Bruce Coeling died this morning. He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that. His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died. He was 67. He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Friday, June 08, 2012
Friday, May 04, 2012
Arriving Home
I recently had a conversation with some teenagers and young adults about heaven. Even more than heaven, we were talking about one of the final parts of The Apostles' Creed: "From there he will come to judge the living and the dead."
We talked about that judgement, and what it might mean. (Because they're teenagers, we also talked about whether "judgement" is spelled "judgement" or "judgment." And, because they're teenagers, we had plenty of smart phones to use to determine that it is considered correct either way. We all liked it better with the "e.") We talked about how for Christians, when we arrive at the Judgement Day, we will be judged based on Christ's actions and His sacrifice for us. We also talked briefly about how nonChristians will be judged by their own actions when they stand before Christ, because they haven't come under His righteousness. And then we talked about why, if Christians have already been judged (and found worthy), there would be a second judgement. Our curriculum explained that it is so that Christ will be officially and finally and completely glorified for His sacrifice by looking at us and proudly declaring us worthy.
With that "final" thought, I told the students to keep this in mind as we say The Apostles' Creed together in church. I also told them that we could all take comfort from being reminded that we have been declared eternally worthy when we feel inadequate in life. And then I was about to send them on their way.
Before I could do that, one of the young adults said, "But don't you think that judgement will still be scary? I mean, when you get to heaven, and you're looking at Jesus' face, don't you think you'll be freaking out?"
The question sort of caught me off guard, but it didn't take long for a smile to spread on my face and tears to spring into my eyes. "No," I whispered. "No. I think when I get there it will be like arriving home, and I've never been afraid to walk into my house. I belong there, and my parents are there."
Maybe that's why the command from heaven to not be afraid truly is repeated in scripture more than any other command. Surely God commands a holy fear. We are to fear the Lord, in fact. But that fear isn't the fear that is defined in most American dictionaries. It's not a "distressing emotion" brought on by "impending danger." It's an awe. A reverence for this holy, holy God. When I think of that "fearing the Lord," I'm reminded of the passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis when the Pevensie children are asking the beavers about whether Aslan is safe. "Safe?" they are asked. "Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
We have that same comfort in approaching our God. Of course He isn't safe. And of course we should fear Him. But we shouldn't fear Him, and we shouldn't dream for even one moment that walking into our final judgement or standing in front of His throne at our deaths should be scary. Because He's good. Because He's the King. Because those of us who are found in Him have been saved and made perfect by Him. And because when we get there, we're Home. And it should never feel scary to walk into your Home. You belong there, and your Father is there.
We talked about that judgement, and what it might mean. (Because they're teenagers, we also talked about whether "judgement" is spelled "judgement" or "judgment." And, because they're teenagers, we had plenty of smart phones to use to determine that it is considered correct either way. We all liked it better with the "e.") We talked about how for Christians, when we arrive at the Judgement Day, we will be judged based on Christ's actions and His sacrifice for us. We also talked briefly about how nonChristians will be judged by their own actions when they stand before Christ, because they haven't come under His righteousness. And then we talked about why, if Christians have already been judged (and found worthy), there would be a second judgement. Our curriculum explained that it is so that Christ will be officially and finally and completely glorified for His sacrifice by looking at us and proudly declaring us worthy.
With that "final" thought, I told the students to keep this in mind as we say The Apostles' Creed together in church. I also told them that we could all take comfort from being reminded that we have been declared eternally worthy when we feel inadequate in life. And then I was about to send them on their way.
Before I could do that, one of the young adults said, "But don't you think that judgement will still be scary? I mean, when you get to heaven, and you're looking at Jesus' face, don't you think you'll be freaking out?"
The question sort of caught me off guard, but it didn't take long for a smile to spread on my face and tears to spring into my eyes. "No," I whispered. "No. I think when I get there it will be like arriving home, and I've never been afraid to walk into my house. I belong there, and my parents are there."
Maybe that's why the command from heaven to not be afraid truly is repeated in scripture more than any other command. Surely God commands a holy fear. We are to fear the Lord, in fact. But that fear isn't the fear that is defined in most American dictionaries. It's not a "distressing emotion" brought on by "impending danger." It's an awe. A reverence for this holy, holy God. When I think of that "fearing the Lord," I'm reminded of the passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis when the Pevensie children are asking the beavers about whether Aslan is safe. "Safe?" they are asked. "Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
We have that same comfort in approaching our God. Of course He isn't safe. And of course we should fear Him. But we shouldn't fear Him, and we shouldn't dream for even one moment that walking into our final judgement or standing in front of His throne at our deaths should be scary. Because He's good. Because He's the King. Because those of us who are found in Him have been saved and made perfect by Him. And because when we get there, we're Home. And it should never feel scary to walk into your Home. You belong there, and your Father is there.
Saturday, March 03, 2012
OCD Much?
Our youngest daughter has a problem. I'm not sure it's an actual problem or would warrant an official diagnosis, but she fixates like no one I've ever met. Now it must be said (because otherwise my husband will say it for me), that I'm a fixater, too. If I'm lying in bed thinking about doing something the next day and some random item I'll need for the project is missing in my mind, I absolutely have to get out of bed to find it. That moment. It can't wait until morning, or I won't sleep. So perhaps she comes by it naturally.
Every two year old goes through the "Why?" phase. Addie seems stuck there. No answer satisfies her "why," nor will any answer make it go away. And, to make it all worse, she doesn't forget her curiosity. So, we have a two year old who wonders why about almost everything she sees, and then she fixates on it. For the next three days.
You think I'm exaggerating. Last week Monday, we were picking Meg up from preschool. On our way out the door, we started talking to our friend Kari, who was there to pick her daughter Maddie up from school. Unfortunately for Maddie's little sister, Molly, we continued our conversation after Maddie had opened the door of their Jeep, and the wind caught Molly's balloon, lifting it out of the Jeep and sending it soaring into the sky. Maddie was traumatized about what she'd done, Molly was devastated to see her balloon floating into the sky, Meg was grieving for all of the balloons she's lost to the clouds, and Addie was fixated.
As we drove home from school that day, Addie must have asked "Why?" two dozen times. Finally I got tired of the question and could no longer ignore her insistance. So, taking the advice of another parent I'd chatted with recently, I launched into a full and detailed explanation. The plan was that this would confuse her so much that she'd be distracted from her question and would stop asking. It went something like this:
"Well, you see, that balloon was filled with helium, and helium is one of the lightest gasses in the world. It's on the periodic table before oxygen, and the air is mostly filled with oxygen. When the balloon was in the car, it stuck tightly to the ceiling because it was so light, but it wasn't strong enough to go through the ceiling, so the balloon was safe. When Maddie opened the door of the Jeep, the balloon, filled with super light gas, wanted nothing more than to fly into the sky, because it is lighter than all the oxygen in the sky. Because it's so windy today, the wind caught the balloon and pulled it out from under the ceiling and into the air. The helium was too light to stay down and instead it floated up into the sky and just went up and up and up. It's sad, but that's what happens to balloons filled with helium when they are set free in the sky."
There was the much longed-for and planned silence. Then, the two-year-old voice behind me said, "Why?" Super, I thought. What do I do with this?
Before I could answer, the four-year-old voice in the far back of the van said, "Do you suppose it just keeps floating all the way up to heaven? Do you suppose all of the balloons we lose are there? And maybe the ones we write on for Baby Zion? There in heaven, with God and Jesus and Nana and Papa and Grandpa Meyer and Baby Zion?"
Then Addie asked, "Meg, do you think we'll see them again when we get to heaven, too?"
"I hope so," came the seasoned, big-sister response. "I hope so."
There was a long silence after that in the car. As the tears filled my eyes from thinking about all that we have lost waiting for us in heaven where we will gain eternity, that wise four-year-old voice piped up again: "When do you suppose Jesus will come back for us, Mommy? Because it seems to be taking a long time, and I really want to play with my balloons again."
Some things you just can't make up.
You can't make this up either: on Wednesday, when we drove Meg to school again, Addie said, "Mom? Why Molly's balloon fly into sky?" Maybe she just wanted to be reminded about heaven.
Every two year old goes through the "Why?" phase. Addie seems stuck there. No answer satisfies her "why," nor will any answer make it go away. And, to make it all worse, she doesn't forget her curiosity. So, we have a two year old who wonders why about almost everything she sees, and then she fixates on it. For the next three days.
You think I'm exaggerating. Last week Monday, we were picking Meg up from preschool. On our way out the door, we started talking to our friend Kari, who was there to pick her daughter Maddie up from school. Unfortunately for Maddie's little sister, Molly, we continued our conversation after Maddie had opened the door of their Jeep, and the wind caught Molly's balloon, lifting it out of the Jeep and sending it soaring into the sky. Maddie was traumatized about what she'd done, Molly was devastated to see her balloon floating into the sky, Meg was grieving for all of the balloons she's lost to the clouds, and Addie was fixated.
As we drove home from school that day, Addie must have asked "Why?" two dozen times. Finally I got tired of the question and could no longer ignore her insistance. So, taking the advice of another parent I'd chatted with recently, I launched into a full and detailed explanation. The plan was that this would confuse her so much that she'd be distracted from her question and would stop asking. It went something like this:
"Well, you see, that balloon was filled with helium, and helium is one of the lightest gasses in the world. It's on the periodic table before oxygen, and the air is mostly filled with oxygen. When the balloon was in the car, it stuck tightly to the ceiling because it was so light, but it wasn't strong enough to go through the ceiling, so the balloon was safe. When Maddie opened the door of the Jeep, the balloon, filled with super light gas, wanted nothing more than to fly into the sky, because it is lighter than all the oxygen in the sky. Because it's so windy today, the wind caught the balloon and pulled it out from under the ceiling and into the air. The helium was too light to stay down and instead it floated up into the sky and just went up and up and up. It's sad, but that's what happens to balloons filled with helium when they are set free in the sky."
There was the much longed-for and planned silence. Then, the two-year-old voice behind me said, "Why?" Super, I thought. What do I do with this?
Before I could answer, the four-year-old voice in the far back of the van said, "Do you suppose it just keeps floating all the way up to heaven? Do you suppose all of the balloons we lose are there? And maybe the ones we write on for Baby Zion? There in heaven, with God and Jesus and Nana and Papa and Grandpa Meyer and Baby Zion?"
Then Addie asked, "Meg, do you think we'll see them again when we get to heaven, too?"
"I hope so," came the seasoned, big-sister response. "I hope so."
There was a long silence after that in the car. As the tears filled my eyes from thinking about all that we have lost waiting for us in heaven where we will gain eternity, that wise four-year-old voice piped up again: "When do you suppose Jesus will come back for us, Mommy? Because it seems to be taking a long time, and I really want to play with my balloons again."
Some things you just can't make up.
You can't make this up either: on Wednesday, when we drove Meg to school again, Addie said, "Mom? Why Molly's balloon fly into sky?" Maybe she just wanted to be reminded about heaven.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
The Eighth Sabbath
Today was truly a sabbath as I enjoyed a weekend with friends at a cottage in Pentwater, MI. With limited exceptions, I spent the weekend unplugged from phone and computer. We laughed, ate junk food, shopped, played games, watched movies, stayed up late talking, and slept until we wanted to get up in the morning. It was a lovely hint of heaven.
Monday, January 09, 2012
Let me never, never outlive my love for Thee
Years and years ago, I came across a book written by Steven Curtis Chapman and his pastor, Scotty Smith. It is called Speechless, and I highly recommend it. Knowing my appreciation for Scotty's writing, my writer/editor friend gave me a copy of his new book Everyday Prayers. I've been using it along with the KINGDOM Reading Plan to guide my daily devotional time.
Today I was struck by something that Scotty wrote. I was struck by it because of all that is packed into the simple paragraph, as well as everything that is left out. There is no condemnation, there is no guilt. It's very matter of fact. At the same time, it recognizes the free gift of salvation and that nothing more is required of us for our eternity to be secured. And yet, when nothing more is given, something is definitely missing.
One of my favorite hymns is "My Jesus, I Love Thee," by William R. Featherston:
As Scotty wrote:
Today I was struck by something that Scotty wrote. I was struck by it because of all that is packed into the simple paragraph, as well as everything that is left out. There is no condemnation, there is no guilt. It's very matter of fact. At the same time, it recognizes the free gift of salvation and that nothing more is required of us for our eternity to be secured. And yet, when nothing more is given, something is definitely missing.
One of my favorite hymns is "My Jesus, I Love Thee," by William R. Featherston:
I'll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death
And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath
And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,
"If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus 'tis now"
As Scotty wrote:
May I never stop singing the last line in the hymn "O Sacred Head Now Wounded": "Should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for thee." That's my earnest, impassioned prayer, Jesus. I don't fear losing my salvation. I will stand firm to the end because of my standing in grace. But what could be worse than for my love for you to cool down, degree by degree, as I get older? Don't let that happen to me, Jesus. Don't let that happen. What could be worse than to finish the race with an ingrown, icy heart? (January 9)I want my love for Jesus to radiate out of me. I want it to be something that cannot be contained on my face and cannot be stopped by anything I endure. I want to lie on my deathbed and say, "Wow. I thought I loved you before. But if I've ever loved you, I know it's now."
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Still Checking Closets
I've been thinking lately about Narnia. Not the films, though I am irresistably drawn to them. Not the books, either, which I read aloud to my husband over three years of road trips. I'm talking about the place itself. But there's really more to it than that even.
When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.
The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.
"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis
I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.
"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)
I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."
But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.
"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.
When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.
The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.
"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis
I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.
"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)
I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."
But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.
"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)