Sarahbeth in their grief.  Surround them with your love, that they may not be overwhelmed by their loss, but have confidence in your goodness, and strength to meet the days to come; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Taken from The Book of Common Prayer, The Burial of the Dead: Rite Two, "At the Burial of a Child"

Softly and Tenderly

My grandma died on Tuesday night. I wasn't there. To hear it told, though, and I have, over and over, it was beautiful. It's a lovely thing, to hear it over and over.

It really was beautiful and sweet, and Grandma got to say goodbye to everyone she loved and who loved her. We were first. On Sunday we stopped at the Hospice House to see her. She was there not because her death was imminent but because my parents were out of town (camping with us) and their house sprung a gas leak. Craziness.

Our visit on Sunday was also sweet and beautiful. She was wittier and livelier and more fun than she had been in a long time. She and Ellie played games with Ellie's cow, Betsy, and she was sassy with me, too. But even in the middle of all of that, she looked so sad. I wanted to climb in bed with her, but I didn't. I didn't, because for a moment I was that little girl again, afraid that she wouldn't want me there.

Grandma's death--her last few days, really--were filled with sweetness and beauty. That's a strange thing, because she wasn't always. People don't normally speak ill of the dead, and I won't do that either. I'll just be honest. My relationship with my grandma was challenging, and I was afraid of her until that last day. That last day, I sat there looking at her, and she was so sad and vulnerable . . . and beautiful. We didn't talk about our past, and we didn't talk much about the future. But I knew that she loved me and she knew that she loved me, and I loved her back. Most importantly, perhaps, I knew that I loved her back. With my kiss goodbye to her, there was closure. Though I didn't know it would be the last kiss she could give me back, I said all that I wanted to--all that I needed to--in that last kiss. And it was lovely.

Grief is an interesting thing. Though Grandma was 92, and I had joined the forces--Grandma included--praying each day that God would take her Home, it's still just a bit shocking. It's strange to think that when I go to my parents' house again, she won't be there. She won't ask us to lock the door before it is even shut behind us. She won't give popcorn to Ellie until I tell her to stop, only to have her switch to jelly beans or peanuts. She won't be there.

She's Home. And, in the end, that is the most beautiful thing about the whole bit.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.

Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
- "Softly and Tenderly," Will L. Thompson

Ellie went trick or treating with my niece Danielle tonight, so I sat with my sister. We handed out candy and watched a movie, but more than once one of us said, “I really miss Grandma.” It’s strange that I didn’t think about her every day before she died, and now I do. I know that will fade with time, but for now I remember wistfully or painfully or gratefully . . . mostly I just remember. Not all of the memories are wonderful, because we had a strange relationship, but she really was one of the most permanent fixtures in my life. She was always there. And now she’s not. And, as Ellie said yesterday, “I can’t see this heaven, where Nana is. It must be far, far away.” And then I think of Narnia. Every time.