If music be the food of love, play on!

Found here

Some people seem oblivious to the sounds around them. Others thrive on chronic background music--loud, frenzied, not-listened to, pulsing music. Sam is such a person. He has ADD so having lots of auditory stimulation actually helps him focus. He gets calmer with music going full blast.

I was a single, silence-loving, book-loving, curmudgeon-introvert for 44 years. Sam's music makes me feel like I may lose control and start throwing things.

My father had a degree in music and taught band and choir in private high schools. He had a choir that made a recording of sacred choral music. We grew up hearing music--classical or sacred music--all the time. The worst musical noise we had was the cacophony of drums, bassoon, trombones, tubas, piano, french horn, bass clarinet, and lots of singing full tilt. But there was some predictability and pleasure to it. As children, it was exhilarating to find expression with my siblings with such gusto, although I recall mother blowing smoke more than once about the "confounded noise in this house!"

Sam bought a CD of two guitarist brothers last month after hearing them at an outside street concert. They sounded exotic and invigorating in the open air. But going full blast out of Sam's study, they sound like two manics on speed with ants in their pants. The volume, frenetic repetition, and lack of melody can run me right out of the house.
Oh, I like loud music. Beethoven's 1812 Overture, or Puccini's La Boheme at top levels make for a spiritual experience. I may need some extended silence to soak in the experience afterward, but these are musical numbers that one could conceivably walk away singing in one's heart. Not so with the sheer noise of the wild guitarist brothers.

Of course, not everyone likes my music, either. Sam says the relaxing music I play puts him to sleep, especially if he's driving. So we can only listen in the car to very upbeat chamber music--which I prefer over static-ridden talk shows or worse yet, station scanning (!).

Sunday morning, Stepdaughter #2 came to breakfast with her laptop and set it down next to her plate. It was playing some sort of nondescript whining, bellyaching, juvenile moaner-type singers. I gently pointed out that I had music playing already on the Bose in the corner: Bach motets. She winced, but turned off her computer and ate thoughtfully. I was so grateful to continue breakfast in peace.

My cousin used to have a fit about hearing Bach: all those bewildering chord progressions. While I felt myself ascending heavenward, she was spiraling into emotional oblivion, driven by the angst from the incessant minor chords.

Sam and I once found a wonderful Mexican restaurant in the Northwest. Thrilled to finally be free of the sallow, tasteless "Mexican" foods of the Midwest, we ordered and fell to. Almost as soon as we started eating, we both noticed the music in the place: Carribean salsa. We found ourselves eating faster and faster, gulping and gasping, as the driving rhythm of the music pushed us to speedily eat our food. We loved that place, but the music was intolerable. We eventually found another Mexican establishment that suited our musical and culinary tastes better.

I personally detest band music. Yes, my father was a band conductor and we lived and breathed John Phillip Sousa's music for years. But those tweedling, squeaking clarinets, out of tune, and the volume of band music was just more than I could ever bear.

It's interesting how each of us can be so different. I honestly have tried to assimilate and to meld to Sam's preferences in many areas of life--when they don't offend me or threaten my own tastes. I now like the music of Acoustic Alchemy, and David Benoit--both types of music that would have given my father spasms. And Sam listens to the Brandenburg Concerti and Pavarotti.

As I write, the door to my study is closed. Coming from Sam's study is some kind of drums beating that precipitously gave way to Kiri Te Kanawa singing "Sheep May Safely Graze." My blood pressure begins to return to normal and my shoulders unclench. It's a good world after all.

Big in the head

Marvelous drawing, found here

My dear friend Olga, joined Sam and me for lunch yesterday. While I was finishing up with the salad and we were alone in the kitchen, she hurriedly told me that she thought she was dying. With tears and sighs, she recounted symptoms that proved that she was hanging by a thread: bad taste in her mouth, bloating and gas, a 22 pound weight loss in two months, grinding pain under the right part of her ribcage--it all added up to her imminent demise.

I don't mean to poke fun at Olga, because if those things were happening to me and I had no medical knowledge, I could think I was dying, too. The problem is that she has paid $300 in physician visit copayments in the last month, and is getting nowhere. Her doctor has told her that she is being hysterical, that it's all in her head, that it is gastritis, etc. When she told the doctor that many of her friends are physicians, he relented and ordered an ultrasound. "No gall bladder problems, see?" was his only comment after noting that there were no stones in her gall bladder. When Olga asks questions he acts as though he doesn't hear her. He doesn't respond to her comments and often, doesn't give her eye contact. He has in a word, grossly mismanaged her care, in addition to misrepresenting a noble profession.

I took out my 1977 medical-surgical nursing textbook and read to Olga all the symptoms of gall bladder disease. I recalled my rather straight-laced nursing teacher saying in a hushed voice, "Fat, forty and farty--the cardinal symptoms of gall bladder disease." We had cracked up to see Mrs. Reinbaum say farty.
"That's everything I have!" Olga exclaimed, after hearing the list of symptoms. "What's wrong with the doctor?" She has told him all of her symptoms, asked about various forms of treatment, and asked for a referral. She has even begun reading medical textbooks. As the problem has only increased in terms of pain, lack of appetite and bloating, she has gone back the doctor several times. She only gets responses grudgingly--nothing for pain, no anti-inflammatory, nothing for the "gastritis" she supposedly has, no concern. Since Olga is an immigrant, she is especially vulnerable to being taken advantage of. I won't stand for it.

Needless to say, I'm going with her to her next medical appointment. There is no excuse for what has happened to Olga. It is classic litigation material and I have no reservations about expressing this. This physician practices out of an HMO that has a reputation in the community for stringing patients along, taking money for needless tests, not providing good care to their patients. I anticipate a huge lawsuit one day that will shut down the entire enterprise.

The lesson I take from this is the realization that when we don't talk to other people and keep everything inside, the issues we hold close to us becomes "big in the head." That is, they take on lives of their own and become overwhelming. Since we don't have the opportunity to get a reality check from anyone else, we think the worse, assume that we are somehow to blame, and begin trotting out all of our weaknesses and propensities just that implicate us. As we circle the drain, so to speak, we recite our beliefs about the issue, our history, and all the facts because we can hardly believe what is happening. Nonetheless, we still go down the drain.

It is also at such times that people do rash things to try to relieve themselves of the angst they feel at carrying about such a story of doom and gloom in their head. People become suicidal, strike out in violence at other people, become hermits, tell someone off, begin planning their funeral service. Anything done to deal with a huge story in one's head will fail because it is no longer possible to think objectively or rationally about the facts. The response comes from the bigness of the problem, not the problem itself.

Children who grow up in abusive homes often have trouble with this. Shame keeps them from finding out from someone else how the rest of the world lives, how parents behave, and what is typical relational behavior. Instead, they develop sensitivities to anything that reminds them of the abuse. They may be people we consider "touchy" or they may be standoffish: they don't want people to think they're less than anyone else, or that they come from a dysfunctional background. Or they might become abusive themselves as a way to feel less vulnerable to being victimized again. Such people also don't know that what has happened to them doesn't necessarily mean that they're defined by it. They believe that the family issues that loom so large on their horizons--complete with all the pain and emotional blind spots--are visible to everyone else. But it is just the irrational, touchy, lashing out behavior that tells people something deeper is amiss.

Stories of where we come from can indeed become very big in our heads if we don't invite anyone else into our lives.

So Olga realizes today that she is not dying. She has epigastric pain, but she knows what it is now. The story in her head has gone from watermelon size to the size of a pea. I am revved up to take on her doctor. I imagine that she slept very well last night. I know that I did.

Concrete things

This is what my yard looked like after I went after it yesterday. For some of us who work with our heads for a living, and whose work does not always give immediate results, it is gratifying to do various types of physical labor. Because then one can see a product--something concrete and satisfying from one's labor. For me, that means cooking. It also means hacking and chopping tree branches.

Yesterday afternoon, I came home early and wanted to crash. But my grief had me feeling pent up inside. I needed something to work it out. Our rental property just happens to be covered with trees, bushes, and all manner of vines, and overgrown whatnot. The man who owns the property told us to have at it and do whatever we felt we wanted with it. So I had no end of branches to cut off. With a small handsaw I chopped down a 20 foot Hibiscus tree. The flowers were lovely, but the roots go under the foundation and the branches almost completely obscure a window at the side of the house. After that, I hit the tangerine tree with pruning scissors and saw. That tree has been full of old dry leaves in clumps, all through the branches. I went after it with a broomstick and knocked down dust and bits of twigs and leaves. It now looks like a half-way normal tree.

The dead peach tree went down with little fanfare. I started hacking at what used to be someone's Christmas tree. It had become half dead and had very snarly branches with lots of dry, dead pine needles. Fortunately for it, the blade on my saw gave out before I could chop it down. I'll save that for another day of horticultural Rambo frenzy. For now, the backyard is littered with heaps of dead branches, leaves, and logs.

I went to sleep last night around 9:00 p.m., completely exhausted.

I miss my father, and the knowledge that I can't call him tomorrow afternoon as I usually do, leaves me feeling empty. It seems that grief makes abstract, higher thought almost impossible. My head feels vacant, and I've been having a difficult time attending to very complicated tasks at work. This surprises me, because I have almost always felt invincible; that nothing could ever knock me sideways. But the death of my father has left a gaping hole in my heart and I marvel at the depth of my sadness.

Thankfully, life is full of all sorts of concrete tasks that I can accomplish. Today my office manager took a day off. I went after the office cupboards (that probably haven't been cleaned for four years). Three huge trash barrels later, and many amused guffaws from my students, the place was much cleaner and in order.

It is evening now, and I've cooked up some Moroccan Stew: eggplant, zucchini, currants, cinnamon, yams. Another concrete activity. It smells lovely.

Otis is on my lap as I write, occasionally batting at the cursor moving across the computer screen. I put a piece of scotch tape on his toes and his wild foot slinging to get rid of it makes me laugh hard. I still feel Sam's hugs from an earlier snuggle. Life goes on--just more slowly and thoughtfully. And I am grateful for all I have to enjoy.

Delicious!

Today I stayed home from work. My brain is in denial that anything significant has happened to me. My body tells a very different story. One could push me over with a feather. I was awake last night at 1:30 and couldn't go back to sleep. So I opted to stay home from work just to rest.

Something that has always been therapeutic for me is baking. I made the most wonderful persimmon chocolate chip cookies. You might want to try them:

In a blender, mix together 1 cup persimmon pulp with 1 tsp. baking soda. This breaks up the pulp and integrates the soda. It will turn into a congealed mass in a few minutes.

In a bowl, mix together 1 stick of butter (1/2 cup) or margarine; 1 cup brown sugar; 1 egg. Cream together until smooth. Add persimmon mixture and blend well. Add 2 cups all-purpose flour, 1/2 tsp. cinnamon; 1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg. Mix well. Add 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts and 1 1/2 cups chocolate chips.

Drop from teaspoon onto greased cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes.

Next time when you'd like to make something special, try these. And have some free therapy in the baking of them!

I knew better

Hotflash found here

Last night Sam stated, "I'm craving ice cream. I'm going to Cold Stone." Not wanting to be left out, I asked for ice cream, too. "Something chocolate with nuts." And so 20 minutes later, I sat in front of the TV with my chocolate nutty ice cream watching a show about sex change operations. Since I took control of the remote for a change, Sam sullenly watched the election coverage on his computer in the study.

It seemed idyllic, but I had to pay for it. I'm menopausal. I had a hysterectomy 10 weeks before Sam and I got married. The resulting hot flashes almost ended our marriage. I couldn't stand him getting close to me in bed because I'd be too hot. I'd wake up in the night with perspiration pouring off me and shove Sam over away from me. There was no cuddling, none of the cozying up and sleeping on his shoulder that I had for so long dreamed of. On those occasions when I'd throw an arm over Sam during the night, he'd soon push it off with a phrase I heard over and over that first year: "You're sticky!" I didn't want to use hormone replacement pills because our family has a history of breast cancer. But after Sam told me that his girls complained, "She's hot all the time when no one else is!" I decided that I had endured enough. So I got a prescription for Premarin and was a happy camper for a long time.

After we moved here to the Southwest, I realized that I'd have to find a new doctor and get my Premarin prescription renewed. I didn't. So I'm not using Premarin now. And guess what? No hot flashes. Of course, that is because I went off the pills a few days before I went back east when my father died. Mother doesn't eat sugar, and I was eating rather sparingly. I knew that dairy, eggs and sugar all make hot flashes worse. So what did I eat yesterday? An omelette for breakfast (thank you, Sam) and a bowl of ice cream to end the day with.

Not only am I hopelessly congested this morning, I "flashed" all night long. Morning came too soon today. I think I'll stay home from work until my flashes become little power blips. I think the days of eating whatever I feel like, whenever I want, are officially over. We all grow up. We don't all grow responsible!

For those of you who experience power surges every so often, here's an excellent resource for you.

My quilt

My friend Lois made this quilt. Isn't it gorgeous? It's an applique quilt that won a blue ribbon this week from a group of quilters.

I wanted to take up quilting one time. My mother has made quilts out of necessity as we were growing up: quilts to keep us warm all those cold New England nights. Her quilts were heavy and had my dad's wool army blankets inside as fillers. Sleeping under one of those quilts was satisfying and very warm. In fact, I got so used to the weight of mother's quilts that when I visited other places, I couldn't sleep with light blankets over me. Something didn't feel right, so I'd put a throw rug on top of the bed so I could get the right weight over me in order to be able to sleep.

But Lois' quilt is a piece of art. I wanted to learn how to do that, too. Perhaps I will one day.
What strikes me about this quilt is how long it takes to make each square, sew it all together, and then quilt the entire piece as a whole. What tremendous patience and creativity Lois has!

I suppose that life and moving on is like the process of quilting: it is made up of pieces, each that takes time and effort to make. One part is our accomplishments in terms of career or education. Another part is our relationship with family. Yet another is composed of our friendships. Our emotional wellbeing and the efforts we put into that kind of growth is a square.

As I heal from the death of my father, I've been thinking about the kaliedascope of my life. There are several parts of life that need attention: relationship with family members, grief resolution, my own emotional health. Every day I stitch a few more patterns onto my quilt. I pray as I think about all that needs to be done on it. One day, it will be beautiful. For now, it is a work in progress, with seams askew and loose threads. But I do not work on it alone.

Our lives may seem a tangle, but as we commit ourselves to the wise Master worker, He will bring out the pattern of life and character that will be to His own glory. (Desire of Ages, E. White).

Grief

How long does grief take?

As a therapist, I have been asked that many times by numerous people. The answer is that the time required is different for every person who must experience it. And we all respond to losses in different ways. But how long will it take for me? I can't help but wonder as I observe myself, immersed in grief, yet with a lighthearted relief that I have survived a very painful experience. It seems to me that there are worse things than a death. Death is a clean-cut finish and it can be grieved because it will not change. It is final. Resolution and closure are appropriate goals.

I heard some stories yesterday in which grief has gone on and on. People were in a sort of emotional limbo, trying to figure out how to proceed. Yet they were fearful that if they pushed forward, they would lose opportunities or hope that there would be any change whatever.

There are things worse than death.

One man asked to speak with me after the seminar. Stepping into a darkened hallway, he sobbed out, "My wife died three months ago. I had to watch her suffer for years. It was so awful. ...I'm so raw and it's so painful!" I knew that wasn't why he wanted to talk with me, but he couldn't hold back this crucial information. When he saw that it was fine for him to express himself, he cried and sobbed as he explained what had happened. He had been overwhelmed trying to take care of patients whose lives were in shambles, and who could not or would not respond to his attempts to help them. He was clearly so wounded himself that he could not cope with the pain of his patients. He wept for several minutes and we stepped further into the shadows to give him privacy. I was so touched by his sorrow. It would have been second nature to gather him into my arms and hold him. But I just held his hand, listened, stayed with him, and shared his desperation.

Later, as I was getting ready to leave, a woman approached me. "I'm going to start crying and I don't want to, but here goes..." And she burst into tears. We moved into a darkened area and sat down on a bench in the church reception area. Her marriage was in trouble. She didn't know what to do. It was surrounding an issue that she could speak of to no one except her counselor. She could not hold back, and she gasped and sobbed for several minutes as we spoke together. When she finally stopped and regained her composure, she thanked me over and over for listening. Her self-imposed isolation had been broken, and the buildup of her pain had been relieved somehow just giving words to her experience. I prayed for her and she went home.

As both of these people left the building, they turned and looked back at me. The man smiled warmly and gratefully. He looked lighter. The woman was embarassed about her red eyes and only nodded as she left. It is an intimate gesture to share such deep grief with another person. I had been honored to be invited into their experiences and glad I could help relieve some of their pain.

This morning when I woke up I couldn't get out of bed. My body is telling me what my mind doesn't have awareness of: that I am grieving myself. How long does grief go on? Why is it that there is no easy way around it? When I had major surgery, I cooked a meal the day I got home. I was driving the car in a couple days (against medical advice). It was easy to bounce back. But this insidious thing holds on and shows itself in unexpected ways at unexpected times. It's pervasive enough that it has made me reevaluate every relationship that I have and every life goal and value that I possess. It's something that makes a person want to run away, to do rash things, to throw off everything that doesn't contribute to happiness or life in significant ways, to start over in some major way, to burn bridges.

In my mind's eye I see the eyes of these weeping souls of yesterday. I know that they went home afterward to put one foot in front of the other: babysteps toward the light. Their tears have warmed and instructed me. Their tears were not in vain. I can do the same.

Forgiveness

Found at Remember Rwanda

This weekend I'm in the Pacific Northwest giving a seminar to a group of Christians about forgiveness. It is interesting to see people come to these workshops wearing their frustration and defensiveness on their faces. At least, as the speaker, I can look out across the audience and see the pain and incredulity they must feel. They don't look at each other, so it's not as visible to them as it is to me.
Something really jumped out at me during last evening's talk, and that is the balance between insight and responsibility. Let me explain.

People who have been unfaired against in some manner tend to keep track of what has happened to them so they have a way of making sense of the flood of feelings they experience. They create stories about who hurt them, what it meant to them, how it has affected their lives, and the practices they have adopted in response to the hurt. People tell themselves these stories often, adding details to bolster why they do what they do or feel the way they feel. Such a story initially helps to make sense of why they feel so miserable. As time passes, these stories can take on lives of their own. It gets trotted out whenever the person feels sad about the results of being unfaired against, and it is told as justification for any number of ills in one's current situation. As it is rehearsed, the teller becomes firmly fixated in the past and unable to move ahead. They mistakenly refer to the past in order to somehow come to terms with the present. The story gets told over and over until onlookers say things like, "He really has issues with authority" or, "She has relationship problems" or "He's one of those walking wounded people." These stories get told to people hardly known to the one telling it, because the story is so tied into the individual's sense of identity that they can't explain themselves without explaining what has happened to them. It is a real turn-off to have to listen to explanations of how a person was hurt, aggrieved, frustrated--over and over and over. Grievance stories are crippling.

We all have some sort of grievance story about someone or something. It is human nature to try to understand why we are the way we are. It is shirking of responsibility to use those stories to excuse ourselves from being accountable for our behavior in the here and now. We remain trapped by the past, waiting for someone else to change before we will grow or be responsible for the way we are acting.

I have seen this happen over and over in therapy. Therapy is a place where people learn how the past has impacted the present, what their natural propensities are, and how to deal with their circumstances. But a number of people enter therapy merely to understand why they are the way they are, and then do precious little to deal with their current unacceptable behavior. They mistakenly think that it is enough merely to gain insight into themselves but they leave therapy without any substantial change. They are still prickly to deal with, abrasive, self-absorbed, and without concern for anyone but themselves. This is not successful therapy. (and many of us have been accused of providing this type of therapy when in fact, the clients drop out of therapy the minute we begin holding their feet to the fire about their resulting behavior. "I'm wounded, can't you see" is their response).

We hear theology that smacks of this idea, too. If you realize that you are a sinner, come to God, and that's all you do. Yes, because we are human we can't muster a whole lot more than that. What gets left out is that we now must walk in newness of life through the Spirit of God. We are responsible for our behavior after we come to God, through His life-changing grace. We don't rehearse how damaged we are by sin without asking God to change us. We work at it while He works within us. That's why it is called a spiritual discipline--it requires something from us.

All of us are wounded. We live in a sinful world where at times we have to come to grips with circumstances that we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies. Understanding how badly we have been hurt is not adequate. Being responsible for the way we subsequently treat others is the rest of the story that needs to be developed.

Today I hope to help our seminar attendees think about how to move beyond their grievance stories and into responsibility for their behavior. When I look into the faces of the hearers and see the "Aha!" expressions and determination to be responsible for themselves, I will know that real growth has occurred.

I'd better get out of bed and get to the church!

Resource

A Hidden Treasure

Thank you all for your support and prayers during this sad time. It is very hard, but I have been borne up by the knowledge that many people have held me close in their hearts at this time. I am so grateful.

Looking through my father's desk this afternoon, I came across an email he sent a friend about prayer. I don't know what the circumstances of his friend were that prompted the email, but it is very comforting to me as I sit in Daddy's desk chair and am surrounded with his things. My father had apparently just finished watching a Crystal Cathedral service on television in which Robert Schuler stated emphatically, "There is a blessing in unanswered prayer."

"When I was about 15 years of age I had just returned back from a two mile uphill ride on my bicycle to visit a young lady in which I was very interested. As I rode into my driveway, I got to thinking, "Lord...It would be nice and handy for me if there was a girl that moved in next door to me. that way, I wouldn't have to knock myself all the way out, two miles uphill, past all those nasty dogs. think how efficient it would be for me."

"A couple days later, after I had forgotten that instant, I noticed a moving van next door and THERE WERE THREE GIRLS moving in. "No that's a real way to answer prayer, Lord!" In a very short time I had one of them as a friend...well, you know. Efficiency was evermost in my mind. Yeah--sure!"

"Several years later after I had given my life to Jesus, and had gotten married, my wife and I enjoyed talking about how the Lord had answered our prayers for each other, brought us together from very dissimilar backgrounds. As we were looking out our upstairs window, I noticed a young woman (now seven years older) walking across the street and a light bulb went off in my head. THAT'S THE GIRL. NOW LOOK AT HER!"

"As I put my arm around my wife in an affectionate hug, the thought came to me also...There is a blessing in prayer...even unanswered ones."

Death be not proud

Daddy

July 10, 1930 - October 25, 2006

Today on the way to work I received a phone call from my mother and father's neighbor on the East Coast. She handed off the phone to my mother, who told me that my father had suffered a massive heart attack and was dead. He had gone out for a walk with the dog and on the way back, passed my mother and the neighbor as they were just setting out. Mother noticed that he was walking slowly and asked if he was okay. "Not so good, love" he replied, and went inside. Mother thought he merely had some joint stiffness or had to get to the bathroom. When she walked into the still dark house at 7:05, she heard a strange gasping sound. Daddy was breathing his last, slumped over on the couch. She called 9-1-1 and sat with him. "I watched him turn white" she later sobbed. And now after 56 years, mother is a widow and alone in a farmhouse they shared for 36 years. His glasses still sit perched on the table next to his hearing aids where he put them this morning.

My father was only 76 years old. He was as strong as an ox, eager to please, and adored my mother. He was talented, energetic, and active. Now he is gone. Daddy willed his body to science, so we honored his wishes that way. Before the coroner wrapped daddy's body, he asked mother if she wanted to be alone with him. She said no. She was current with everything that needed to be said to him. Just that morning they hugged and kissed each other, telling each other how much they loved one another. Daddy told mother he loved her before he went out for a walk. "I know, love." She had not been saving something up to say to him and she was as prepared to say goodbye as anyone could be.

I am stunned, to say the least, but I have to say that this is my experience, too. Just last night I called my parents and had a good chat with them. Daddy was very chatty and warm. He was delighted that the sewing machine they sent me had arrived in one piece. We discussed the latest Handyman magazine, as he was delighted that I love doing woodworking and remodeling projects. I don't remember much of our conversation, only that it left me feeling warm and so grateful that I called. I can still hear him telling me, "I love you, Barb, and I'm so proud of your accomplishments." I have no doubts but that he adored me.

Yet there are streams of light coming through the sadness. Opening my email when I returned back home, I noticed a message from my father. It had been sent at 7:01 a.m. His email ended with a comical remark about wondering if he could mail me his woodworking lathe. And he told me he loved me again. He was dead within four minutes of sending that email, so I received his last communication. I am so grateful.

Daddy died at home, with mother at his side, on his sofa where he took his daily naps. He did not linger and he died very quickly, even though it was unexpected. He had just told me "a funny" as he would say, and he probably felt pretty good, emotionally. It was exactly what he would have wanted, except for my mother's broken heart.

Only two weeks ago I told a relative that there is not a place where I feel closer to God than at a funeral. It may sound strange, but it is the absolute truth. It is at a funeral service when one thinks about what happens after death, and how God plays into all the sadness and losses we face on this earth. My faith tradition believes in soul sleep, which is what most of Christendom believed until the last couple centuries or so. What this means is that when people die, they are as though they are asleep. Then comes the resurrection day when Jesus returns to this earth to gather up His people. As He descends on a cloud with millions of angels and the brilliance of His glory, He shouts, "Awake! Awake, those who sleep in the dust!" And all those who love the Lord will be made alive with immortal bodies.
My father will come up out of the grave tall, healthy, vibrant, and with an immortal body. He will find mother, who will again be youthful and beautiful, and together they will ascend to the Holy City in heaven. Until that day, he will remain sleeping in the grave, oblivious to all that occurs here. The next thing he knows will be the sound of Jesus, whose voice he has longed to hear all these years, and whose face he has often said he wants to gaze upon.

There are certainly worse things than death. I knew daddy was very tired and sad. I knew he had done his best and was painfully aware of the times and places where it had not been remotely good enough. But he kept going, trying to serve God in the best way he knew how, with the best of intentions. I'm so glad I forgave him a long time ago. Now daddy rests in peace and I am left with a deep, clean sadness. I am so grateful that although he was not perfect and although I struggled to understand him for many years, I did understand and love him in the end. I have no regrets.

Night-nite, Daddy, until we meet again.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne