Were you there?

Reprint from Èaster 2014 Hattiesburg American Article

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

I stand in a long line of men. Men dedicated to the memory of a sacrifice that was made for us so many years ago. I walk silently with my thoughts in this humbling processional recognizing that I am not worthy of such a sacrifice. Slowly I make my way closer to the front of the line. I knowingly nod at my brothers as they serve their time in humility and work their way back to the end of the line until it is their time to serve again. The closer I get to the front of this line the less I hear things around me. The sound of nature occasionally interrupted by mechanized creatures rolling past occasionally offering a blast of support. All of which becomes a blur the closer I get to the front of the line. 

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

The line pauses as each of my brothers takes his turn under the weight. Each not knowing what to expect. Emotions overwhelm each of us as we recognize the enormity of what we do. Finally it is my turn. I have arrived at the front of the line and the cross is lifted and placed on my shoulders. As the heft of the cross surprises me I begin to take my steps. One foot in front of the other. My pace is quick as I strive to show those who may be watching that I can handle the weight and not break stride. Then the true weight hits me like a cat of nine tails. I am not carrying 200 pounds on my shoulders. I am carrying the weight of what my Lord and savior did for me.

Sometimes it causes me to tremble.

My knees get weak and the tears well in my eyes. All outside distractions are washed away by the sound of the wood slowly scraping across the ground. I cannot raise my eyes from the shadow I see of the cross on my shoulder. I am no longer with my brothers. I am alone. Just me and my Lord. And it is very humbling. I am left alone to my thoughts and they overwhelm me.

Tremble

Less than 100 yards later I feel a tap on my back as another brother steps forward and takes the weight from my shoulder – but not my heart. I stand and let the line of men walk past me. These are saints and sinners just like me. Each of us is undergoing a humbling experience.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

The journey ends and for another 365 days we can lean the cross against a wall and pay it homage once a week. This humbling experience is at an end and yet it was nothing like the original experience down the Via Dolorosa. While families waited for our arrival at the church with loving embraces, a different fate awaited the one who took up the cross for me. I long for the day when I can thank Him personally that I didn’t have to bear the burden every day.

Ain't no grave

I took a few minutes out of my day today to speak with a friend. Of course the conversation is going to turn toward either the loss of my daughter or the loss of my wife. It always does. And that's okay. My friend mentioned that she had another friend who had lost a child. Once she did, people were afraid to mention that child's name around her. They treated her as if that child never existed. Now, which do you imagine hurts more, the moment someone mentions your loss or the moment that they ignore your loss? In an attempt not to upset the apple cart you've allowed the apples to rot where they lay. 

Over the last ten months I have found myself at the funerals of three other people. Three others who have left a loving spouse to pick up the proverbial pieces. And I'll tell you, during those funerals it is quite difficult not to get selfish. The pain of loss rushes back and you wish someone were there to help ease your pain. This is especially hard when you have suffered two shattering losses. It is never more obvious that the love of your life is not standing beside you when you need her there to help lift you up. At the most recent funeral the widower looked at me and said, "This ain't your first rodeo is it?" Up to that point I was managing my emotions fairly well. But then the simple reminder of my own loss flooded me with those feelings again. And, knowing what this man was about to face made me hurt all the more. 

Shortly after this most recent memorial service someone came up to me and recognized how tough it must have been for me to be there. I thought about a dear friend of mine who I know loves me very much but couldn't come up to the hospital during the five nights my wife was there. And I fully understand her reasoning since I have hardly been able to come to the hospital myself even for something as joyous as a friend giving birth. With this in mind I began to ask myself why I bothered to come to the funeral. I can tell you that I hardly remember who was and wasn't there for the two I've had to be a part of over the last eight years. The only record I have is from the pages of the registry that so many signed. And it is amazing to me that, if you were to pull the pages out of each registry and compare, there are many of the same names in each. So, since my attendance would hardly be remembered, why do I bother?

I will tell you, I seldom go to a funeral or memorial service for the person who has passed. They aren't there. They have much better things to do, like pick out the drapes for their heavenly mansion. I go to a funeral for the ones who are left behind. Don't you? You come to pay your respects and to offer your condolences to the living. But why does that end at the funeral? Why is it that we are so scared to be around someone who is grieving? Is it because we are reminded of how precious and short life is? Is it because we can't find the words to say to fix it? Is it because we feel guilty because we still have our loved ones?

Regardless of the reasons, the person who is grieving doesn't care? Not to sound callous but the person who is grieving is most likely not focused on how you must feel. They are just working on turning moment by moment into day by day. I know I've blogged about this before but I believe it needs repeating. When you lose a loved one you lose more than one person that day. You also lose those who are scared to be around you for whichever reason it is. All you have left of your loved one are memories. And you want nothing more to add to those. You long for people to bring up the name of the loved one you lost. You want them to share a memory that they may not have. You desire to add more to your mental scrapbook. You are thrilled when someone else is thinking of your loved one too. 

One day this won't matter. One day we too will be involved in a heavenly interior design appointment while those we leave behind gather memories. When my day comes all I ask is that you share a memory or two (or 200) with whoever may remain to lay me to rest. Tell my nieces and nephews of our escapades on the softball fields. Tell my god-daughters about how great I was a playing pretend with your children too. Let my siblings know how much you will miss my hugs. Above all, let the world know that I am excited about my reunion with my wife and children and the other family I have in heaven and how they too should make the wonderful decision to join us in eternity with my Heavenly Father. 

Why me Lord? What have I ever done?

Why me Lord?

What have I ever done?

This song sings out to me from my childhood. I remember listening to it in the early 70's, Kris Kristopherson's raspy voice rattling the speakers of my little transistor AM radio. Now, a few long decades later, the song takes on a new meaning. Dealing with the loss I've dealt with in my life, it would be easy to moan and complain. And the Lord himself knows that I wish things were different. More than one person has wondered on my behalf why bad things happen to good people. But my perspective is a bit different. So let me give you my personal thoughts on why bad things happen to me. 

First, I must say that I am honored that you, my friend, would consider me a good person. I most certainly could have been a better father. And my wife would be the second to tell you that I could have been a better husband (I would be the first). This may come as a shock to you but I am a sinner. I was a sinner before I met my wife. I was a sinner before we had our daughter. I was a sinner before I lost both of them. And, I will admit freely that I am still a sinner. I struggle to do the right things and to set the right examples every day. I fail to do the things I should do and do the things I shouldn't do on a regular basis. And then there is my thought life. If I were marked with the mark of Cain for every time I thought about bringing harm to some of the less intelligent drivers on the road then I would make a tattoo artist green with envy. I think we all tend to look at good in relation to another person. But if we follow that line of logic then the worst serial killer you can think of would be a saint compared to Hitler. So, in comparison to others I will agree I'm a good person. But that's not who I should be comparing myself to. Thank you for considering me a good person but I prefer to think of myself as someone who has been forgiven of much. Following that line of logic, I have been blessed by NOT getting what I deserve. 

Secondly, I think we have to look at the perspective of what I do have rather than what I no longer have. As a sinner I have been blessed with eternal life. This life is but a breath. We are a blip on the eternal screen. Eternal. What an incredible concept. In the 2000+ years since Christ was born I have been around for less than 3% of that time. My trials here encompass a small fraction of the life that God has intended for me. For 26 years I was blessed with an incredible wife. She was more than I deserved (and don't even try to convince me otherwise). She took care of me and taught me how to be a better father and a better husband. I learned so many lessons that, unfortunately she will not get to benefit from. For 15 years I had the joy of fathering and incredible young lady who's love and devotion to her Heavenly Father I can only hope to mirror. So I have been blessed beyond measure. 

Does this apply to everyone who has faced trials in their lives? That's not for me decide. And you know what, it's not for you to decide either. We each have to walk this road ourselves. Will you get to the final destination following the exact same path that I do? I pray you don't. I pray yours is much easier. 

Before you begin to think that I've got this grief thing licked I must assure you that I don't. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't cry over my losses. Some days more than others. I hurt more than most of you can imagine. And I ask you not to waste your time imagining. It's not healthy. Instead I ask that you do what I do to make it through the tougher moments. I focus on what God has really given me. I am a blessed man. Blessed beyond the curse. Yes, I've been hard pressed but not crushed. I've been persecuted but He hasn't abandoned me. And I most certainly have been struck down. Repeatedly. To my knees. But from those knees I have cried out to Jesus and He has made certain I've not been destroyed. Although I am alive I am always being given over to death for Jesus' sake. 

I just pray that when all is done I get to hear Him say, "Well done good and faithful servant."

Why me Lord?

What have I ever done?

To deserve even one,

Of the pleasures I've known.

One Man's Trash

The box arrived several years ago. The packaging neatly wrapped and topped with a red bow. Opening the box I found this delicate gift custom designed just for me. It was no toy, although it would be played with for the remainder of my life. This gift had one purpose. That purpose was to give me life. You see, this was a gift that we all receive from the moment we are born. This gift was my heart. 

Over the years my heart was shaped, broken, stepped on. It was bruised and calloused. Then, miraculously it was picked up by its original creator and washed using his own blood. The gift had been restored to its original beauty. Now it was up to me to keep it in good shape. So, the first thing I did was place it on a shelf so that no one could ever hurt it again. The only problem was that my gift would not be seen by anyone. Slightly under a quarter of a century later I took the gift down and entrusted it with another. This woman filled my heart as only she could. It was as if the creator knew what spaces existed and molded her to fit those spaces. Over the years she cared for my gift. She loved it and nurtured it. Within the first five years of holding my heart in her hand, this beautiful woman added to my heart. Now I had two ladies holding my heart. And my life was complete. They didn't pull it in two different directions but, together, continued to guide it toward its ultimate goal. 

Then it happened. My heart fell to the ground and there was no longer a space for my little joy. That part of my heart was damaged. Together my bride and I picked this gift up and dusted it off. Eventually I was able to display it again. Sure, it was still damaged, but if I turned the damaged part to the back, like a cheap Christmas tree, I could hide the hurt from everyone. For almost a decade I hid the damaged part. But My Love helped me shine the rest of the gift so that it distracted from any of the cracked area. 

Then it happened. My heart fell to the ground and broke into a thousand pieces. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put it back together again. I tried bandaging it to hide the brokenness but the bandages were poorly applied and quickly soiled. I tried hiding the entire gift away from everyone but prying eyes would always spy it. So finally I threw the gift away. There was no sense in hanging onto it. It was damaged beyond repair. Nothing I tried would hold it together for more than a day or so. So my gift was tossed in the trash with the old newspapers and browning banana peels. Before long I had covered it with several days worth of trash. There were bottles that had long since seen a worm. There were piles of lint from the countless washing and drying of the cares of each day. Numerous other distractions covered the gift until it was finally time to take it to the curb. 

Then it happened. The creator of this gift saw where I had placed it. Looking through the Force Flex bag tied neatly with the red ribbon of plastic drawing the top closed He spied his creation. He asked me why I placed it there? I told Him that it was there because it was trash now. Broken beyond repair. He just reached and untied the restraints holding the trash bag closed. Reaching in He pulled the gift out and, with a tear in His eye, He turned to me and said, "but you threw it in the wrong bin." He stepped aside and revealed the green plastic container sitting next to the trash. "It goes in here." Gently he placed the gift in the recycle bin and, with a smile took the recycle bin to the curb. "My Father can use this. He has great plans for it." 

My gift will be returned to me again one day. It will be washed again and completely restored. There will be space for others in it. That space will be specifically designed for who He wants to fit there. You see, no matter how damaged the gift became it could still be melted down and reused. My gift is currently being repurposed for a higher calling. In the not too distant future this recycled gift will be used for the purpose for which it was originally designed. It will restore life to me and I will have it more abundantly. 

All too soon we are quick to throw away that which still has use. We feel there is no longer any reason to hang on to it and make the decision to move on. But the creator has a better plan. So, while we are tossing away something we feel is damaged beyond repair, He wants to restore it to its original purpose. We may waste the gift, but not the creator. Jesus? Well, Jesus doesn't waste. Jesus saves. 

I Heat Up, I Can't Cool Down

This past week I had the opportunity to sit down with a long-time friend and former roommate for about an hour. I'm blessed to have maintained a great relationship with all of my old roommates and equally blessed that many of them have become involved in ministry. While talking with this roommate I began to internally question why he wanted to meet with me. I mean, sure, it's good to catch up on life, but he has been to town before and we usually miss out on seeing each other. This time he called me on his drive over and wanted to set aside some time for a visit. So we did. And I discovered a few things. First of all, you must realize that every pastor was a teenager at some point and, just like the people I know that went on to become physicians, you can't help but look at them and think, "I remember when..." So here I sat with a man that I have known for 35 years and our history includes a number of stories best left untold. But this time, sitting across from me was not my former roommate, but a godly man with a genuine love for people. During our conversation I kept feeling like what I had to say to him really mattered. I'm sure it has before but this time was different. 

We began with small talk but quickly got to what he wanted to hear. How was I doing? He didn't rush into the topic but I didn't want to use up the little bit of time we had with small talk. I wanted him to fix it. I wanted him to tell me the three, five, or seven steps to making all the pain go away. But he never did. Instead he asked genuine questions about what I was facing. He didn't look at me waiting for me to finish so he could share pearls of wisdom with me. He just let me talk, cry, and talk some more. It was like he wanted to learn how I truly felt, not just hear it. So I shared with him a lot of what I have written these last 37 weeks in my blog. I talked about craters. I talked about trying to date again. I talked about my wife and my daughter with someone who knew them both. This was, after all, the father of one of my daughter's best friends and a groomsman in my wedding. 

Then I talked about Angry Me and he stopped me and wanted to know more about Angry Me. And, if you haven't been following my blog, you might wonder who Angry Me is. Angry Me is that part of me that, as Angry Me would say, doesn't give a damn. Angry Me doesn't care about you. Angry Me doesn't care about his witness. Angry Me doesn't care about what might cause long term damage to him or anyone else. And, most of the time, Angry Me only comes out when I am home by myself. Angry Me is my Incredible Hulk persona (minus the muscles). Angry Me Smash. 

After listening to me rant about Angry Me my friend asked me a simple question. "Why do you think that Angry Me is there in the first place." Not just, why does he show up, but why does he exist? What was the gamma radiation event that led me to having an Angry Me to keep at bay? And, I guess I had never looked at it that way before. We all have those moments when, in Christian speak, that the Flesh rises up. But seldom do we have those Incredible Hulk moments. 

So, after giving it some thought (for all of about 25 seconds) I came to the answer I was searching for. Angry Me is there because I take my eyes off the prize. Angry Me is there because I get lost in the circumstances rather than the blessings. I was blessed to have the best daughter in the world for 15 years and the best wife for 26 years. I didn't deserve either. I didn't deserve to have my sins forgiven. I didn't deserve the grace Christ handed down from the cross. These are just a few of the blessings I've received that I tend to take advantage of without recognizing the One who gave me those blessing. Angry Me will always lie dormant inside of me begging for the things I once had. But Blessed Me has been around even longer. 

So this caused me to wonder how long I let a creation get between me and the creator. And how about you, my friend? Do you have an Angry Me lying just beneath the surface? Why? Have you too begun to focus on things of this world rather than the treasure the Lord has in store for us?

So I asked the Lord to forgive Blessed Me for letting Angry Me have any kind of foothold in my life. I'm sure that Angry Me will still pop up every once in awhile and have his way. But I also know that the God who forgives will forgive my anger. And I pray also that the Angry Me episodes get fewer and farther between. Lastly, I thank God for putting people in my life 35 or more years ago that help me realize that I have a purpose here. And, no matter how hard he tries, Angry Me will not keep me from that purpose.