Short: Saying Goodbye, Part 2.

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We left four days later, under low snow-packed clouds. And the drive south was quiet, a result of tired bodies and minds. Even my sister was more quiet than her normal extroverted self. The snow turned to rain as we descended the the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia before clearing at the border of North and South Carolina. And dad was home when we pulled into the garage, shadows already long against the brick house. We were tired and somber, none more than our mother.

In the days after the trip, I thought about my grandpa and felt the emotional weight on our family. And having never engaged the practice much before, I prayed, with the preacher’s word in mind. We were good church going folks after all, washed in the blood of Jesus. Ask and you shall receive is what they said. So I asked and begged for a dying man’s life.

The odd part, one I was not trained to understand, was I heard a response to my prayers one afternoon at the kitchen table. “He’ll live another three decades,” an internal voice replied. I smiled as I did the math, my spirit lifted. That’s another 30 years. Grandpa was sick, but he wasn’t going to die, I was certain and went on with life.Three weeks after my encounter with the voice, we made another solemn trip north, and this time dad was with us. And the snow was gone, replaced by the bloom of spring.

In the years after, death and funerals became a common occurrence as grandparents, great grandparents, uncles, and friends began to pass. And I became numb to them, of crying and feeling any sort of sadness for the deceased. Death was part of life and I accepted him as I would a rainy day or flat tire, as an annoyance rather than intruder. In truth, my grandfather’s death didn’t bother me. The real damage happened just before. And years pasted before I recovered from that moment at the table and the promise I heard.

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Short: Saying Goodbye, Part 1.

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Late on a cold February afternoon, my mother told us we’d be going to Pennsylvania to visit grandpa. He was sick and we need to go see him, she said plainly. I thought it was odd timing. Family visits to Pennsylvania were often announced far in advance and occurred during summer or winter breaks. This trip would require a few missed days of school, a welcome prospect to my nine year-old mind.

Early that Thursday morning, we rose early, packed our gray station wagon and started northward up Interstate 77. The road was dark and nearly empty save a few big trucks. The mood in the car was solemn and quiet. And I stretched my neck to gawk at the glittering Charlotte skyline as we passed uptown. A few minutes later, we were beyond the city and the lights, colorful fast food signs giving way to rolling pastures, then foothills rising into mountains. When the sun finally appeared, we were in West Virginia. And the snow mixed with salt and fumes and filth. I thought it was beautiful and preferred to watch it sail by as we motored up route 19. My older sister sat beside me and chattered away as my brother remained silent in the front seat beside our mother. Mom focused on the road, making half replies to the the onslaught of questions and observations made her daughter.

As we neared Grove City, a light snow fell from purple clouds. And finally we left the interstate for good, on our way to the powder blue farm house where my grandparents lived. A mile or so from the house, mom pulled off the road to have a word with my sister and me. “Grandpa is really sick, And I need you to be respectful. No yelling or screaming. No fighting. Understood?” We both nodded, and I believe we both understood, perhaps for the first time, this visit would be different. We weren’t on vacation. We were saying goodbye.

Grandma Lean greeted us on the side porch as the snow began to fall in heavy batches, slanting with the wind. Fido, an asshole of a dog, yipped and barked behind the storm door and high jumped to view the action. My brother bolted into the house first while the rest of us waddled through slick snow to the porch. Once inside, we peeled off layers of jackets and sweaters, and sat around the kitchen table for a spell.

“I didn’t think I’d see you for a few hours yet,” said grandma, which was as close to a compliment she could offer. From my seat, everything about the narrow farmhouse seemed as it always was. Despite being old as dirt, the house was warm and comfortable, especially in the kitchen next to the pot belly stove. The smell of bacon and coffee still lingering from breakfast. “The roads were clear and we missed all the traffic in Charlotte and around Pittsburgh,” mom answered. The reunion had all the hallmarks of normal visit, except for the noticeable absence of grandpa, asleep in his bedroom.

After being warned to be keep quiet, I decided to go play in the den until supper, and pushed my army trucks around on the navy blue shag carpet. Grandma was an excellent cook and we ate sautéed pork chops, lima beans and mashed potatoes. I hated lima beans but scarfed them down anyway. Grandma always made delicious deserts and I would not be held hostage by beans. After I cleared my plate, I patiently waited for the rest of the table to finish the meal. And soon enough, Grandma produced a mouth watering lemon meringue pie.

While we talked about school and finished desert, mom slipped away down the back hallway then reappeared a few minutes later. Her face was puffy, her nose red. “Alright y’all,” my mom ordered in her emerging southern accent, “Get ready for bed.”

* * *

The next few days were a bit of a blur as we shuffled from house to house, town to town, calling on expectant family members from both sides of the family. After the first few stops, each visit became a bit of a routine: the shedding of winter clothes, discussions about the weather, offers of food and coffee, and questions about school. Bombastic uncle Kurt asked me if I had a girlfriend. And when I answered no, he immediately asked if I intended to be an old bachelor. Had I been old enough I would’ve responded, “Not as long as you plan on being a sonofabitch.”

Eventually, each visit included conversations in low, adult tones, just out of ear shot of us kids. And my mother was more tense when visiting my dad’s family yet more at ease when with her sisters. As a nine year-old, I didn’t know or understand why certain dynamics exist or why they continue. I simply noted the difference and amended my behavior accordingly.

All these years later, I recall seeing my grandpa once the entire visit and only for a few minutes. A man I’d come to know as strong and deliberate was laid in his bed and suffering. The cancer left him frail, eating away the life left in him. He moaned a bit as my mother tried to talk to him. But I said nothing as I stared at the bed.

Of all my grandparents and extended family, Grandpa Lean didn’t treat me like a child or make the mistake of expecting me to act like a full grown man. He never asked me to do more than I could and translated confidence without words. And he expressed value for me by including me in his daily routine. We’d march through the snow to milk cows in the barn, dodged flapping hens to collect eggs, picked blackberries, and split wood. But, my favorite is when he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove from field to field on his red tractor. Occasionally, he let me stand between him and the big black steering wheel and I’d pretend to be the driver. I loved spending time with him. And I hate that my last memory of him, of dying on bed, is the last memory I have of my grandpa.

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Vol III: #89 Graduations

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I recently said to a friend,”We’ve entered that stage of life where the people we love start graduating from life and I’m not ready for it.” And honestly, I find tragedy easier to handle than the inevitable. Because we all die. Every single one of us. The tragedies- the car accidents and overdoses and terminal cancer before age 30- are easy to rationalize as random or fate. But I’m not ready to say goodbye to my parents or yours. You know? The people who die mostly because of lifestyle and being old.

And, to be fair to these boomers marching toward the stage, they’ve lived full lives. Kids, grandkids, pets and more pets. They’ve loved the poor and preached the Gospel. And I’m proud of them. Truly. I’m just not ready to say goodbye.

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Vol III: #75 Funeral Parties

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My dad has always said he wants us to through a party when he dies. He also asked us to play all nine part of Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd, with its 26 minute running time. The first request to party we will honor, but I’m not subjecting the people in attendance to an epically weird, electric rock opera. But, after watching the live stream of a funeral today (for a family member), I renewed my resolve to honor my father in death. There will be no somber officiant, preaching to the assembly. No tired alter call. I want music and memories and drinks and food he’d love to eat with us.

I understand grief, but I do not understand the need to make a funeral a solemn affair. Even the tragic ones. We aren’t entitled to life. And it is only out of some sense of entitlement that we see death as “untimely.” And, I’ve seen plenty of death, watched a lot of people respond poorly to it, including me. The key is to live and be intentional rather than reactionary. Funerals ought to be a time of gratitude and celebration. Of course, it’s a ok to cry and miss someone (I’m not an asshole.) Children who miss a parent or parents who lose children have a right to that grief. But to be defined by it? That’s not how to live.

The first time I heard my dad ask for a funeral party I thought he was nuts, but I get it now. It’s better to celebrate what was and what lives on rather than moan what will never be. And I want that for me. I want my friends to gather on a beach or in a forest, throw back whatever beverages suits them, and laugh. Oh please laugh, tis my funeral request. Laugh at my mistakes and misadventures. Laugh at all my failed career choices. Laugh and remember the moments we shared. But please laugh. And then, go live.

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Abstract: What If I Live To Be 100

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Mr Death has been such a part of my life,

I consider him part of the family,

coming for friends and relatives a like,

from the earliest time I can remember,

and very present today.

As a child, I let him in,

to my heart, my dreams and hopes,

the way I view life and how I live.

And as older loves began to stand on the block,

lined up and ready (or not),

seems like their time is short.

And I worry and spend my days bound by the fear of the inevitable visit.

I know Mr will come for me too,

so I cry and weep for the years I wasted,

and struggle to direct my steps,

to make the most of whatever days I have left.

But, what if?

What if I live to be 100, not 60.

What if I find a good wife,

father children,

and grandchildren, and more.

What if I live through whatever wars and violence and oppressions to come?

What if my life isn’t winding down, but just getting started?

What IF…I stopped worrying about dying in 20 years, and stopped trying to fit all my possibilities through the narrow slit in between now and then?

What…If?

Oh my, what a glory and a gift.

To hope and dare to believe,

To live and live and live, and then LIVE EVEN MORE.

Have I not repented of my slave ways?

Sought the Lord?

Honored my parents?

And pointed my heart to what is good and holy?

Yes!

Imperfectly, but yes!

Then let me eat for life, not death!

Let me breath for eternity,

not personal fear or crisis of the moment.

Let my soul sing and imagination dance,

and let me break my blinders of shame and devotion to death.

The Lord is my God,

and I will not fear death or when he comes for me.

And Jesus, I repent,

for allowing death to be my lord,

the one who dominated my thoughts and choices.

I want you to dominate my notions and emotions,

to be hopeful and full of joy,

to believe and live by faith,

to smile at pain and stand strong against every wind bold enough to rush my direction.

And I will no longer worry about when Mr Death will come for me,

he is your servant after all,

and so am I.

When my day comes, to go home forever,

let me smile as I cross the stage into the great Beyond.

But for now and until that day,

I will live and work and plan in this moment,

present and forward, living in each moment rather than

broken and afraid of what’s to come.

I’m going to live to be 100.

Today is the day I began acting like it.

“For as a man thinks within himself, so he is.” - Proverbs 23:7

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Abstract: Death of a Saint

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Heaven doesn’t have a scoreboard,

hung above the pearl lined gate.

Instead, one question is asked of every soul seeking admittance: Did you learn to love?

To turn from fear or anger, greed and shame?

Learn to give? To hope? To receive?

And, make your anxieties known to the Lord?

Did you pray for your enemies and the ones who laughed at your pain?

Did you forgive your worst offender and set them free of the debt owed to you?

Did you grow in kindness and faith?

And, to the person in your mirror, did you love them too?

This is what all saints do,

in their own way at the pace predestined by Him.

How you began the journey makes no difference,

or where you end.

What matters is how you finish the race you ran.

Beni Johnson passed away late Wednesday evening. Whatever she was, her legacy is love. She loved the Lord, her husband, and family. She loved her community to best of her ability and left a mark on the earth. My prayer today is for her husband and for us. May we all learn to love and leave our mark on the people around us. There are no small saints in Heaven, only people who learned to love.

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Abstract: Death, A Sweet Friend #2

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I’ve watched a lotta people scream at Death,

watched them blabber into the night ‘bout justice and God’s plan.

I’ve seen people walk away from Jesus because their childhood sweetheart suffered cancer,

to the final bitter end.

And, I’ve watched mothers wail as they lay their babies in the ground.

Every death affects someone,

for even a prison falls silent when an inmate is set free.

The constant reality of death, by the view of a few,

seems to negate the Power of tongues,

and Him.

But, this need’nt be so.

If every prayer to restrain the Visitor were answered,

and every life prolonged,

there’d be ten billion people on the planet,

and slavery, and women as property, and kings,

who rule over you and me.

Somethings only die when we do,

yes, it’s part of His plan too.

For when I die,

I take all my hurt and lies with me,

but the best of me will live on.

This is the way it is,

cliche as it is.

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