Dearest Judy

 One of the hardest things about life is when the opposite happens, and we are forced (ready or not) to say goodbye. I am no stranger to separation by death. Yet every time it happens to a beloved family member or a close friend, it feels just as awful, just as violent - whether the person died in their sleep or in a tragic accident, or whether there was time to prepare or not. 

One of those incidents happened not long ago. A dear friend, unbeknownst to me, had a stroke and dropped out of view. When Judy was not on social media for 3 weeks, I began to get concerned and I contacted her family, who told me about the stroke. She was in the hospital. 

Judy had always been so strong, so independent, that we did not think much of the fact that she was getting old and it was getting harder for her to move around. We enjoyed her company, her laugh, her stories, her enjoyment of the little things, and most of all her love. When she would call me, she would identify herself as "Judy too," as my name is Judy. We would invite her to our house for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. She and I would make "play dates" or as I called them, "aerie times", referencing our favourite metaphor, the eagle. She would invite our family to Dairy Queen and pay for our meals. She prayed every single day for each of us, as well as for her family and other friends. What a precious lady.

My husband and I went to see her on Christmas day 2023 when she was in the stroke unit; she was largely unresponsive, and her words slurred when she spoke, as if she was drunk. About a week later, we went in to see her again. This time she had been moved to a full-care unit where people go to recover. We were hopeful that she would get better. However, it struck me while we were there that they had put in a feeding tube through her abdominal wall into her stomach. She was totally dependent on them. I remember being grateful that the stroke seemed to affect her ability to compare the quality of her current life with the one she had been living prior to the stroke. We wanted to make our visits a regular thing.

The week after that, we got sick with some sort of flu and we didn't go to see her for fear that she would catch our sickness, which would not have been good. We were sick for about three weeks. 

During the time we were sick, Judy passed away. We didn't know. One day in early February, I went onto her wall on Facebook, and learned from a post someone left that she had passed, just about a month or so prior to her 80th birthday. 

I'd been keeping a Christmas card for her in my purse, which i wrote to her after our second visit. Yesterday I was looking for something else ... and I found it. Slowly, I un-tucked the back flap of the envelope, and slid the card out. The picture was of a cardinal. Inside I had written a short note to her from us, and I started it out with "Dearest Judy," as I often did on Christmas or her birthday. 

I froze. Floods of memories from before the stroke came to me, as if to comfort me. 

Try as I might, I could not (and cannot) be sad for her. In 2007, she lost her beloved husband Bob to a heart attack, and she often spoke of him with us, because we knew him from when they were married. We knew that they were reunited after all this time (this coming April 3rd it would have been 17 years). She is happy and pain-free for the first time in many years - head injuries from a previous relationship gave her Menière's Disease, affecting her hearing and her balance. She is finally free of it. 

No, I cannot be sad for her. However, I can be sad for me. I will miss this wonderful big sister of mine, who was technically old enough to be my mother. I will miss our long talks, our prayer sessions, our sing-songs, her vivid imagination, and so much more. I will miss how articulate and talented in writing she was, how spiritual and yet down-to-earth she was. 

And I can imagine her keeping watch over us all, in that "great cloud of witnesses" the Scriptures mention (Hebrews 11, I believe, but I could be wrong.) I can picture her joining our daughter Arielle's twerking class (Mother Theresa was her first graduate, haha)... and dancing with all her might. I can imagine her singing while Bob makes his heavenly electric guitar just wail ... and I know that while it seems like a long time here, it won't be long for her when she turns around and I'll be standing there, arms wide for a big hug.

The strange face of gratitude

Almost nine days ago, on February 24, 2020 at 10:10 pm, my brother passed away. It was unexpected, as he had been getting slowly better with dialysis and his kidney function was improving. But one of his two catheters, the one that carried his bile out of the gall bladder, became infected and caused blood poisoning (also known as sepsis.) He became too weak to get out of bed, and to make a long story short, after police got to him, he was in bad shape and died later in hospital from septic shock.

I say this only to set the stage for all of the aftermath of his passing.

Free photo by Larisa-K at pixabay

My brother and I were as close as any brother and sister could be. He and I were like soul-mates. We thought alike, felt the same things, and had the same background. We "got" each other. Almost every day, separated by the miles, we talked for at least a half hour, sometimes as much as three hours. And we enjoyed ourselves to the full while doing so. It was a joy to talk to him, to watch him grow as a person, to share experiences and thoughts and hopes with him and he with me, to make plans together for the future, to talk of our love for God, for family, for animals, for nature, for music, and for life.

I miss him terribly. And time will not diminish the pain of that. Only Love can.

In the last few days, I have had the opportunity to look back and marvel at how many wonderful and miraculous things have happened. Leave alone the miracles in his own life: being cured of colon cancer in 2017, surviving two heart attacks (fall 2017 and winter 2019), and witnessing many other smaller miracles of the everyday. Just in his passing and the subsequent events arising from that, I have been able to be thankful for several things:

• He did not die alone and undiscovered. This was his greatest fear, and it was on a day when he was expected at a medical appointment (dialysis) that I finally got someone to check on him and knew enough to call 9-1-1.
• He was spared having to say goodbye to our mother.  He was anxious regarding how he would handle her death. She is still alive (although she has dementia), so he was spared this pain.
• He was ready.  He was finally moving toward feeling at ease in his own skin, and he was growing spiritually and so excited for the things he was learning about how to live life. There is no doubt in my mind that he is waiting for me on the other side, enjoying restored / perfect health and strength in everything that gave (and gives) him joy.
• My husband is retired, and he never left my side during this whole ordeal of going out of province, making arrangements, and greeting people I had not seen in decades (and whom he barely knew) - even though it is outside his comfort zone. That's love, and that heals.
• My daughter was able to stay home and look after the animals all week, and she, too, went outside her own comfort zone to come and attend the funeral with us. This is a huge deal for her, because the thought of losing people in her life makes her very anxious and panicky.
• My work situation is such that I was able to take the time off to make arrangements for his funeral, plus some time to decompress. My boss was unexpectedly understanding about the whole thing.
• Co-worker after co-worker ... each has expressed condolences on Facebook. They really do care. That blows me away.
• I was in the middle of taking a break from my studies when this happened. As a result, my schooling was not interrupted, and I didn't lose any marks for lack of concentration. My brother was so proud of me for taking steps to be a counselor. He rejoiced with me over every milestone. He would want me to graduate with full honors.
• The circumstances of his death, plus the communication with family and friends, re-established old ties long since given up for lost.
• The fact that he died in the winter meant that there was no committal service (graveside) and I was spared the stress and pain of seeing his body put in the ground, the hardest part of death rituals for me.
• The love from family and friends has been nothing short of miraculous and has even now already started the healing process.
• My psychologist is amazing. I saw her yesterday and poured out my heart regarding many of the above things - in detail - and she listened and supported me in my grieving process.

I could say much more, but I will stop there. All of those things (and more) has left me with something I never expected:  the strange face of gratitude in the middle of my suffering, in the process of my grief.  That does not mean that I am untouched by losing him. Rather, it means that I feel somehow honored to have been a part of his life for as long as he was here - with no regrets for having helped him as much as I could - and privileged to be a part of a circle of family and friends that, unknown to me, was there all along.

Gratitude is a strange response to grief. But here I am. Grateful. And grieving. But grateful.

Existence versus Life

As I write this, my mind and heart is a jumble of myriad tangled feelings, thoughts, memories, and pain – each competing with the other and yet co-existing and draining my strength as they fight their constant battle. This battle? This war? This is grief. This is love when arms can no longer hold the loved one.

Less than 48 hours ago, my brother Ben passed away from septic shock combined with pneumonia that he developed from an infection in a tube-site for his gall bladder. The tube was initially inserted in February 2017 and his surgeon hesitated to remove both it and the gall bladder for fear of him experiencing a coronary on the table. He had atherosclerosis (with a total of 3 stents in various heart arteries, for which he was taking a blood-thinner since the last heart attack on February 14, 2019.)  He also had insulin-dependent diabetes, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, nephrolithiasis, and chronic renal failure, and he was on dialysis three times a week.

In fact, that’s how I found out that he was in trouble. His dialysis nurse called me and said he didn’t show up for his Monday morning appointment. After trying to reach him, thinking he had overslept, I called a relative and asked them to go check to see if he was at home. His car was, but he didn’t answer. After that, I called 911 who patched me through to the RCMP. They went to his house, saw him awake on his bed through his (main floor) bedroom window, and he was unable to get up. They broke the door down and called the EMT people. That would have been around 3 pm or so. The EMTs came and got an IV started. They took him to the local hospital who assessed him and intubated him as he was having difficulty breathing. Then they ambulanced him to the hospital where he normally did his dialysis. They got him there around 7 p.m.  Three hours after he got there, he took a turn for the worse, and went into septic shock. The nurse called me and asked me or someone to come to the hospital right now. They tried to revive him three times but to no avail. At 10:15 pm, he was pronounced dead.

And that is what the doctor told me ten minutes later, over the phone, as I was getting my coat on to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to see him. Such pain I had not felt in over six years since my youngest daughter died at the age of 21.

My night-time trip was cancelled, of course. I made plans to pack up the next day, and go to the homestead to assess the damage and the mess. I might have slept four hours that night. The next night, with the help of some Melatonin, I slept for six hours, although there was one interruption at five a.m. when Ben’s alarms went off to remind him to get up for dialysis. Hopefully, tonight will be better.

During my waking hours, I have been doing a lot of thinking about the difference between existing and living. For most of his life, Ben just existed. He grew up thinking that he was a nuisance to his parents. He bore the inner scars of physical and psychological abuse by his mom and abandonment by his dad who never stopped her, and the bruises of an older brother who criticized everything he did and regularly pounded on him. He bore other scars too: a marriage that lasted only 14 years before it ended in divorce, alienation from his sons, rejection from an endless string of women, as well as being used by women who befriended him only for his bank account. His was a lonely life. He battled the loneliness with his art: he could draw landscapes, animals, and people just by looking at pictures of things. He composed so many songs and sang them with me and with that older brother when we were all so young (I was 16 at the time, so he was 22 and the other brother was 26) – gospel songs that were so beautiful you could hear a pin drop when we were done.

Yet he suffered. I remember him coming home from senior high school and sobbing as he begged me never EVER to judge a man just on his appearance. I never EVER forgot his words. 

Yes, most of his life he was a melancholy man. He existed; he created beautiful things and appreciated beauty in nature and in people, but his existence was spent waiting for the next good thing to happen, and being disappointed time after time after time. 

After his divorce in the early 1990s, he moved in with Mom and Dad. He was there for Mom after Dad passed away, and he made sure he was there to look after things for her. Others would come in and see him lazing around, as they called it. He rested because he couldn’t breathe if he got up and moved around. He had so many ailments: his lungs, his kidneys, his heart, his gall bladder, his pancreas,… people didn’t understand and he felt a lot of condemnation come from them. Nobody understood him, he told me, except me. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to tame the monsters of hatred and bullying that he experienced – whether real or imagined – from others.

Once, he even tried to commit suicide. He had finally learned how to love unconditionally, and his girlfriend stole from him and used the money to get high. 

A few months later that girl died … and it took him months to make peace with that.

Photo "Eye" by graur codrin at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But by that time, he had learned to live. To REALLY LIVE.

You see, in October 2016, Ben had been diagnosed with stage one colon cancer. And in January 2017, he underwent a six-hour procedure to remove the cancer along with a 5-inch section of bowel. And when he woke from that surgery, while he was still recovering in the hospital, he was listening to the radio and a singer Skip Ewing was singing, “How can he be a king? He’s just a kid.” And God spoke to him in his heart, and said, “Are you listening, son?”  And he responded, tears streaming down his face, “Yes, Father. I’m here. I hear You.”

From that moment on, Ben started to really LIVE. He had some setbacks and some heartaches (like the death of that girlfriend). And he was living on a very limited income, never knowing if he would need to starve in order to be warm, or to freeze in order to eat. It was hard. It was REALLY hard. But he was finally LIVING. We would talk on the phone – and I would let him listen to music that he liked – and he would cry tears of beauty and joy. He never forgot how God rescued him, miraculously let him live, and would look after his every need. Even if he misplaced his car keys. Or his needles. Or his wallet.

Last year, on Valentine’s Day 2019, he suffered a major heart attack. The paramedics found him and the emergency team had to put an intravenous shunt through his shin bone to give him liquids. He screamed in pain and then his heart went into atrial fibrillation. They had to use the paddles to get him back – and he was “gone” for a few seconds there.

He remembered those few seconds. He felt completely at peace. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that he was loved, cared for, and safe. And from that time onward, he lost his fear of death. He lost his fear of living, too. And the living he had been doing up until then just intensified. He could not keep silent about God’s love for him. Anyone who knew him heard him talk about higher things, spiritual things, wonderful things like love and joy and peace and goodness. He touched so many people that way: people in dialysis, people in drug stores, people at church, in grocery store lineups, everywhere.

That’s not to say that he didn’t have questions. We would talk for hours at a time as he tried to understand some spiritual concept or other. We talked almost every day, for up to two or three hours at a time. (It’s a good thing I have such a good cell phone plan that includes free long distance!) But every time we talked, he would not hesitate to tell me what he had been learning, what God showed him or how He helped him find something he needed. Or met a need in his finances. Or let him talk to someone about his experiences in the Lord.

And now this week, I have been living in his house without him here. Memories galore. Yet it feels so surreal: not quite right, like he should be here laughing and joking with us, listening to YouTube videos, or talking about how wonderful Heaven is.

And yes, he could not let a conversation go by before he mentioned how deeply he longed to see his Master’s face, to walk the shores of Glory with Him, to hug Dad, and to jam with friends and family gone ahead.

And now he is there. And he is LIVING beyond his wildest imaginings – and he could imagine a LOT!!

Good night Ben. See you in the Morning. Keep a chair for me by the hearth, and say hi to Dad for me. I love you beyond measure. 

And … I will miss you. I’ll never forget what you taught me about how to live life in a positive way and not just exist expecting the worst.

Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH.

Keeping Christmas

"And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!" - A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

I know, I know. It's too soon to talk about Christmas for most of my readers. Notable exceptions exist of course (Anne, Stephanie, I'm talking to you wonderful ladies!)

I used the above quote because when people refer to someone as a Scrooge, they mean the miserly old skin-flint in the "before" picture and not of the "after." In the same way, a "Grinch" is a mean-spirited, selfish person who hates Christmas. Yet in the story by Dr. Seuss, "the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day" and he ended up being sweet and generous! 

Christmas 2014 - everyone gets in on the fun!

When I was a little kid, I heard stories of my dad waking my mom up at 3:30 a.m. just because it was Christmas. He couldn't wait to see our faces when we opened our presents, to see the wonder and hear the laughter of that day. It was his favorite day of the year. And he didn't get anything else out of the day. We had no money to give him a present. His joy, his Christmas spirit, came from giving to those who had no way to return the favor. 

What a wonderful feeling that is! I've had occasion - here and there - to experience that kind of excitement in anticipation of someone opening a gift that I have made or bought for them. It is truly magical. And it doesn't matter if it's for Christmas, or their birthday, or even "just because." I don't expect anything in return. It just blesses me to bits to be able to give to them something that they need or want - that they like - and that they will cherish and use. 

So, perhaps we can "keep Christmas" all year round. Wouldn't that be great? If everyone had that spirit of gratitude, generosity and goodwill all year, how much sweeter life would be! Folks would be much easier to get along with ... as long as there was no trace of obligation or duty involved ... and therefore, no mad rushing about in the stores, no impatience in parking lots, or any of that. 

How much fuller life would feel with that kind of attitude - to give is better than to receive - present not just at Christmas but every day? How it would transform each of us to find joy in giving to those who have no hope of ever paying us back (which isn't the point anyway)!! Hungry, homeless people, people with hardly two nickels (or tuppence) to rub together, could eat, be warm, and have their daily needs met through the generosity of those who love to give! 

Isn't that worth more than getting the latest gadget for ourselves? 
I'll leave that thought with you, as it has been burning in me. 

And happy Christmas to you!

Commemoration Days

Commemoration is something you do to honour the person (or people) who has (or have) died... for whatever reason.  Usually you hear the word around November 11, but someone said that word to me last night as I explained that the next day would have been my youngest daughter's 24th birthday. 

"Are you doing anything to commemorate? you know, something special?"

Frankly, I was just going to try to survive the day. But when I awoke this morning and started thinking about it, and planning my meals for the day, I began to think about my girl's favourite things... and how I could honour her in the choices I make in the little things today. 

I started with cooking a breakfast for myself that was one of her favourites: "hash" - which is hash-browned potatoes made with "real" potato (not the instant kind) - bacon (cooked chewy but not crispy), and scrambled eggs (that last bit was for me). As I ate it I recalled how she would relish every bite, rolling her eyes back with ecstasy when she took that first bite of bacon, that first taste of potato. Then how she would try to get as many potato pieces as she could fit on her fork, and give her potato-head fork a "haircut"... fill her mouth really full of the food and then act silly trying to talk through a mouth packed full. 

Arielle at Sam's - early 2012
Copyright 2012, Judy Gillis

I lingered over breakfast, savouring every morsel, each one a memory of fun times at the breakfast table either at home or at her favourite restaurant to have breakfast at: Sam's. Our family still goes there, quite frequently.  We like it there too. 

The last couple of weeks I have been living in Calgary, Alberta - I'm here for my schooling - and being this close to where she had her accident has been very emotional for me. It has made me more sensitive, and affected nearly all my interactions with people.

I find myself usually thinking about the things I miss about her - and there is a LOT of that! - and not wanting to think of the things about her that drove me crazy - her in-your-face attitude, her loudness, her impulsiveness to the point of taking unnecessary risks and not being considerate of people who were worried about her - but those things were a part of her as well. It took her quite a while for her to learn not to crowd me (she'd stand too close for my personal comfort and would NOT lower her voice) but she eventually learned that it "made Mom's skin get all snaky-feeling."

I miss her smile. I miss her laughter and her fun-ness. I miss how generous and loving she was, how she would put herself out for a friend in need.  I miss the quirk of her eyebrow ... and I miss her unshakable faith.  I miss her hugs ... most of all I miss those. 

I know that I will find other ways to make this day special.  But honestly, she left such an impact on my life that I try to "commemorate" her by living a little more like she did, by her unique life's motto, "Every snowflake counts" (see my October 24, 2013 post), every day.

It not only keeps her close, it's a wonderful way to live. 

Thanks, sweetie, for lighting the way.  

Living Grief

My dad had a stroke in January 1989, when he was 63. I was 28 and had just learned that I was pregnant with our first child. Neither he nor my mom knew that I was pregnant.

The stroke changed him; it changed who he was. He'd always prided himself on not showing his emotions to anyone else. He lost about half the use of his left arm and leg, which was bad enough, but what he lost most was his emotional control, and his ability to sing. Slowly, over the next three years, he lost more and more of his memory. My children never knew the man that I knew growing up. I grieved that they'd never benefit from his wisdom, or hear his comedic timing when he told a joke, or see him "in action" when he was pranking one of my uncles or acting the fool with people who came to the house.

Mom and Dad - 1984

 
In fact, I felt abandoned - like I had lost my father when he had the stroke - because before me was this man I didn't know, in many ways the very opposite of the one I knew. He was impulsive, unreserved, would blurt things out no matter where he was or who he was with. 

It took me several months to work through the sadness I felt. And then, one day, my mother got sick and had to be hospitalized for a couple of weeks. She was afraid to leave him on his own and she asked me if I would stay with him. 

So I did. 

In those two weeks, I determined to get to know the man in front of me, to know what he was like.... and I learned that there were things about this fellow who used to be my dad, that I never knew about my dad when I was growing up. I learned how soft-hearted he was; he would burst into tears if he was moved. I appreciated how frustrated he was that his body wouldn't do what he wanted it to do, that his voice couldn't make notes anymore - he had been able to sing, rich deep bass notes. He could enjoy good music still, but that he couldn't sing the notes tore at him. I remember just stopping him as he was berating himself for not being able to get dressed after he used the washroom, and I just reached down without looking and buttoned his pants and buckled his belt for him. The gratitude in his eyes is not something I'll forget.

I learned that he could cook!! He always let my mom cook when I was growing up. He had the most wonderful belly-laugh and he laughed .... a lot. And his love came shining through. All those things I thought I had lost were still there. They just took a different form. Those two weeks gave me a gift: the gift of my father without all the defenses he put up over the years to hold himself in check. It showed me what he was really like inside, and truth be told, I liked this guy just as much as I had loved my pre-stroke dad.


As time went on, though, my mother began to suspect that he had a memory problem. 

He'd always had a problem remembering people's names; we used to joke about him calling someone "Whassisname" ... but this was different. Someone would ask a question and he'd start to answer, get confused, and look to my mother to get direction. She'd answer the question for him. 

Finally, because he wouldn't make an appointment for himself with a doctor, Mom made one and took him in. It was October 1, 1993.

The doctor asked him three questions: 
(1) Do you know where you are? (after looking around ... "Uhhh, hospital?")
(2) Do you know what day it is? ("Wednesday...")
(3) Do you know what year it is? (He looked at my mother. He didn't know.)

The doctor sent him for an immediate CT scan. It revealed that he had widespread brain cancer. Inoperable. He had a matter of weeks left. 

They set up a hospital bed at home and for a month he stayed in that bed using a bedpan. Then he developed a bedsore and was admitted to hospital. To palliative care. 

From that point, he went downhill fast. I visited as often as I was able. My mother almost never left his side. 

Week to week, I could see the deterioration as the cancer continued to spread unhindered. He lost his appetite. Pain - deep, nerve pain - wracked his body and the doctors prescribed morphine. He lost weight. The pain was so bad that he would moan and cry out for his "Mama" - who had died in 1974. He regressed. He didn't recognize his children. It was so very hard to watch ... the only parent I had that I absolutely knew loved me unconditionally ... and I saw him slipping away and there was nothing I could do to bring him back. 

I knew that he was nearing the end. The morphine injections weren't doing the trick so they put him on a slow drip. Gradually they increased the dose. 

I grabbed his hand and held it, about four days (as it turned out) before he passed away, and I told him the story of the first, last, and only time he had taken me fishing. I told him how he had taken me in the boat, how he put the bait on the hook, how he taught me to cast and to "set" the hook in the fish's mouth, and how he taught me to reel the fish in. And then how I strutted back into the house and told my mom that I'd caught the biggest fish. "You never took me fishing again, Dad, and I don't blame you. Not one bit. And I just wanted to apologize to you. I'm so sorry, Dad." 

He smiled at me, looking at me like I was some kind soul he didn't know but appreciated nonetheless.  "Tell me another story," he said dreamily.

Those were the last words I heard him speak. 

I never wanted him back after he left. Not if it meant that he would go back to being in that much pain. The first image in my mind when I learned that he had passed was of him striding confidently through a meadow of flowers, swinging his arms in the prime of life, singing in that deep bass voice at the top of his lungs with all the joy I knew he had in him - happy and free of pain.
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~

They say that time heals all wounds. In a sense I guess it does. At least the callouses get a little thicker. I won't say that the hurt goes away, because it doesn't. At times it is just as fresh as the first day. There are times I want so much for him to hold me in his arms and tell me one more time that everything is going to be okay. I miss him so much! 

I comfort myself now with the fact that the granddaughter that never knew him, the one who told me how much she wanted to meet him someday because I'd talked about him so much that she thought she knew him, is now keeping company with him. It helps a bit to know that they have each other to spend time with, while we wait to join them. 

For us it will be a lifetime. For them - they will have just gotten there when we arrive.

Ring of Power

I've been struggling the past while with control issues... mostly attempts of others to control me - but also the feeling of powerlessness, frustration, and anger that results within me when others try to manipulate or control me or someone I care about.  

Most frustrating is the knowledge that as much as I want it to happen, the growth and the freedom that has happened within me (as limited as it might be) is not something I can impart or impose on anyone else.  Each person has to come to his or her own personal "bottom" and really WANT to be free, before that kind of change can occur.  

Source (via Google Images):
http://shirleytwofeathers.blogspot.com/2011/12/its-not-my-fault.html

I find great symbolism in the story of Frodo and the One Ring.  It was forged by Sauron - whose name, in one of the fictitious Middle Earth languages, means "terrible."  He  created it so as to control all other domains of influence. Some refer to it as "the Ring of Power." 

It's the Self.


It's all about control.

The quest to control others, to control outcomes, to use any means necessary to bend people and circumstances to our will ... this is its seductive grip.  Some people live their whole lives enslaved by it.  Frodo, in LOTR (Lord of the Rings) falls into possession of the Ring and is given the quest to take it to a specific spot and destroy it, to break Sauron's evil power.  He is warned that the Ring is seductive, that it will try to gain control over him and get him to wear it, so that he will be compelled to take it back to its evil and ruthless creator.  During the entire trilogy, Frodo battles with his own insides as this powerful call becomes stronger and stronger, the closer he gets to the fires of Orodruin - its forging-place and therefore the only place it can be destroyed. The Ring has already driven poor Smeagol (a.k.a. Gollum) insane: his only desire is to touch his "precious", to own its power once again.  

The call is that strong. Some - like Gollum - never escape it.  Even Frodo - with his fellowship helping him through the entire journey - comes to the brink of yielding to its pull on his soul at the end of his quest.  

Tolkien's classic tale is what one of my favorite authors, John Eldredge, would call "mythic" - in that it tells the age-old story of humankind and teaches three lessons:  
(1) We are born into a war, an epic struggle between good and evil which rages, unseen, all around us, 
(2) Things are not what they appear, and 
(3) Each of us has a key role to play - whether for good or for evil.  

The path of freedom may take us through many dangers, some of our own making, and some ... not.  

Which brings me to my struggle of late.  The relentless whisper of Self calls to me and tries to seduce me into seizing control by any means necessary.  If not overt in nature, it will use the attempts of others who have believed its lies and who have become enslaved to it, in order to distract me from my quest to be free of its bondage in my life. These others see nothing wrong with their pursuit of power, of control.  Even lies (which include lies of omission) are justified.  The deception is fierce and the stakes are high.  The Self will try to delude me into thinking I am helping these other people by playing along with them, by associating with them and coming alongside of them in their own poison prison. What that does is that it infects me with their malaise.  It does not help them; it hinders me.  The Self (that Ring of Power) will try to convince me - failing the compromise route - that it is my job to confront and expose the error of their choices.  All this does is embroil me in the same slavish soup in which they themselves are cooking. They must travel their own road.  I cannot travel it for them.

The only way for me is to heed the Quest.  To pay attention to my own journey, not to theirs.  To accept that their path is their path, and mine is mine.  I cannot add the call of their Self to the call of my Self.  It would be too much for me and I would fail.  

I can only put one foot in front of the other, and remember why I am here.

His Story

It's the most powerful story in the world.  

It's changed more people's lives, done more to shape the thinking of countless generations than any one story could.

This past weekend, our church did its best to tell His Story in all its simplicity - no apologies, no excuses.  The reaction from all who have given feedback has been phenomenal. Account after account crop up of people's lives being profoundly affected just from this one simple - incredible - compelling story.

It's amazing.  

You see, we told His Story.  And then we told how His Story changed our own stories.  And it has - in many different ways.  

It's so easy to become blasé in the church.  Yeah, Jesus died for our sins and rose from the dead on the 3rd day.  Ho hum.

But put yourself in the story, fellow believer.  When that happens - when the reality of the sacrifice at the cross and the realization of the resurrection bursts upon your consciousness - the excitement of those moments can devastate your decorum and you might not be able to keep yourself from celebrating!!

Comments I've heard from this production from those who attended range from awe at the singing to "NOW I understand what it's all about!!" from a boy not yet a teen.  

Those who participated in the play were encouraged to identify with their character.  This revolutionized the cast's perceptions, no matter what part they played - from Jesus to Judas and everyone in between.  I watched someone to whom tears did not come easily, break down and weep in grief on stage during the burial scene, and be so affected that she was in tears even after the scene was over.  It is so indicative of how potent and arresting His Story is even after nearly 20 centuries, because He let His Story unfold - painful as it was physically and spiritually for Him - so that we could become part of it.

Such magnanimous, unconditional love still astounds me.

Shoulds and Oughtas - The Fine Print

I'm having a dream.

In my mind's eye, I see a door which is slightly ajar - inviting, strewn about in front with flowers, twittering birds, and soft music.  

Above the archway is written, "Just Believe." I can't quite see inside - but the marketing on the outside is pretty impressive.  Beneath the beautiful tones of birdsong, I can faintly hear a Voice.  It is loving, passionate, pure, full of promise and encouragement.  Hope springs inside of me!

Going through the door, I expect to see a welcoming place.  A place where I am accepted for who I am.  Perhaps the author of the Voice.

But although I can see remnants of what once was a peaceful, inviting place, on the inside are iron bars and barbed wire, and I am handed a list of dos and don'ts. "Welcome to the abundant life," says an automaton who is dressed in 40's business garb.  "There is joy here ... Unless you sell yourself into slavery and subjugate your own desires, you won't ever be truly happy." I look at the list of rules.  They include such things as giving up anything that might be construed as enjoyment or fun.  They include giving up favorite pastimes in order to be at the church whenever the doors are open, sacrificing even family time to be at the beck and call of whatever missions trip or conference is going on.  The faces of my spouse and children start to fade away - I hear their protesting voices get more and more dim as I consider the path before me.

I panic.  This is not what I signed up for!!  Where is the peace? Where is the joy?  Where - oh please tell me it's somewhere - is the love?

Where did God go in all of this?

I can't hear that Voice anymore!!

I force myself to read the list of regulations and get to the bottom.  I'm already in shock - what more could there be?  

A smudge at the bottom of the page attracts my attention.  I ask for a magnifying glass.  Uncomfortable, my new host hands one to me.  I read at the bottom: "If you do not subscribe to every single belief, behavior, and attitude on this list, your motivations and your conversion will be questioned by the Fellowship at every turn.  If you dare to step outside the prescribed methods listed on the reverse, (there's more?? I think to myself) your actions will be deemed "not of God" and you will be ostracized. Embrace the blessing.  Have a nice day."

Now I am SURE I have made a mistake.  

A suffocating feeling comes over me.  The hope I felt before entering the door is being crushed, soured, demolished.

I begin to look around in desperation.  Is it ALL like this?  What happened to all the promises I was made?  How could this existence EVER be mistaken for "abundance?" Someone PLEASE wake me up from this nightmare!

I pray desperately - my heart's cry is for God to show me what this is all about and what HE wants, how HE feels about all this.

Set before me is a labyrinth of gates, dead ends, and roadblocks.  It's all so forbidding, so artificial... so I look for any other way to recapture the promise I heard in the Voice.  

And there IS something: a light - a natural light - like Sunlight - coming NOT from the labyrinth but from somewhere I can't see, off to the side. 

I decide to follow it.  All around me are voices condemning me for my choice.  I've left the safety of the maze, they say. I've gone where nobody should go.  Nobody who's ever gone that way has ever come back, they say.  "Well," I think aloud, "there's no way I want to come back to THIS."

On this new path, I can see some of the original design of this vast place.  Gnarled roots from an olive tree.  Moss, soft and cool, cushions my step.  I feel strangely invigorated. The accusing voices behind me start to fade away.  I cock my head slightly for I think I can hear the peeping of a bird - somewhere.  The noises of an ever-increasingly wild wood both frighten and intrigue me.  The light - the light is just ahead.  

I round a corner and see a tree - one that looks like it has been in this spot forever.  One one side of its bumpy and overgrown bark there is a space cleared where someone has carved a heart.  The words inside the heart seem to vibrate with life.  "Love one another."  

The chirping of birds is more clear now - all kinds of species, with songs high and low, blending together harmoniously.  Almost forgotten is the labyrinth behind me; in fact, it has faded from my sight.

The light I saw earlier is all around me; it seems to come from nowhere but yet it is miraculously here.  I am filled with awe --  with a sense that I have only begun to scratch the surface of something that can never be fathomed. 

A rustling sound - like the sound of crinkling paper - distracts me. The list of dos and don'ts is still in my hand, the only remnant of the restrained, strait-jacket world I have left behind.  I forgot to toss the paper away - and I am just about to do so when I notice the watermark on the paper.  In the artificial light from the entryway, I could not see it - but now it is as clear as day.  

It says "Ichabod - the glory has departed."

As I let go of the paper, it dissolves into mid-air and a warm glow beckons me on. I hear a Voice - a familiar Voice - the one I thought I heard when I stood outside the entrance.  Only  now can I hear Him say my name - saying it in the purest and most passionate love I have ever known.

My heart leaps.  This - this is joy.  If I am dreaming ..... don't wake me.