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.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Friday, June 08, 2012
Thoughts On Saying Goodbye
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Please Excuse Me If You've Heard This One
This morning in my Bible reading, I (re)read the story of the quadraplegic man whose friends bring him to Jesus. Today's time through was in Luke, which is the more familiar text to me. It's a story that I've heard many times in my life, and I even used to know a song about it (now lost somewhere between here and Vacation Bible School at Hamlin Reformed Church, I think). Yet, it's one of my favorite stories in the Bible.
Eleven years ago I was in the middle of a rough year. To call it a rough year is actually quite the understatement. I know I've shared this, but I had several family funerals, illnesses and funerals for family friends, and my husband and I separated. Through all this, I found it increasingly hard to get to Jesus on my own. I just didn't think I had the strength to do it. I would try, but I just felt so weary. A dear friend of mine said, "Beka, we'll carry you there."
Exactly. My friends would carry me. And they did. Just like the quadraplegic man with his four friends who carried him to Jesus and let nothing--even a climb on top of a house and the thatch roof--stand in the way of them setting him at the feet of the Savior. My friends did that for me. It was their pleasure, they said. They did it because they loved me, they said. They did it because it was an honor to them to bring me to the One who could heal my heart.
Fast forward through April and part of May and to a phone call from a friend. She called to tell me that the twin brother of my dear friend's husband had died. I was stunned. Our mutual friend was stunned. My dear friend was stunned. Immediately I phoned her. When she answered, she told me that she didn't know what to say or what to do. Without thinking, I said, "It's really not so bad. You just lie there." And then we carried her. It was our pleasure. We did it because we loved her. We did it because it was an honor to bring her to the One who could heal her heart.
Through the past 11 years, she's carried me again, and I've carried her. Together we've carried other friends, and I know that we will continue to do that. It always comes back around. And it's always an honor.
Surely it seems difficult to climb onto that mat and just lie still. The quadraplegic man had it made--he couldn't move. Too often we try to get up, because we just don't feel right just lying there. But that's our job. For that season, we have to just lie there, and it really isn't so bad. For other seasons, we get to carry. But if we never trust anyone to carry us, will they trust us to carry them?
Which side of the mat do you find yourself on right now? Are you carrying someone? Then you know the honor that is there. Are you lying on the mat, being carried? Then you know the love that is there. This is family. We're friends. We do it because we love each other. And because we know that there is no one else who can heal our hearts.
Eleven years ago I was in the middle of a rough year. To call it a rough year is actually quite the understatement. I know I've shared this, but I had several family funerals, illnesses and funerals for family friends, and my husband and I separated. Through all this, I found it increasingly hard to get to Jesus on my own. I just didn't think I had the strength to do it. I would try, but I just felt so weary. A dear friend of mine said, "Beka, we'll carry you there."
Exactly. My friends would carry me. And they did. Just like the quadraplegic man with his four friends who carried him to Jesus and let nothing--even a climb on top of a house and the thatch roof--stand in the way of them setting him at the feet of the Savior. My friends did that for me. It was their pleasure, they said. They did it because they loved me, they said. They did it because it was an honor to them to bring me to the One who could heal my heart.
Fast forward through April and part of May and to a phone call from a friend. She called to tell me that the twin brother of my dear friend's husband had died. I was stunned. Our mutual friend was stunned. My dear friend was stunned. Immediately I phoned her. When she answered, she told me that she didn't know what to say or what to do. Without thinking, I said, "It's really not so bad. You just lie there." And then we carried her. It was our pleasure. We did it because we loved her. We did it because it was an honor to bring her to the One who could heal her heart.
Through the past 11 years, she's carried me again, and I've carried her. Together we've carried other friends, and I know that we will continue to do that. It always comes back around. And it's always an honor.
Surely it seems difficult to climb onto that mat and just lie still. The quadraplegic man had it made--he couldn't move. Too often we try to get up, because we just don't feel right just lying there. But that's our job. For that season, we have to just lie there, and it really isn't so bad. For other seasons, we get to carry. But if we never trust anyone to carry us, will they trust us to carry them?
Which side of the mat do you find yourself on right now? Are you carrying someone? Then you know the honor that is there. Are you lying on the mat, being carried? Then you know the love that is there. This is family. We're friends. We do it because we love each other. And because we know that there is no one else who can heal our hearts.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
A Tender Day
I've been a bit tender ever since I opened the letter this afternoon. It was a normal day, and it was a normal letter. We often get letters from the principal over the listserv, so I started to open it without really thinking. But then the subject caught me off guard this time: "Death of a Student." I thought it was an accident--a high school student or someone from one of the other schools. I figured it would hurt as I thought about it, but I never dreamed it would hit me this hard.
A 7th grader at a local middle school passed away yesterday. He committed suicide. He went to the same elementary where my oldest daughter is a student. If we stay in West Michigan, then in a few years she'll be at that same middle school--with most of the same kids she started school with in Kindergarten.
I don't know why this young man, this baby really, decided to end his life. I pray that some day his parents get answers and find hope again. As I think about what happened, though, my heart breaks--for him, for his parents, for his friends, for his classmates, for his teachers, for my daughter.
Middle school sucks. There's no way around it. It's so, so hard being a teenager. But it gets better. It sounds trite, or perhaps it just sounds like I'm stealing it from something different, something that this might not have been. All I know is that it's true. And when I walked in my daughter's classroom to read to her class this afternoon, I was tender. I looked at their little faces and wondered what middle school holds for them. They have a little better than five years before they get there, and so much can happen in that time. But all the same, I wonder. These are Ellie's classmates. They're beautiful children learning to read and be friends and eat from all of the food groups. And I love them.
So this is a tender day. May God wrap His arms of peace around this young man's parents and his teachers and his friends and his classmates. May God protect those kids, those babies, from themselves and from the only choice that can't be fixed. And may God help all of us know what to say, how to help, what to see, how to be tender.
God, I love those kids. The big ones and the little ones . . . please keep them safe tonight.
A 7th grader at a local middle school passed away yesterday. He committed suicide. He went to the same elementary where my oldest daughter is a student. If we stay in West Michigan, then in a few years she'll be at that same middle school--with most of the same kids she started school with in Kindergarten.
I don't know why this young man, this baby really, decided to end his life. I pray that some day his parents get answers and find hope again. As I think about what happened, though, my heart breaks--for him, for his parents, for his friends, for his classmates, for his teachers, for my daughter.
Middle school sucks. There's no way around it. It's so, so hard being a teenager. But it gets better. It sounds trite, or perhaps it just sounds like I'm stealing it from something different, something that this might not have been. All I know is that it's true. And when I walked in my daughter's classroom to read to her class this afternoon, I was tender. I looked at their little faces and wondered what middle school holds for them. They have a little better than five years before they get there, and so much can happen in that time. But all the same, I wonder. These are Ellie's classmates. They're beautiful children learning to read and be friends and eat from all of the food groups. And I love them.
So this is a tender day. May God wrap His arms of peace around this young man's parents and his teachers and his friends and his classmates. May God protect those kids, those babies, from themselves and from the only choice that can't be fixed. And may God help all of us know what to say, how to help, what to see, how to be tender.
God, I love those kids. The big ones and the little ones . . . please keep them safe tonight.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
That Doesn't Make It Easy
For the past few weeks, our pastor has been preaching about loving well and what it means to be true community to each other. Two weeks ago he preached about "loving stupid people" and talked about how each of us is "stupid" from time to time. We're stupid when we fall into the same sinful traps over and over again. We're stupid when we are rude and short tempered. We're stupid when we ignore the presence of God in our lives and instead focus on all that we don't have and our discontent. We're stupid when the choices we make destroy ourselves or our relationships. We're all stupid from time to time.
In order to love stupid people (and hopefully be loved in return when we're stupid), we may need to speak the truth to them. We may need to call them on their stupidity. Or, we may just need to take the time to ask them how they are and really listen. Maybe there's something more to their stupidity. Maybe they are pessimistic because they can't allow themselves to believe that they deserve good things. Maybe they drink too much or don't smile enough or are critical and grumpy because of a deep hurt they've endured. And maybe if we take a minute to ask and to truly listen, we just might find a way to gently restore them into optimism or even joy.
I've had a rough couple of weeks on a lot of levels, and there is someone in my life who is especially hard to love right now. This person is (dare I say it out loud) stupid. I think that in the past several weeks, I believe I have specifically referred to this person as an idiot, crazy, incapable, and a host of other lovely and Christian things. (Yeah, right.) God brought all of this to mind as I sat cringing my way through the sermon. And He told me that I don't get to speak harshly about this person or be impatient in our dealings or be proud about how I have it all together and this person doesn't. It totally sucked. But I prayed, and I began my dealings with this person with this new and humble heart. I thought that maybe if I approached our dealings with love and humility, then maybe I would have the opportunity to ask--and really mean--"Are you okay? Because there seems to be a lot going on with you."
I wish I could say I've been perfect at it. I haven't. I'm truly a work in progress. The occasions I had to talk with this person over the past week have been markedly different--in my mind and attitude at least. I don't know if this person felt any different about me or my attitude, but I certainly did.I forced myself God gave me the ability to see this person through His eyes and as someone that He created in His own image and died for.
But boy, it was not easy.
I was reminded that just because it's right does not make it easy. Just because I decided to change my attitude and approach doesn't mean anyone else around me did. And it didn't make the person less "stupid." Recently a friend of mine and I had a conversation about another friend we needed to "confront" with humble and loving truth. We needed to do it, because we were the only people who could, and it had to be done. So I gave an early morning pep talk and then made my friend do it--while I stayed behind praying, of course. She did it, and it was received well, and our friendship--our community--has been honored. But that didn't make it easy.
Maybe that's what tough love, loving stupid people even when they don't change, and speaking the truth in love is all about. It's not easy. It's not easy for the person who is hearing it, nor is it easy for the person who is doing it. But it's still the right thing to do.
In order to love stupid people (and hopefully be loved in return when we're stupid), we may need to speak the truth to them. We may need to call them on their stupidity. Or, we may just need to take the time to ask them how they are and really listen. Maybe there's something more to their stupidity. Maybe they are pessimistic because they can't allow themselves to believe that they deserve good things. Maybe they drink too much or don't smile enough or are critical and grumpy because of a deep hurt they've endured. And maybe if we take a minute to ask and to truly listen, we just might find a way to gently restore them into optimism or even joy.
I've had a rough couple of weeks on a lot of levels, and there is someone in my life who is especially hard to love right now. This person is (dare I say it out loud) stupid. I think that in the past several weeks, I believe I have specifically referred to this person as an idiot, crazy, incapable, and a host of other lovely and Christian things. (Yeah, right.) God brought all of this to mind as I sat cringing my way through the sermon. And He told me that I don't get to speak harshly about this person or be impatient in our dealings or be proud about how I have it all together and this person doesn't. It totally sucked. But I prayed, and I began my dealings with this person with this new and humble heart. I thought that maybe if I approached our dealings with love and humility, then maybe I would have the opportunity to ask--and really mean--"Are you okay? Because there seems to be a lot going on with you."
I wish I could say I've been perfect at it. I haven't. I'm truly a work in progress. The occasions I had to talk with this person over the past week have been markedly different--in my mind and attitude at least. I don't know if this person felt any different about me or my attitude, but I certainly did.
But boy, it was not easy.
I was reminded that just because it's right does not make it easy. Just because I decided to change my attitude and approach doesn't mean anyone else around me did. And it didn't make the person less "stupid." Recently a friend of mine and I had a conversation about another friend we needed to "confront" with humble and loving truth. We needed to do it, because we were the only people who could, and it had to be done. So I gave an early morning pep talk and then made my friend do it--while I stayed behind praying, of course. She did it, and it was received well, and our friendship--our community--has been honored. But that didn't make it easy.
Maybe that's what tough love, loving stupid people even when they don't change, and speaking the truth in love is all about. It's not easy. It's not easy for the person who is hearing it, nor is it easy for the person who is doing it. But it's still the right thing to do.
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