What matters in the end

I watched Gran Torino again the other day.  For two reasons. One was to see if there was a scene I could rip for a lecture I’m giving on the way hospitality can bridge cultural differences. The other was to observe the changes in the main character, Walt Kowalski, played by Clint Eastwood, – to watch him finally in the end choose to give away his prize possession, a 1972 Ford Gran Torino to a Hmong boy and to give his life in revenge for crimes against an innocent family he had grown to love.

Clint Eastwood as Walt Kowalski in Gran Torino 

This story is complex enough to make you laugh, appall you and wrench your heart all at the same time. But that’s how life always is. Complex.

That’s how Ed Hague's living and dying has been to me. Complex. He made me laugh all the time.  He  could be appallingly irreverent, piercingly honest, and then point you to Christ in the most unexpected ways. I loved him as one of my best friends.

The last time I talked to him was about ten days before he died. Our coming to his funeral was on his mind. How would we pay for it, he wanted to know. Since we live in Minnesota and he is, I mean was, in Tallahassee, he was trying to figure out a way to alleviate some of our expense. I told him we did not care one whit about that so he could stop obsessing about it. We would come out of love and respect for his family and nothing else mattered. It was typical of him to care about all sorts of matters big and small, personal and public.

I just finished reading Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End, by Atul Gawandi. Aunt Ruth died last month. Ed passed away two weeks ago. Denis’ parents are in their 90s and living precariously on their own day after day, refusing any kind of help or care. The list could go on. I know some of you have friends or family members who are facing either age-related issues or terminal illness. So both the movie and this book felt timely.

Gawandi writes about some of the studies and their findings on what fulfills and grows people even as their life narrows.

 If we shift as we age toward appreciating everyday pleasures and relationships rather than toward achieving, having, and getting, and if we find this more fulfilling, then why do we take so long to do it? Why do we wait until we are old [or terminally ill]? The common view was that these lessons are hard to learn. Living is a kind of skill. The calm and wisdom of old age are achieved over time. Cartenson (a Stanford psychologist) was attracted to a different explanation. What if the change in needs and desires has nothing to do with age per se? Suppose it merely has to do with perspective – your personal sense of how finite your time in this world is…

I think that in that last three years of Ed’s life following his diagnosis of Stage IV prostate cancer, he grew more than ever before in his understanding of what it means to have this one life to live. 

Ed housebreaking our internet

 He eventually had to let things go that he had been very good at like untangling computer problems, trimming large trees, running his business. He shifted more toward enjoying ordinary pleasures – his wife Betsy could speak more specifically to this. Ice cream. Sitting on the porch. Walking to the mailbox. But in particular, his relationships in pursuit of love and healing became the most important to him to the very end.

So, I think he would agree with Cartenson, that the deeper changes he experienced had to do with facing his finiteness, yes, but he would add an element that was a complete game-changer for him: he was overcome by love. He learned how to receive love in a way he never had before –  the love of his wife and family, the love of friends, the love of all the medical people who cared for him, but most especially God’s love for him. As he wrote in his obituary (I mean, WHO writes their own obituary?):

 "Here’s the most important thing to know about Ed, though. God loved him and made sure that Ed knew it. Hiding from love all of his life, after his cancer diagnosis, God turned the love firehoses on him."

And then Ed turned it back on us.

He loved us in life and mentored us in death. That sounds so cheesy I almost have to delete the sentence except that it's true. And honestly? He could be a beast sometimes. Like when, oh, never mind.        

He faced the breakdown of his body with courage and humor. I would like to learn this love well before I die. I would like to stand in the way of that firehose and get drowned by love. Yes.  And we do have this ....

For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any power neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:38)

"We're gonna do this death thing, friends"

Early this last Sunday The Great Aunt passed. It was a long battle she fought against age and death and Alzheimer’s. We will miss her lovely smile, her acerbic humor and her generous acceptance of those she loved. She was the dearest aunt and a surrogate mother to my husband. We are sorrowful, but we are also relieved that she finally rests from this battle.

Those of you who know us also know we have another friend who has fought a different set of mortal enemies – stage IV prostate cancer. Ed Hague was diagnosed a little more than three years ago, so to have lived this long probably, no it does, qualify as a miracle. 

Today he posted what may be his final blog. I don’t know. Read it and then read backwards. You may find what you need for living right where you are now. He would love that. 

If I stumble around, a bit blue and puffy-eyed, well, I just wanted you to know …  they say sadness goes, but grief stays somewhere tucked down in your heart. I wonder. Is this true? At my age, you’d think I’d have acquired some wisdom about this. And I’m thinking that perhaps for the moment, I have lost some heart. Perhaps it’s okay to not be all perky and bless-you kind of happy. For the moment. I posted the following comment on wedonotloseheart.com.

Ed. Just staring into space. Hard to believe the time has come. Death sucks. We never get over it, no matter how hard we try to “celebrate” life – it’s just not how it was meant to be, is it? In one sense, I’m glad your journey is nearly over. It’s been an amazing ride. I already miss you.

I often repeat to myself, in many of life’s situations, the words of St. Julian of Norwich: “All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” I take heart from this because I know she speaks of Jesus’ power to resurrect all kinds of things. Including the earth. Our relationships. Our bodies, our hearts. And now I say to myself, to God, “And Ed shall be well and all parts of Ed shall soon be well.”

For that I can say Thanks be to God.

Peace

A complicated eulogy

“A Complicated Eulogy”

Elisabeth Elliot died.

Photo from elisabethelliot.org

It’s a very odd thing to read about the death of someone you so respected and who influenced your life, but to also honestly face some of the doubts and, well, personal opinions that quite differed from hers. Writer Addie Zierman brought those repressed questions to the surface. She eloquently voiced what I would want to say if only I’d thought of it. (Read it here.) Elisabeth was one of my heroes, too. Many of the things she wrote and said steered me through difficult times. When I was overwhelmed with life she said: Don’t try to take the entire journey at once. Trust all your life and its details to God. He cares about you. All you need to do is the next thing. Whatever it is. Just do the next thing.

I wanted to be like her. For awhile. Until I grew farther into womanhood and marriage and mothering, then I found her voice more difficult to bear on some issues.

Zierman ends her eulogy with graciousness. If anyone ever wrote mine, I hope they would extend me grace in the end as she does with Elisabeth. Zierman points us to a place where I have wanted others to go – a place of hope, a place we long for: Home, a place where I (and you) are called “Beloved.” 

Our Weakest Moments

 It has been weeks now since we have seen the sun. Among other things I have blamed the weather on my attitude. Which is one of scratchiness and resentment. My community (Denis and Anita) have been tiptoeing around me. I am at least slightly, if not clinically, depressed and a little confused. Constantly questioning what should I be doing? What have I done besides beat the pants off ten strangers who think I’m a guy in games of “Hangman” on my iPhone? (Someone should block me.) And seeming to end days having done nothing. That isn’t really the case when I give an actual account.

This morning I left the house intending to go to Dunn Bros Coffee to work, drove there, changed my mind, came back home, parked the car in the garage, left my computer bag on the trunk of the car because I didn’t want to carry it into the house or take it a block up to Caribou where I bought an Americano and returned home. Get it? For all of about six minutes, I risked leaving it right there in broad daylight. When I walked up the drive, OF COURSE, it was gone. I was almost 95% certain it was Denis who found it and took it in. (WHY is it that whenever you choose to do a foolish little thing like back out of the garage – even though you’ve done this easily one billion times- the day your husband stands watching, you smash the side-view mirror against the garage door???)

In my office, I sat down to collect myself and read the next chapter in the book O Love That Will Not Let Me Go: Facing Death with Courageous Confidence in God.  You are laughing. Don’t. I have a friend who is dying of stage four prostate cancer and also my mother is 83 years old – though in good health right now. I want to learn some things.

Chapter 10. “A Witness in the Way We Die” by John Eaves.  (Each of the 22 chapters are essays written by a different person.) John Eaves died in 2004 of metastatic colon cancer. This is from the last sermon he preached. It begins:

Life is not about us. Life is about Jesus and our witness for him in this world. It has taken me a lifetime to embrace this fundamental truth in all of its implications. It has also taken the same amount of time to recognize that our witness for Jesus is frequently manifested in our absolute weakest moments rather than when we are at full strength..”

It ends with:

In our weakest moments, God moves toward us and asks us to extend ourselves to others…

I was overwhelmed as I understood this is not just about end-of-life issues. There are universal implications that address ME where I am at today. So I am confessing. I don’t know how it can be that my weaknesses which are so petty and disgusting in the midst of things like dying of cancer or getting your legs blown off at the Boston Marathon can be of use to anyone?  But I’m here saying that, today, this is who I am. Selfish. One eye on the weather, the other on my coffee cup. I desire to be the person who sees and allows God to move in me and use me in the midst of my imperfections. I move toward you in this small way. I would be so very awe-struck and happy if this extends, somehow, to you who might read this.

John Stott: Gone

John Stott died yesterday. He was 90 years old and had some years ago made the choice to retire completely from public life. (That is merely one evidence of his unusual wisdom and humility) His writing and life has influenced mine, like it has thousands of others. It wasn’t just the clarity of his exegetical Bible teaching, it was his example and pure delight in loving and caring for God’s creation. I’m sure there are already dozens, perhaps hundreds of memorials and obituaries going up for him and I don’t pretend to add anything profound. Only want to say I’m sad he is gone, but thankful for a life that served God and others so fully to the very end.

I remember when I was first introduced to his book Basic Christianity through Intervarsity when I was a student. I wasn’t interested in reading it because the title insulted me and so did the young man who suggested I read it. Who was John Stott, anyway? Basic Christianity?! As though having been raised in a Christian home and a pietistic church did not mean I had not committed more Scripture to memory than this young man had ever read?! Pish.

Then one day I picked it up and began to read and the claims of Christ became so radical and so living, it was like I’d never heard the Gospel. For one of the things John Stott insisted upon, was that unless we struggle to build bridges built between what the Bible says and the modern world, through having listened to and understanding the modern world, then all our religiosity, all our sermons and piety makes Christianity irrelevant to those who don’t believe. He claimed that our task is to demonstrate Christ’s relevance to the world through our lives.

Until then no one ever described Christ in a way that seduced me through love. He began a new way for me to think and live.

“There is in him no trace of the crank. He believes ardently in what he teaches, but he is no fanatic. His doctrine is unpopular, but he is not eccentric. There is as much evidence for his humanity as for his divinity. He gets tired. He needs to sleep and eat and drink like other men. He experiences the human emotions of love and anger, joy and sorrow. He is fully human, but He is no mere man.

            “Above all, He was unselfish. Nothing is more striking than this. Believing himself to be divine, yet he did not put on airs or stand on his dignity. He was never pompous as men tend to be who think themselves greater than they are. There was no touch of self-importance about Jesus. He was humble. It is this paradox which is so baffling, the self-centeredness of his teaching and the unself-centeredness of his behavour.  He combined in himself the greatest self-esteem and the greatest self-sacrifice. He knew himself to be the Lord of all, but he became the servant of all. … The essence of love is self-sacrifice. The worst of men is adorned by an occasional flash of such nobility, but the life of Jesus irradiated it with a never-fading incandescent glow. The conclusion of the matter is this: Jesus was sinless because he was selfless. Such selflessness is love. And God is love.”

Panic Prayers

Last week after Dad’s funeral I stayed on with Mom for a few days following. On Monday I drove her minivan into Baudette to check email and pick up a few groceries. Hardly anyone who lives up there locks their vehicles or even takes the keys out of the ignition, so when I got out I debated. Should I? With my computer on the front seat? I don’t care how little crime there is. I reached in grabbed the key and locked up. Moments later I was back and dug into my bag only to see I’d somehow lost the key off the ring. Everything else was there – all the buttons including the panic (which I hit a few times), but no ignition key. I began searching. The floor, under the seat, dumped my purse, tramped back and forth to the store scouring the snow and ice. Went inside and asked if a car key had been turned in and the clerk looked so suspiciously at me and pointed to a pay phone that I said no problem, I’ll call my brother if I have to… and I don’t know why I felt compelled to add, my brother is the county sheriff, you know. Dallas Block…and she looked at me then like I was really crazy since I was obviously not local. I felt even more embarrassed.

I don’t know why on that day it seemed such a huge crisis. It was so cold. And the wind was blowing. And aren’t our emotions sometimes so close to the margins we haven’t room for anything extra? I sat for a while resting my forehead on the steering wheel cussing at myself and praying a stream of nonsense, though I’m sure God could knew what I was saying. I didn’t want to walk over to Dallas’ office. Further humiliation. (Oh. THAT’S his sister?) Getting out my cell, I called his home hoping Marijean, my sister-in-law, could put me in touch. I explained my problem and she instantly knew what was wrong.
I had the KEY all along, I just didn’t recognize it. What insane engineer decided to design an ignition key that looks something like a flash drive? I was so relieved I almost cried. I’m not going to figure out the moral of the story…but one thing’s sure, I’m never going to buy a Chrysler. Irrationally. As if I’d have the chance…

You're my water, you're my wine...

Am home. Last night. Yesterday about five caught Marvin Window’s small corporate plane (our son works for them) down to Minneapolis. Stared out the window at the frozen lakes, hundreds, thousands of them as we flew low through the waning day. Post funeral. Post family. Post so many people and cups of Folgers. Post helping write thankyous for memorial gifts. Post staring out Mom’s living room windows across empty fields and pastures.

We drove home. Me talking nonstop. Like I was drugged, flying high. Telling everything that happened from the time he left on Friday morning. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t edit.

How good is it to have someone who tolerates rough drafts? Or who brings you what you crave when you’re too tired to get it yourself?

Gone for awhile

This past weekend during the L’Abri conference where both Denis and I participated as speakers, I received news of my dad’s death early Saturday morning. He suffered much during the last few months of his life and so his departure was that mixed blessing people speak of. He was my mother’s second husband, so my step-father…my father was someone I never knew - he was killed in a plane crash a few months before I was born. After me came five more children. It’s been a comfort to me that some of my siblings who live near Mom have been helping, loving, keeping vigil with her and Dad these many weeks. Years, actually, as it was eight years ago when he had a stroke that disabled him and took away his ability to speak, though not his thinking.

Today, Denis and I are preparing to leave on the 8 hour drive that will take us north almost to Canada where much of my family still lives.

Unaware of what it might mean to me, Denis threw me a heart line during his plenary session when he reminded us of Samwise Gamgee from Lord of the Rings who, when he saw Gandalf after the last battle, asks in utter surprise and joy: “I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself! Is everything sad going to come untrue?”

Then, Denis quoted Tim Keller (I think.) who said: “The answer of Christianity to that question is – yes. Everything sad is going to come untrue and it will somehow be greater for having once been broken and lost.”

For my family who mourns this particular death, but for all who grieve, I pray God will give comfort. I look forward to that glorious time when Christ returns to regenerate and renew all things. Then perhaps, both my fathers will stand to bless me, my husband, my children, and grandchildren in a way they could not in this life.