At a quarter of noon the announcement interrupted the talk in the waiting room. It was a temporary hold on the scheduled noon visitation. Everyone was silent. The intensive care waiting room veterans looked around the room, knowing the inevitable outcome for some family was potentially, an outcome of loss.
With the announcement neither mom nor I said a word. I don’t even remember looking her in the eye. I reached out, as did she, and our hands were joined looking toward the entrance of the ICU area. Mom and I knew the end was very likely near. We had tried to talk about how we disliked seeing dad suffer. We were weary of his suffering. He was weary. We knew this visit would be even more difficult than the 8 o’clock visit.
A nurse’s voice came from behind us, “ Mrs. Mills?” We both spun around. “Would you come with us?”
One of dad’s doctors stood a few feet away beside a consultation room near the ICU hallway. We arose as the nurse held my mom’s arm and ushered us respectfully into the comfortable, but small room. As the nurse closed the door the doctor relayed what we knew, already. Dad had been very, very sick. The cancer was not one that could be treated effectively. He had valiantly fought the fight for a month. He lost the battle a few moments ago. I’m sorry.
I remember a few tears. My lips were pressed together in an effort to squelch some of my emotion. I held my mom’s hand. She asked a few more questions. I wondered what the loss of my father at 24 years old would mean for me. I wondered how many children of mine, he would not ever hold, or laugh with. I had so wanted him to see me fully recover from my adolescence. (I still remember the day I told him I was going to study ministry. I thought he was either going to laugh, because he thought it was a joke, or reprimand me for not thinking through my decision.)
After a few moments we were invited back to the ICU where the flesh that once held the spirit of my father lay, now in peace. IV’s removed, still like a sleeping child, the body of my dad. We cried … as I do even today.
No set of days in my life have shaped me as those in the three months of February to April of 1980. My father surely shaped me all of my life and even today, some 28 years after he left his body behind.
Thanks dad! I love you!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Remembering while I can (part 4)
At 7:45 a.m. on April 15 my mom and I had readied ourselves for our visit. I remember us both taking deliberate deep breaths as we prepared to go for a visit. We knew this visit would be difficult. As the doors opened we made our way through the now familiar white hallways leading to the ICU. A center island of nurses stations, computers, doctors making notes, and IV carts were unaffected by our entry. It was business as usual. All around this square room were cubicles of rooms with glass fronts and sliding glass doors facing the center nurses station (dad’s room was on the south, fourth room on our left).
We entered to see a very tired man infused with oxygen through that dreaded ventilator and his trecheotomy. He could not speak. At first his eyes barely gave indication that we were present. After mom had checked on his comfort and carried her smile as far as she could carry it, she stepped back and urged me to the front so she could gather herself. I gently held my father’s swollen left hand. I wanted to squeeze it to indicate my concern and love, but didn’t dare in his fragile and pain filled state. I let the strength of his squeeze determine mine. His right hand came across his torso. He turned my hand face up in his. Then with his right hand he made a sign, then another. Two simple signs. At first two fingers and then three fingers. He repeated the signs gently landing the back of his hand into mine. My brow wrinkled as I tried to figure out what he was trying to communicate to us. Over and over as my mother looked on he continued. Knowing that my dad knew a little sign language I thought “VW”, but that made no sense. Maybe 2 plus 3, that made no sense, either. He could have just said “5” with a full hand of fingers. Was he hallucinating? Then my mom with great clarity asked my dad, “Lester, do you want him to read the 23rd Psalm?” Immediately, he squeezed my hand and then relaxed but did not let go. My mom asked me to read the psalm. Obviously I wasn’t carrying a Bible. And at that moment I wasn’t capable of quoting Mk 11:32 (“Jesus wept.”) My mother prompted me with, “The Lord is my shepherd … and I took it from there. I know it wasn’t perfect but with all I had I worked my way through those words. My shirt soaked with the tears of what was now my Psalm, I finished. My dad released his gentle grip and turned his hand over mine, as to comfort me. You see, I thought I was reciting it for him, but now I’m sure he had me recite it for mom and me. The visit was soon over. The little bell gently tolled for us to return to the waiting room. Mom and I told dad that we loved him. He responded with a small squeeze. With tear filled eyes we retreated until on next appointed time.
We entered to see a very tired man infused with oxygen through that dreaded ventilator and his trecheotomy. He could not speak. At first his eyes barely gave indication that we were present. After mom had checked on his comfort and carried her smile as far as she could carry it, she stepped back and urged me to the front so she could gather herself. I gently held my father’s swollen left hand. I wanted to squeeze it to indicate my concern and love, but didn’t dare in his fragile and pain filled state. I let the strength of his squeeze determine mine. His right hand came across his torso. He turned my hand face up in his. Then with his right hand he made a sign, then another. Two simple signs. At first two fingers and then three fingers. He repeated the signs gently landing the back of his hand into mine. My brow wrinkled as I tried to figure out what he was trying to communicate to us. Over and over as my mother looked on he continued. Knowing that my dad knew a little sign language I thought “VW”, but that made no sense. Maybe 2 plus 3, that made no sense, either. He could have just said “5” with a full hand of fingers. Was he hallucinating? Then my mom with great clarity asked my dad, “Lester, do you want him to read the 23rd Psalm?” Immediately, he squeezed my hand and then relaxed but did not let go. My mom asked me to read the psalm. Obviously I wasn’t carrying a Bible. And at that moment I wasn’t capable of quoting Mk 11:32 (“Jesus wept.”) My mother prompted me with, “The Lord is my shepherd … and I took it from there. I know it wasn’t perfect but with all I had I worked my way through those words. My shirt soaked with the tears of what was now my Psalm, I finished. My dad released his gentle grip and turned his hand over mine, as to comfort me. You see, I thought I was reciting it for him, but now I’m sure he had me recite it for mom and me. The visit was soon over. The little bell gently tolled for us to return to the waiting room. Mom and I told dad that we loved him. He responded with a small squeeze. With tear filled eyes we retreated until on next appointed time.
Remembering while I can (part 3)
I grew up a lot in those three weeks. I was the baby, afterall. What did I know? For years I had tried to grow up, to gain influence and maturity with marginal success. Now I sat with my mother making what were possibly life and death decisions concerning my father’s health. After each discussion she and I would attempt to communicate al we knew to both my brother and sister over the phone. It was incomplete at best. I tried to be strong for mom and attempted to appear mature for my siblings. Inside I was shaking like a leaf.
The vigil wore on. Once dad was moved from a regular room to ICU the levels of care for him and our concern about him both increased. In those days family visited the ICU on 4 hour intervals for a 15 minute visit each interval. Each day on an 8, 12, and 4 o’clock round the clock rotation we would visit. In an ICU waiting room a family evolves. They are strangers thrown together by their need for the highest level of medical care. You get to know one another very quickly in that place. A new family arrives and takes an open seat and immediately they are asking about the way things work in this sanitized city of couches, blankets, and soft lighting. You become accustomed to the faces of happiness as a family packs up to move to a “regular room” and also to the faces of silence as a family walks out of the hospital forever without the company of the one they brought in for care. It was a holy place. Mom and I would plan our time with dad carefully. She would always check to see if he needed anything. We would confirm what he had heard from doctors and he would confirm what we had heard from outside the ICU about his condition.
Fifteen minutes before each visit to the ICU they would quietly announce the upcoming opportunity. People would begin to gather belongings, use the restroom, sanitize their hands, and scurry about in quiet activity before being allowed to enter the ICU. From time to time there would be a much different announcement. If as the time for visiting came and there was difficulty with a patient or a “code blue” the visitation would be postponed and in rare cases cancelled until the next appointed time. Those were silent times, filled with prayer. No one knew whose family was to be touched by the delay, but we shared the time in prayer knowing it was one of “us”.
One of the most difficult decisions my mom and I wrestled with was about a ventilator. Even in the offer to place my dad on a ventilator was the inference that he would likely not ever come off of it. His lungs were filling with fluid. His breathing was labored. He would soon either die or have to recover, if we did not consent. He was drowning. To this day I question our decision. With each visit the hope in his eyes was waning. His strength was diminishing. It became obvious that he was holding on for our benefit.
The vigil wore on. Once dad was moved from a regular room to ICU the levels of care for him and our concern about him both increased. In those days family visited the ICU on 4 hour intervals for a 15 minute visit each interval. Each day on an 8, 12, and 4 o’clock round the clock rotation we would visit. In an ICU waiting room a family evolves. They are strangers thrown together by their need for the highest level of medical care. You get to know one another very quickly in that place. A new family arrives and takes an open seat and immediately they are asking about the way things work in this sanitized city of couches, blankets, and soft lighting. You become accustomed to the faces of happiness as a family packs up to move to a “regular room” and also to the faces of silence as a family walks out of the hospital forever without the company of the one they brought in for care. It was a holy place. Mom and I would plan our time with dad carefully. She would always check to see if he needed anything. We would confirm what he had heard from doctors and he would confirm what we had heard from outside the ICU about his condition.
Fifteen minutes before each visit to the ICU they would quietly announce the upcoming opportunity. People would begin to gather belongings, use the restroom, sanitize their hands, and scurry about in quiet activity before being allowed to enter the ICU. From time to time there would be a much different announcement. If as the time for visiting came and there was difficulty with a patient or a “code blue” the visitation would be postponed and in rare cases cancelled until the next appointed time. Those were silent times, filled with prayer. No one knew whose family was to be touched by the delay, but we shared the time in prayer knowing it was one of “us”.
One of the most difficult decisions my mom and I wrestled with was about a ventilator. Even in the offer to place my dad on a ventilator was the inference that he would likely not ever come off of it. His lungs were filling with fluid. His breathing was labored. He would soon either die or have to recover, if we did not consent. He was drowning. To this day I question our decision. With each visit the hope in his eyes was waning. His strength was diminishing. It became obvious that he was holding on for our benefit.
Remembering while I can (part 2)
Over the next four weekends mom and dad traveled a little and otherwise worked at getting their house in order for the stay at the hospital. They talked about all the things they wanted to do now that dad was retired. He wanted an RV. One he could drive from coast to coast. A buddy of his in California had one and he thought it was just the thing. My dad loved to travel, especially my car.
The family all made plans to gather pre-surgery to rally hope and push optimistically through the difficult silences. We wanted mom to feel our support and to show our father that we had learned well from his most important lessons on family responsibility. My siblings and I spent the night together at the hospital-run motel. We told stories and stayed up way too late. Not sure if we couldn’t sleep or just realized how behind we were in catching up on one another’s lives. I don’t remember much of the day of the surgery, just taking turns staying and leaving. I remember the optimism we all regained when dad came through the surgery and was walking, albeit gently, up and down the hall with mom at his side, IV pole in tow. For seven days he seemed to improve. Siblings returned home, as did I. Our lives were all busy and dad appeared to be on the road to recovery.
On what I remember to be the seventh morning mom arrived to my dad’s room to a very different picture. Several doctors had been called in. His thin weathered skin had turned red. His face had begun to swell. Mom called me (I was the closest geographically) and I returned to Little Rock mid-day. The doctors relayed that they weren’t sure what was happening but there would be a battery of tests to discern the origin of this new anomaly. It was not long before the gravity of the diagnosis required a call to both siblings and a quick return to Baptist Medical Center for them.
The next three weeks are a blur. The cancer had moved to his blood stream. Medical professionals fell short of answers. There were optimistic hopes, but no ideas for healing. In my mind the ups and downs of my father’s physical demise are uncharted. As the days turned to week’s we shared the role of being optimistic. Alone, it was more than any one of us could bear. I remember one poignant call from my brother as he talked of this dilemma of time off. He was pressed to decide whether he would potentially come and see dad again, now, or save his few remaining days for the looming potential of a funeral service. I still remember the silence after those words were first spoken.
The family all made plans to gather pre-surgery to rally hope and push optimistically through the difficult silences. We wanted mom to feel our support and to show our father that we had learned well from his most important lessons on family responsibility. My siblings and I spent the night together at the hospital-run motel. We told stories and stayed up way too late. Not sure if we couldn’t sleep or just realized how behind we were in catching up on one another’s lives. I don’t remember much of the day of the surgery, just taking turns staying and leaving. I remember the optimism we all regained when dad came through the surgery and was walking, albeit gently, up and down the hall with mom at his side, IV pole in tow. For seven days he seemed to improve. Siblings returned home, as did I. Our lives were all busy and dad appeared to be on the road to recovery.
On what I remember to be the seventh morning mom arrived to my dad’s room to a very different picture. Several doctors had been called in. His thin weathered skin had turned red. His face had begun to swell. Mom called me (I was the closest geographically) and I returned to Little Rock mid-day. The doctors relayed that they weren’t sure what was happening but there would be a battery of tests to discern the origin of this new anomaly. It was not long before the gravity of the diagnosis required a call to both siblings and a quick return to Baptist Medical Center for them.
The next three weeks are a blur. The cancer had moved to his blood stream. Medical professionals fell short of answers. There were optimistic hopes, but no ideas for healing. In my mind the ups and downs of my father’s physical demise are uncharted. As the days turned to week’s we shared the role of being optimistic. Alone, it was more than any one of us could bear. I remember one poignant call from my brother as he talked of this dilemma of time off. He was pressed to decide whether he would potentially come and see dad again, now, or save his few remaining days for the looming potential of a funeral service. I still remember the silence after those words were first spoken.
Remembering, while I can (part 1)
I guess April 15 will always loom vividly and large in my memory. I keep waiting for the year when it will pass without turbulence. I also dread the day the significance wanes enough to allow that date to be unnoticed. Each year, as the day grows nigh, I begin to recall stories from my past. Some make me smile, while others remind me of regret and sorrow. Each recurrent memory brings additional clarity for my life.
I have to back up a little.
My mother called me one morning in early February of 1980. Odd because my dad was usually the one who called. I don't remember her words, just that dad had been diagnosed with a lung tumor that would require surgery and the prognosis for that potential surgery and his recovery was not good. I could tell that she had told me all she knew. I did not ask for more.
She encouraged me to come and see him ... soon. I remember the urgency in her voice. For the first time in my life I realized my father was a mere mortal. That one day I would lose him. It hit me like a brick. I tried to "be a man about it" and suck it up, but I had no context on which to lean for this experience. I began to make plans to go see my dad. It started with a phone call to him later that same day. I often called my dad. Now, I realize how often I was asking for something when I called. This time I asked that we just get together and hang out, do whatever he wanted. "Heck, why don't we go fishing". I had NEVER said those words. I hated fishing. Still do.
Early February in north Arkansas is not typically ideal fishing weather. My dad saw through my words, giggled under his breath and said sure. Also, note that if its not fishing weather, its most likely not motorcycle weather, either. But off I went on a sub-30° Saturday morning on a 100 mile ride. I remember seeing thick frost on the car's windshield as I backed my bike out of the carport. The ride was brutally cold. At one point I stopped at a country store in Strawberry, Arkansas to stand next to a potbelly stove to encourage my blood to move again. The flannel and overall crowd at the store was amused at my idiocy. I got to my family home about 8:30 a.m. to find my dad ready to talk me out of my fishing plan, due to the weather. But for all the times he had asked me, and I had turned him down, I felt a deep yearning and obligation to be on the water with my dad on this day. After a brief discussion we loaded the car, pulling the familiar red and white 14 ft Alumicraft boat (dad had customized the boat over the years with many personalized featured) and we headed off for a nearby lake (Lake Hogue, south of Jonesboro and near Wiener, Arkansas) with the frigid winter wind howling. Dad asked me to drive. The two tone blue cadillac hummed down the road in style. Conversation was sparse, but extremely cordial. I think we were both nervous about today meant for us.
At the lake, dad didn't have to ask me to jump out and ready the boat for launching. Not this time, anyway. I braved the cold and helped nurture the boat into the choppy water. Neither did he criticize of try to improve upon my ineptitude. Shortly, we were on the water. Bundled up like eskimos we tied off to a big tree and through a line into the fog resting atop the water. Plop. Now, only the sound of the wind was breaking the silence. We made several attempts to make small talk. It wasn't working. My dad offered more than once to head back to the shelter of the shore and the heater in the car. I was saddened and even a bit angry that my ill-fated plans were disintegrating before my watering eyes. I gave in. My dad chuckled (quietly and respectfully) as we headed back across the waves to the shore. The ride home was filled with laughter punctuated with silence. Several times I apologized for the foolishness of my winter fishing expedition idea. I also found places to interject apologies for some of my greater sins and disrespect from my adolescence. He was more than gracious to receive my confessions and apologies. I thanked him for going with me. He thanked me for asking. We laughed about the weather. I felt childish and innocent. I welcomed the comfort of my father's acceptance. It had been a long time since I had allowed myself to experience his warmth. Once we were home I quickly began to transition for the cold and lonely ride home on the bike.
While the chill in the air numbed my toes on the way home, the ride proved to be cathartic. I longed for the warmth of my home and my father. The scream and chatter of the two-stroke engine revving up and down provided an uninterrupted backdrop for my thoughts as I negotiated the hills and corners of rural Arkansas. I remember nothing of the ride home except a patch of ice encountered in a shaded spot as I crested a knoll. I had thirty more days before the surgery would take place. The silence of somber consideration would be my companion till then. (more tomorrow)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Running after Jesus and my desire to dance for him.
I find myself running after Jesus and marveling at those who never seem to run after him at all, but finding him, all the same. They find him so brilliantly, so vividly. And I strain and stretch, run and fret. I want to be Mary at his feet but find myself Martha sweating the details in the kitchen. One of my goals in this move to Lubbock was to recapture some of the calm. It all worked for a while, but now my struggle has returned. Why does seeking God with my whole heart seem so frenzied, so chaotic. Are my internal mechanisms that messy. I love the quiet of the mountains, the peace of a star-lit sky, and I feel the presence of God and even feel that I hear his voice more clearly in the stillness.
Why is that simplicity, silence, solitude and solemnity are so hard to achieve. (Where did all those "s"-es come from?) Achieve? Attain? Acquire? Seems those very active words are even counter to my goal. They all involve me doing something, maybe even something more, not less. Those four elusive ladies of spiritual peace dance ever beyond by grasp. I try to learn the steps of the intimate dance of deepening communion with my God, but find my earthly coordination leaves me short of mastering a dance I love to watch but can not emulate. Seems the harder I try the more practice remains before I will master the dance.
I know, I know. Quit fretting. Slow down. But I want to dance a dance of joy before him. A beautiful, slow, unhurried, glorious dance, before Him. I feel that my dance is not very pretty, neither handsome nor smooth. I trip a lot, I fear. I pray he sees me differently. I really can't see him watching me dance at all. But maybe, I will rest in the hope that he always helps my dance bring honor to his name.
So I dance ..., and try not to run.
I was pointed to a beautiful peaceful place by Nan Camp and Amy Cary, who serve as our co-children's ministers. I have found yet another pilgrim who has found our Savior in a quiet place. http://aholyexperience.com (do not do a google search for it, just copy this link, trust me. Some days I hate the internet more than others)
Lord, I want to dance. Dance for you. Dance in your presence, dance with all who seek you... Dance to the song you sing... Dance to the music of heaven... Dance beneath and between the angels... Dance at the song that brings us into your eternal presence and your glory. Lord let me dance for you.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
What are you doing next week
If you know me, you can see me drool about tis kind of a trip. Pack my bags ... I'm outta here. (I wish)
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Worship
We've been in a study of Micah 6 for a while at Broadway. It has blessed me.
Micah 6:8
He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.
The part that still stirs me and still is not completely absorbed are the deeper meanings we have discovered behind these simple and powerful words.
Acting justly is a demand for advocacy. Helping those who can not help themselves. Using our influence, gifts, time, resources, and whatever else we have to help others have a more equitable life.
Loving mercy is acting out in the faithful loving kindness of God. Remembering who we are, what we have been redeemed from. It requires forgiving others as we hope to be forgiven. (this is not about justice, at all)
Walking humbly is a strange piece. this is the only place this word appears in the Hebrew. It seems to say that we are to live in understanding of God's role and our role in life itself.
Josh Haynes said it well today at lunch, "Its always about worship (being constantly awed by God and expressing that sentiment".
I fopund a great video that talks about worship. Enjoy!
Micah 6:8
He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.
The part that still stirs me and still is not completely absorbed are the deeper meanings we have discovered behind these simple and powerful words.
Acting justly is a demand for advocacy. Helping those who can not help themselves. Using our influence, gifts, time, resources, and whatever else we have to help others have a more equitable life.
Loving mercy is acting out in the faithful loving kindness of God. Remembering who we are, what we have been redeemed from. It requires forgiving others as we hope to be forgiven. (this is not about justice, at all)
Walking humbly is a strange piece. this is the only place this word appears in the Hebrew. It seems to say that we are to live in understanding of God's role and our role in life itself.
Josh Haynes said it well today at lunch, "Its always about worship (being constantly awed by God and expressing that sentiment".
I fopund a great video that talks about worship. Enjoy!
Monday, November 26, 2007
Shame on me
Sunday went well, I thought. I made it through class with only a small puddle forming beneath me. And my voice only cracked and faded a few times. I can only pray that my words were heard but now only time will tell if they are heeded.
It was odd. The whole thing. Last class. Same kids. Familiar surroundings. Regular time slot. A passionate voice sharing his last words with a group of teens he has called his own for over 13 years. I imagine that 90% plus of the kids in the room could not even remember the name of the youth minister who preceded me. I must have a tremendous influence on these kids. Some weren't even born when I arrived here. I changed their diapers. They've puked on my shoulder and peed in my lap. Surely they are listening to me! Its my last day, for heaven's sake. Right?!
I know this may sound really grandiose, but I'll risk it. I felt like I got a shot at feeling a little like Jesus for just a moment. I was trying with al my might to convince the gathered group to sign on to the "Great Adventure" and they looked at me like I was just a few fries short of a Happy Meal. I poured out the Gospel News that changes everything with what I felt was the eternal undying passion of God and they looked like I was reading yesterday's news in monotone.
Lord, I am soooooo sorry. I can't even begin to fathom what it must have been for you on those days. I'm such a wiener, I complain about everything.
On a lighter note; I watched Evan Almighty today (twice). Its much more a family movie than Bruce Almighty with its sexual innuendo and rawer humor. While still a stretch to absorb all the stuff in the flick, I was still struck with one unavoidable lesson. I can not imagine what life must have been like for Noah as he labored for years to build the Ark when it had never rained. The ridicule, and jeering must have been immense.
So many have done so much to provide me an easier path for my faith. May I find the strength to plow a path for those who might follow me on this journey.
It was odd. The whole thing. Last class. Same kids. Familiar surroundings. Regular time slot. A passionate voice sharing his last words with a group of teens he has called his own for over 13 years. I imagine that 90% plus of the kids in the room could not even remember the name of the youth minister who preceded me. I must have a tremendous influence on these kids. Some weren't even born when I arrived here. I changed their diapers. They've puked on my shoulder and peed in my lap. Surely they are listening to me! Its my last day, for heaven's sake. Right?!
I know this may sound really grandiose, but I'll risk it. I felt like I got a shot at feeling a little like Jesus for just a moment. I was trying with al my might to convince the gathered group to sign on to the "Great Adventure" and they looked at me like I was just a few fries short of a Happy Meal. I poured out the Gospel News that changes everything with what I felt was the eternal undying passion of God and they looked like I was reading yesterday's news in monotone.
Lord, I am soooooo sorry. I can't even begin to fathom what it must have been for you on those days. I'm such a wiener, I complain about everything.
On a lighter note; I watched Evan Almighty today (twice). Its much more a family movie than Bruce Almighty with its sexual innuendo and rawer humor. While still a stretch to absorb all the stuff in the flick, I was still struck with one unavoidable lesson. I can not imagine what life must have been like for Noah as he labored for years to build the Ark when it had never rained. The ridicule, and jeering must have been immense.
So many have done so much to provide me an easier path for my faith. May I find the strength to plow a path for those who might follow me on this journey.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
One last post ...
Tomorrow will be my last official Sunday as a youth minister. I don't know where to start with my feelings or thoughts. Emotionally I feel somewhat stable, in control, and all the right things, I think. Inside I also feel very fragile. Really ready to break. So much of what is to be done is still undone. Lives that still cry out. Unfinished business. Incomplete projects. Lessons to be taught. Lessons to be learned.
Tomorrow will be less than all I want it to be. I must face that fact. I want everyone here to know Jesus, to respond to Jesus, to be changed by Jesus. That sounds either terribly selfish or self promoting, but is not intended that way.
I'm reminded of a scene from a favorite movie of mine (Monty Python and the Holy Grail). A man with a cart is roaming the medieval streets collecting the bodies, found recently dead. He cries out, "bring out your dead" and strikes his gong as he manages his cart of corpses through the street. A man emerges from a home carrying an elderly man calling to the man with the cart. The elderly man is obviously not dead, and protesting loudly, "I ain't dead, yet".
I feel like I have so much left to give. I hope to continue in my "not dead, yet" state for a long time to come.
To quote my elderly friend from the movie one more time, "I'm feeling better. I think I'll go for a walk!"
Tomorrow will be less than all I want it to be. I must face that fact. I want everyone here to know Jesus, to respond to Jesus, to be changed by Jesus. That sounds either terribly selfish or self promoting, but is not intended that way.
I'm reminded of a scene from a favorite movie of mine (Monty Python and the Holy Grail). A man with a cart is roaming the medieval streets collecting the bodies, found recently dead. He cries out, "bring out your dead" and strikes his gong as he manages his cart of corpses through the street. A man emerges from a home carrying an elderly man calling to the man with the cart. The elderly man is obviously not dead, and protesting loudly, "I ain't dead, yet".
I feel like I have so much left to give. I hope to continue in my "not dead, yet" state for a long time to come.
To quote my elderly friend from the movie one more time, "I'm feeling better. I think I'll go for a walk!"
Monday, November 05, 2007
Roll in the carts
I was thrilled to be asked to the communion devotional at UCC yesterday. I had been planning what I wanted to do for many months. Being the Sunday that we changed our clocks or "fall back" an hour just made it better.
Communion is a time of remembering and of reflection. I wanted to invite the gathered group to take a litte extra time to decipher the meanings of communion. I would have liked to have prepared four carts for the ocassion. Each would have been loaded with hot loaves of freshly baked bread. I would have left them in the back foyer to intice us deeply into an anticipatted moment. Also there would have been pitcher after pitcher of grape juice or some really fine wine still corked in its bottles (I'm not a partaker, but I would have loved to have had a "fine wine" (do they cork, wine?) In any case, instead of the guys coming to the front, they would have entered from the back ala' fight attendants and begun to serve each row with a steaming fresh loaf of bread and a freshly poured glass of fine wine.
Its not about the leaven in the bread, nor about the fermentation of the wine. Its about the time required to partake of these hugely significant representations of our Lord.
I wanted us to take time to ponder, like at a coffee shop sitting with a friend. talking about important, significant issues and putting the world and its trouble behind us.
I wanted to commune … not just partake.
Communion is a time of remembering and of reflection. I wanted to invite the gathered group to take a litte extra time to decipher the meanings of communion. I would have liked to have prepared four carts for the ocassion. Each would have been loaded with hot loaves of freshly baked bread. I would have left them in the back foyer to intice us deeply into an anticipatted moment. Also there would have been pitcher after pitcher of grape juice or some really fine wine still corked in its bottles (I'm not a partaker, but I would have loved to have had a "fine wine" (do they cork, wine?) In any case, instead of the guys coming to the front, they would have entered from the back ala' fight attendants and begun to serve each row with a steaming fresh loaf of bread and a freshly poured glass of fine wine.
Its not about the leaven in the bread, nor about the fermentation of the wine. Its about the time required to partake of these hugely significant representations of our Lord.
I wanted us to take time to ponder, like at a coffee shop sitting with a friend. talking about important, significant issues and putting the world and its trouble behind us.
I wanted to commune … not just partake.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Amazing Grace - My Chains Are Gone
As I prepare for my last X-files devotional as a full time youth minster my heart has been heavy with ... everything. Moving, a new church, making new friends, leaving many good friends behind. The dissappointment caused by my leaving, the excitement of moving. The finality of closing this (very long, and productive) chapter in my career. Moving my 11 year-old boy in the middle of his 5th grade year. Requiring a job change for my sweet wife when she loves her job and it makes her feel good about herself. Knowing that this last devotional will be the last deeply serious words that many of these teens will hear from me.
All of this has colored my preparation for Sunday night. I'm excited. I'm also overwhelmed with a form of grief I cannot explain. As I was looking for resources for the upcoming devotional and choosing the songs I want performed by Colter Hettich, sung in worship by the gathered group of students and the ones I want to play for ambient input, I ran across this video my Chris Tomlin. I simplifies it all. No matter how complicated the world may become, this really addresses everything of any real value. Enjoy! Be blessed. Take heart! We've been set free!
All of this has colored my preparation for Sunday night. I'm excited. I'm also overwhelmed with a form of grief I cannot explain. As I was looking for resources for the upcoming devotional and choosing the songs I want performed by Colter Hettich, sung in worship by the gathered group of students and the ones I want to play for ambient input, I ran across this video my Chris Tomlin. I simplifies it all. No matter how complicated the world may become, this really addresses everything of any real value. Enjoy! Be blessed. Take heart! We've been set free!
Monday, October 29, 2007
Amazing Grace - No Kidding!
A while back a friend shared this video with me. The story and passion with which this song is shared is inspirational.
As I listen I am reminded of a visit to New Orleans. The youth group and I were traveling back from a mission trip and our night's stay was in this colorful city. As we charted our course through the historic district (ok, I took the group to the French Quarter, before it got dark). We found a restaurant we could afford on our budget and we went in. Maspero's welcomed our troupe of about 25 teens and adults. I scanned the menu and passed along the limits to the kids so we could expedite our ordering. Before long the hurriedness of the day turned to nearly a calm. At least in comparison to travelling with all of us in one vehicle. I bega to peruse the menu and found some history on the back cover. Maspero's had been a slave trading house.
It was this place that spawned the thoughts that grew into my class called Auction Block. Below is an excerpt from a dining guide website referencing Maspero's.
“And on my left, the Slave Exchange.” — So say the carriage drivers as they pass by one of the French Quarter's tastier landmarks. Inside the bar-restaurant, where people once bid for slaves, you can now order some of the thickest, juiciest, meatiest sandwiches in town, and some of the hottest chili. ...
It was here that Andrew Jackson plotted the battle of New Orleans and later on conspirators met to foment revolutions in neighboring countries. It was also here that thousands of human beings, fresh off the slave ships, found themselves in the entresol (the hidden room tucked between the present restaurant and the spacious apartments above) awaiting their fates in the slave exchange below, where they would be sold to the highest bidder.
As Phipps sings the song my being is carried into the bowels of a ship. I am transported below deck to the smells and sounds of those imprisoned there. I sit among the captives. My shackles burn me as the flesh is raw from the salt water and sweat. I am stripped of my rights and my dignity. I am among strangers and friends, yet we all feel very alone as we hear the constant waves against the the boat for more than a month. I sit in the darkness wondering where I am going, what my life will be, wondering about my family, my wife, my children.
I can't help but wonder what the words may have been to this old hymn/spiritual. What deep spiritual sentiment of suffering and loss it must be meant to convey.
As I listen I am reminded of a visit to New Orleans. The youth group and I were traveling back from a mission trip and our night's stay was in this colorful city. As we charted our course through the historic district (ok, I took the group to the French Quarter, before it got dark). We found a restaurant we could afford on our budget and we went in. Maspero's welcomed our troupe of about 25 teens and adults. I scanned the menu and passed along the limits to the kids so we could expedite our ordering. Before long the hurriedness of the day turned to nearly a calm. At least in comparison to travelling with all of us in one vehicle. I bega to peruse the menu and found some history on the back cover. Maspero's had been a slave trading house.
It was this place that spawned the thoughts that grew into my class called Auction Block. Below is an excerpt from a dining guide website referencing Maspero's.
“And on my left, the Slave Exchange.” — So say the carriage drivers as they pass by one of the French Quarter's tastier landmarks. Inside the bar-restaurant, where people once bid for slaves, you can now order some of the thickest, juiciest, meatiest sandwiches in town, and some of the hottest chili. ...
It was here that Andrew Jackson plotted the battle of New Orleans and later on conspirators met to foment revolutions in neighboring countries. It was also here that thousands of human beings, fresh off the slave ships, found themselves in the entresol (the hidden room tucked between the present restaurant and the spacious apartments above) awaiting their fates in the slave exchange below, where they would be sold to the highest bidder.
As Phipps sings the song my being is carried into the bowels of a ship. I am transported below deck to the smells and sounds of those imprisoned there. I sit among the captives. My shackles burn me as the flesh is raw from the salt water and sweat. I am stripped of my rights and my dignity. I am among strangers and friends, yet we all feel very alone as we hear the constant waves against the the boat for more than a month. I sit in the darkness wondering where I am going, what my life will be, wondering about my family, my wife, my children.
I can't help but wonder what the words may have been to this old hymn/spiritual. What deep spiritual sentiment of suffering and loss it must be meant to convey.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Resigned from Youth Ministry today ... gulp!
Today I announced that I was leaving University Church of Christ after more than 13 years and was moving to Lubbock (Broadway Church of Christ). Wow! What a day. It is still settling in.
Here's what I said.
In April of 1994 the University Church of Christ embarked upon a new journey with my family and I that has blessed us immensely. It was a move more clearly prompted by God's leading than anything I had ever experienced. That journey has blessed me, my family, and my ministry.
But this fall, along with the changing of the seasons has come a time of change. I have faith God's hand is guiding, again.
Beginning December 1, I will begin the next part of my ministry journey. Terry and I have agreed to accept a position with the Broadway Church of Christ in Lubbock where I will serve as the minister of "church life and outreach". This decision has come slowly. Only after a year and a half of prayerful consideration has it become clear that the Lubbock opportunity was something to which I should give serious consideration. Being a 52 year old youth minister creates an ever-narrowing passageway to other opportunities. I have always known that the end was "out there", somewhere. I remarked over the past several years that I was sure there was a date stamped on my backside, just out of my view that says "best if used by" ... with a date tattooed, indelibly. Neither I nor anyone else can see it, but no one denies its existence. It has always been my plan (or desire) to remove myself from youth ministry at a time BEFORE a group of teens, or elders, or parents, or even my own family decided for me. This demands that I remove myself from Youth Ministry somewhat prematurely, but I want to assure you that my passion for youth ministry remains undiminished. However, my opportunities to continue in this area of ministry, dominated by young men and women half my age, are just by nature of the way our churches do youth ministry, ever-diminishing.
This also points to the opportunity in Lubbock. I believe provides the next natural step for me. It will allow me to use my God-given gifts in areas I feel called in a church setting as well as to teach Youth Ministry classes at Lubbock Christian University. I look forward to mentoring and training those who will step into the paths I have walked. It is a humbling and invigorating thought.
I'd like to say thank you to everyone. Its not practical and it would take longer than the "elder's prayer". So instead of thanking individuals, here, I will say thank you to a few groups of folks. I want to thank the leadership of this church as well as all of those who have worked within the youth ministry (teaching huddles, traveling on mission trips, shuttling students to school after Thursday morning breakfast, those who have worked with LTC, fixed food, mopped up afterwards). Those who have prayed for me. The group of gray-haired saints who have encouraged me. Those who have gently corrected me. Those who have served alongside me. And those who have sharpened be as iron sharpens iron, not fearful to let the sparks fly.
You have loved, and blessed us. You have made it possible for my family and I to call this place home. I have spent half of all my youth ministry years at this church, and nearly half of my entire full time ministry has been here. Leaving is NOT easy. Remembering the goodness and warmth of the people of this church will be much easier. Please pray for my family in this transition and know that we are praying for you. I will pray this prayer:
• May we always be more focused and more concerned about the lost than the saved.
• May we seek the new and emerging stories of faith among the young and allow them to have a place above the accounts of those of us who have become comfortable with our completed stories.
• May our church life and future be driven by a reckless faith in an Almighty God, and nothing else.
• May we always seek to please and honor God, above people.
• May our hope be in the all-surpassing Grace of Jesus, and not in ourselves, our abilities, our past accomplishments, or our future plans.
I will continue to pray for University Church as I always have. For her future. For her health. For her deepening faith. For her leadership. For her ministers. For the body of people who are her arms and legs, and of course her heart. May her heart beat strongly with the rhythm of our Savior. May her course be set by the faith driven dreams of those who seek Christ unabashedly, in a world clamoring to be comfortable. May she be a beacon of hope to the world and to a generation of people who will follow us in this journey of faith.
As Paul said in Philippians 1 - "It is right for me to feel this way about you, because I have you in my heart."
Here's what I said.
In April of 1994 the University Church of Christ embarked upon a new journey with my family and I that has blessed us immensely. It was a move more clearly prompted by God's leading than anything I had ever experienced. That journey has blessed me, my family, and my ministry.
But this fall, along with the changing of the seasons has come a time of change. I have faith God's hand is guiding, again.
Beginning December 1, I will begin the next part of my ministry journey. Terry and I have agreed to accept a position with the Broadway Church of Christ in Lubbock where I will serve as the minister of "church life and outreach". This decision has come slowly. Only after a year and a half of prayerful consideration has it become clear that the Lubbock opportunity was something to which I should give serious consideration. Being a 52 year old youth minister creates an ever-narrowing passageway to other opportunities. I have always known that the end was "out there", somewhere. I remarked over the past several years that I was sure there was a date stamped on my backside, just out of my view that says "best if used by" ... with a date tattooed, indelibly. Neither I nor anyone else can see it, but no one denies its existence. It has always been my plan (or desire) to remove myself from youth ministry at a time BEFORE a group of teens, or elders, or parents, or even my own family decided for me. This demands that I remove myself from Youth Ministry somewhat prematurely, but I want to assure you that my passion for youth ministry remains undiminished. However, my opportunities to continue in this area of ministry, dominated by young men and women half my age, are just by nature of the way our churches do youth ministry, ever-diminishing.
This also points to the opportunity in Lubbock. I believe provides the next natural step for me. It will allow me to use my God-given gifts in areas I feel called in a church setting as well as to teach Youth Ministry classes at Lubbock Christian University. I look forward to mentoring and training those who will step into the paths I have walked. It is a humbling and invigorating thought.
I'd like to say thank you to everyone. Its not practical and it would take longer than the "elder's prayer". So instead of thanking individuals, here, I will say thank you to a few groups of folks. I want to thank the leadership of this church as well as all of those who have worked within the youth ministry (teaching huddles, traveling on mission trips, shuttling students to school after Thursday morning breakfast, those who have worked with LTC, fixed food, mopped up afterwards). Those who have prayed for me. The group of gray-haired saints who have encouraged me. Those who have gently corrected me. Those who have served alongside me. And those who have sharpened be as iron sharpens iron, not fearful to let the sparks fly.
You have loved, and blessed us. You have made it possible for my family and I to call this place home. I have spent half of all my youth ministry years at this church, and nearly half of my entire full time ministry has been here. Leaving is NOT easy. Remembering the goodness and warmth of the people of this church will be much easier. Please pray for my family in this transition and know that we are praying for you. I will pray this prayer:
• May we always be more focused and more concerned about the lost than the saved.
• May we seek the new and emerging stories of faith among the young and allow them to have a place above the accounts of those of us who have become comfortable with our completed stories.
• May our church life and future be driven by a reckless faith in an Almighty God, and nothing else.
• May we always seek to please and honor God, above people.
• May our hope be in the all-surpassing Grace of Jesus, and not in ourselves, our abilities, our past accomplishments, or our future plans.
I will continue to pray for University Church as I always have. For her future. For her health. For her deepening faith. For her leadership. For her ministers. For the body of people who are her arms and legs, and of course her heart. May her heart beat strongly with the rhythm of our Savior. May her course be set by the faith driven dreams of those who seek Christ unabashedly, in a world clamoring to be comfortable. May she be a beacon of hope to the world and to a generation of people who will follow us in this journey of faith.
As Paul said in Philippians 1 - "It is right for me to feel this way about you, because I have you in my heart."
Thursday, October 18, 2007
I'm glad I'm not a middle school girl!
Not that I've ever wanted to be, but it struck me as I listened and watched a group of middle school females as they were inflamed into dramatic frenzy over ... everything (I started to make a list, but it was too, long). Bless their hearts. There's more going on inside their heads than in a Walmart on the Friday after Thanksgiving.
Today I pray that God will give some peace to those frazzled places in the hearts of little girls, who are becoming young ladies. Prayer seems to be the only thing I really know what to do for them, besides to just stand near them when they need to cry.
Today I pray that God will give some peace to those frazzled places in the hearts of little girls, who are becoming young ladies. Prayer seems to be the only thing I really know what to do for them, besides to just stand near them when they need to cry.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Everything must change
Brian McLaren has always challenged me with his writing. His latest book is no exception. Everything Must Change does not leave one in a comfortable, complacent, or traditional state of mind.
I told someone yesterday that I enjoy reading things that make me argue, think, wrestle, and reapproach the status quo. Its not that I enjoy it, but it is stimulating. It often leaves me troubled. At other times my reading allows me to re-assess my priorities.
McLaren quotes a young woman from Burundi (taught by American missionaries, the traditional ways of American church) to say, "I don't know if anyone else here sees it, but I do. I see it. Today is the first time, I see what Jesus meant by the Kingdom of God. I see that it's about changing the world, not just escaping it and retreating into our churches. If Jesus' message of the Kingdom of God is true. Everything must change."
McLaren said of the Kingdom of God, "... we described the Kingdom of God in terms of God's dreams com ing true for this earth, of God's justice and peace replacing earth's injustice and disharmony."
Lord, heal my heart of its hard-ness. Open my heart to your will for me on this earth.
I told someone yesterday that I enjoy reading things that make me argue, think, wrestle, and reapproach the status quo. Its not that I enjoy it, but it is stimulating. It often leaves me troubled. At other times my reading allows me to re-assess my priorities.
McLaren quotes a young woman from Burundi (taught by American missionaries, the traditional ways of American church) to say, "I don't know if anyone else here sees it, but I do. I see it. Today is the first time, I see what Jesus meant by the Kingdom of God. I see that it's about changing the world, not just escaping it and retreating into our churches. If Jesus' message of the Kingdom of God is true. Everything must change."
McLaren said of the Kingdom of God, "... we described the Kingdom of God in terms of God's dreams com ing true for this earth, of God's justice and peace replacing earth's injustice and disharmony."
Lord, heal my heart of its hard-ness. Open my heart to your will for me on this earth.
Even a fool like me can look good ...(ok, maybe just better)
Lance Tolar is a visionary and Matt Maxwell is a stickin' magician. Lance's idea and Matt's videography have yielded a rough draft of a piece that has excited me. We hope it will serve as a lead-in for the World Bible School iternet site. Matt took the 7 or 8 "takes" and frankenstined this piece together. Let me know what you think.
http://web.mac.com/acandleburns/Lance/BuddyPencil.html
http://web.mac.com/acandleburns/Lance/BuddyPencil.html
Paul Potts. You Rock!
On a day when I was full of self doubt and frustration I received an email with a link to watch BRITIANS GOT TALENT and a guy that brought a surprise to the stage. As I watched the first time, I heard the man say, like thousands of others, that he thought he was called to do this. I watched as the judges and audience braced for another mediocre (or worst) performance. I was reduced to tears as I heard the voice, saw the passion and watched the faces of judges and audience transformed.
He left nothing behind. He put it all on the stage and blew them away!
When the world doubts you, go ahead and give it your best, anyway.
Thanks Paul Potts! You Rock!
I just watched it again! I think I will try a little harder today ... tomorrow, too!
He left nothing behind. He put it all on the stage and blew them away!
When the world doubts you, go ahead and give it your best, anyway.
Thanks Paul Potts! You Rock!
I just watched it again! I think I will try a little harder today ... tomorrow, too!
The Hard Stuff
October marked the beginning of a new study for the teens (and for me). I guess the curriculum folks decided that October was an appropriate month for a study of Satan, Demons, and Angels. (did I mention my disdain for this month due entirely to the dark-side celebration we continue to support with our money, our children, and our laughter?) What are we thinking. Now I fear someone will think me an old fart for my views.
In any case, class on Sunday went well. The students were engaged as well as one would expect for our early Sunday gathering. At the end of class I showed a Winterfest video of a drama. It used the video to drive home the powers of temptation.
Later that day I encountered a young lady who is struggling with cutting herself. She's early in the game, but has fallen into the cycle of repetitive episodes. I confronted her. She says wants to stop. I am sending her to get help.
Some things I can not carry on my own.
In any case, class on Sunday went well. The students were engaged as well as one would expect for our early Sunday gathering. At the end of class I showed a Winterfest video of a drama. It used the video to drive home the powers of temptation.
Later that day I encountered a young lady who is struggling with cutting herself. She's early in the game, but has fallen into the cycle of repetitive episodes. I confronted her. She says wants to stop. I am sending her to get help.
Some things I can not carry on my own.
A friend, truly.
I've just deleted two long paragraphs that meandered through too many words. All I wanted to say was, friendships are valuable. Keep them strong. Spend the money, set aside the time, be vulnerable, and you will be blessed. If you don't "get it", call me for the longer version.
Thank you Jeff, Ron, Kris, Lance, Lane, and Mark for for being friends.
Be sure to quit blogging, surfing, and meandering long enough to speak to one of your friends today.
Thank you Jeff, Ron, Kris, Lance, Lane, and Mark for for being friends.
Be sure to quit blogging, surfing, and meandering long enough to speak to one of your friends today.
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