Tag Archives: death

Welcome Home, Neva

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Life begins. A squirming bundle of skin, filled with a will and spirit all its own. Drinking from the breast of the one who bore it, it begins to stretch and grow. It cries. It squeals. It is silent and looking. Looking here. Looking there. Everywhere it scans shadows that come into view. Everywhere light filters in gently and brings blur into focus. The squirming bundle grows more.

The squeals turn to innocent screams that stem from rubber running against pavement as she follows a ball in play. Screams of joy. Screams of a win. Screams of fun. Screams of pain as innocence hits pavement and blood gushes from a wounded knee.

A doctor’s visit. Another kiss on the knee. A bandage is applied and pulled over top of an owie and another kiss is given. Carried out in the arms of love, the once squirming bundle is almost too big to carry. Big enough to milk the cow, big enough to gather hens’ eggs, big enough to argue. Not so big to hold, not so big to kiss goodnight, not so big to set straight.

She comes home from school. Excited about her ‘A’ in chemistry, excited about her upcoming role in ‘The King and I’ and more excited that her very first crush will be playing the role of King Mongkut of Siam. Shortly after, dreamed up kings and future queens are left in the dust for college where she meets true love and shortly after receives her degree as a nurse.

It could have been like that, I suppose, if you change a few details. But the reality? She gives her love and gentleness away every day. She touches lives she will never know were healed through her hands. Lives that were lifted by her spirit. Lives that were comforted by the words carefully chosen and mouthed by her lips. Like the fragrance of the flowers in the garden she tends, her roses, dahlia and delphiniums, lilacs, lavender and more – the scent of her character is remembered in the minds of those she has touched.

With all the busyness, with all that is called life, where is this contentment that she yearns to lie down upon and call home?

She lives through the hardships of life. Death has shadowed her with grief countless times as she has walked the halls of her ward. Tears have wet her cheeks more times than she can remember. Cries of pain have echoed in her mind more than she can forget.

She lives through the joys of life. Bringing the squeal of the new, two-fold, seeing it repeated once again with the birth of her granddaughters. Beautifully they grow, at the feet of her wisdom, by the unconditional love of her heart.

She buries her husband and with another fistful of dust to dust, a few years later – she buries her son.

She smiles as a great grandson emerges from the womb and screams life anew. Digging dirt holes and driving metal trucks, he is the music in her spirit. He is the joy of her heart. He is the savior of the moment. Dawdling in the garden, he snips with her the old life to make way for the new.

Home – is it here amidst the buds and the blooms? Is it in the sweat that drops upon the earth as she tills the ground? Is it inside the multitude of boards that stand erected in the distance, holding treasures of the past?

She knows when to be quiet, she knows when to speak. She discerns the ways about her and stays sheltered in the wisdom of her God. She lives His words and gives what she learns. Those that know her are blessed.

Her body, now aged, summons life to stop its circle and as the ends of the sphere near completion, she lays quiet upon her bed, silently bidding farewell to the shadows of the past is ushered into the holy presence of her Prince.

This moment. This joy. This feeling of rebirth – this is what she has lived for. This is the contentment that can’t be found in earthly dwellings or savored relationships.

This is the moment. This is the joy. The end of the race. This is what pain and sorrow fight for.

He reaches to take her hand. She steps from the old and into the new. With His arms she is welcomed. Through His lips he whispers, “Well done.” With His hands He places a crown upon her head.

She is home. She is finally home.

How Do You Say Goodbye?

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A dear friend of mine went to the hospital. My dear, dear friend had routine surgery. My dear, dear, dear friend was on the operating table when they discovered her body was full of cancer. That was last Friday. Today is Monday. She is not expected to live past this evening.

And still, she smiles. She jokes. With a little less life, a little less breath, she smiles and she jokes and she tells the doctor to get back to work because she has nothing to do but wait for her eyes to close. She smiles because she knows when her eyes close, they will reopen to the face of her long-awaited Prince.

I told her to tell Jesus that I want a yellow house, just like the one her and I and another friend use to go to for lunch and pie. Always pie. Always a la mode. Always. Sometimes we may not have wanted the soup or the sandwich (rarely), but always the pie. As you can sense, it was good pie. Two slices of pecan a la mode and one slice of sour cream and raisin a la mode. Warmed just a tad bit.

One day we went flower picking. Bright pinks, yellows, reds, purples. Petals of practically every color of the rainbow greeted us as we pushed open the wooden gate to her friend’s backyard. A backyard of dahlias covered the bare dirt and stood up to six feet tall. She snipped and clipped blooms while I snapped pictures of every one I could. We laughed. We talked. It was one of the highlights of my life. A bright summer day.

I used to work in a church office. Someone received a bouquet of beautiful red roses and I had to deliver them to the recipient. How I wished they had been for me. As I rounded the corner going back to my office, my dear, dear, dear, dear friend was there. She was holding a green glass vase full of deep and light purple lilacs that she had clipped in her yard and brought to me. The fragrance seeped into my soul and refreshed my spirit. She was my angel that day. She loved flowers as much as I did.

She will be Home in a few hours. The angels must be setting the table as I write. They are probably humming as they go – excited by the near arrival of my dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear friend. We who are left behind however, weep the loss of this saint. This one who frowned upon gossip and never said an unkind word about anyone. This one near 80 years old, who giggled like a little girl. This one who had the gift of encouragement and sent handmade cards regularly and often to cheer others up. This friend who, when there was a need, did what she could. This one I call Neva. This one the Father calls Beloved.

I shiver when I look up into the sky and think this could be the moment when Christ is standing at the gate, welcoming her home in His arms. I thank my God that two weeks ago I made the time to sit with her while I was in Idaho and share lunch. Her and Vivian. Just like old times. Two of my very favorite people.

There was no pie that day and the Yellow House has closed. We found another place to dine and the fellowship was just as sweet.

My dahlias are blooming. When I look at them I think of Neva. When I look at them from now on, I will remember Neva. Her smile, her spirit, her giggle, her generosity, and her ability to bring sunshine into the lives of so many others.

I will miss you so much, Neva. But I know that someday I will see you again. And when I do, while Vivian enjoys her sour cream and raisin pie, we’ll enjoy some ‘heavenly’ pecan pie – a la mode, of course. And the fellowship will be so sweet.

Easter Series, Part 3: Surely He Was the Son of God

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I have always wanted to prepare for Easter by taking the month leading up to that holiday and reflect on the events that make up what we call, Easter. I began that the other day with “When Jesus Says Your Name“. It was the story of Mary as she stands at the tomb, distraught over her Jesus being gone.

 

The second in the series, Bound For My Freedom, is the story of Asher, the young shepherd boy who sat next to Jesus in the stable, only to meet up with him again at the foot of the cross, as he assists his cousin Joseph in preparing Christ’s body with burial.

 

Today’s story, third in the series, is seen through the eyes of the centurion who saw the darkness of Good Friday turn to the light and hope of Easter. Enjoy!

 

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“For God so love the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

For many, that verse has been heard a thousand times and it can mean next to nothing. For others, they have heard Jesus died on the cross, yet leave that fact hanging in mid-air where it stopped, so as not to allow it to pierce their heart. They, like I once did, have heard the story of the cross like this: “Jesus died on the cross for your sins.” That’s pretty plain. Pretty simple. But was that all there was to it, really? Just a plain and simple fact?

The last six hours in the life of Christ can show you, once again, (or for what may be the first time), that for Jesus to die on the cross, was not so plain nor was it so simple.

Jesus has been up all night with a great amount of anguish. After all, He is the Son of God and knows the Father’s thoughts. He knows what lies ahead. He had spent these precious hours on His knees, praying in the garden of Gethsemane. His prayers are powerful, intentional and pleading. So emotive that crimson drops of sweat drip from His pores. In the middle of His prayers, He is apprehended as if a criminal.

He is taken away, only to endure three legal, yet not so just, trials. He is flogged – a lashing done with the use of a whip made of rawhide.

In a flogging, the whip that is used contains steel like balls in the middle of the rawhide and at the end, pieces of bone that cut glass. The criminals in Jesus’ day were put on a pole and the authorities would then swing the whip. As it would swing around the criminals body, the balls would hit and cause major contusions to the organs as the pieces of bone cut into the flesh. When pulled out, it ripped away the flesh. Thirty-nine lashes was the legal limit, for few individuals ever lived beyond those 39 lashes.

That’s what Jesus gets.

When Christ lay, most likely almost dead, they strip him of his clothes. They spit on Him. They shove a twisted crown of thorns on his head. They strike Him on the head. They mock him as king.

Emotionally he is exhausted. Physically he is almost dead. Mentally he is drained. And yet, it doesn’t end there. In such a weakened condition, He isn’t able to carry the load of the cross – my cross. But he was the One chosen to bear it and He is led off to Golgotha – the hill on which he must die.

The nails are like spikes and he winces with each strike of the mallet that pounds each one into His hands and feet. Hanging there, they hurl insults at him and He does not retaliate; when he suffers, he makes no threats. Instead, he entrusts Himself to His heavenly Father, who judges justly.

A continual life of obedience, even in the face of humiliation. Obedience in the face of mockery. Obedience in the face of a death He had every power at hand to stop. Still, he endures. They aren’t finished with him yet.

They lift up sour wine for him to drink. They insult him, take his clothes and cast lots for them. It’s all a game to them. It’s all about taunting what appears to be the underdog. It’s all about obeying the rules of the mighty and twisting them to fit your pleasure.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

He doesn’t use His words to bite back. He doesn’t say, “I’ll get you!” or, “Come on up here and say that to my face!” or, “Just wait until after the resurrection, buddy!” No, these statements were not found on the lips of Christ. Instead, He left the ways of judgment up to God and demanded no apology. Instead, he spoke in their defense.

“Father forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing!”

How Jesus, with a body wracked with pain, eyes blinded by his own blood, and lungs yearning for air could speak on behalf of some heartless thugs is beyond my comprehension.

Jesus didn’t die from loss of blood. He didn’t die of pain. He suffocated, for to die by means of a crucifixion is to die of suffocation. As His arms are nailed cross-ways above, soldiers bend his legs and put a nail between both ankles so that he is able to push up with his legs and pull himself up but as he hangs there, his arms quickly dislocate. As he tries to pull himself up, his organs begin to slide down and the pain of pulling himself up, is compensated by trying to get a breath and he suffocates.

“The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life …

No one takes my life from me…

I lay it down on my own accord.

I have the authority to lay it down or to take it up again…”

A centurion sits nearby. He watches the three men who are lined up on crosses – no respect, no cause for care or concern, no dignity – just pieces of meat. A conversation develops between the center man and the one to his left. The centurion can’t hear much but he definitely hears a proclamation by the man on the left that this man called Jesus is innocent. The rumble of voices quiet and the world grows freakishly silent.

As the centurion stands, he notices that the man in the middle is lifeless but out of somewhere, the lifeless body musters strength to lift its head upward and like a bolt of lightening and the roar of thunder he proclaims, “It is finished.”

The centurion takes three quick steps toward and falls at the foot of the cross of Christ. Not because he suddenly realizes just who this is that he has hung up to die, but because he loses his balance. The earth is shaking as the skies grow dark with anger.

He looks up into the face of this man, so near to death. Jesus looks down. His arms outstretched, hammered with nails the rugged post, He is unable to embrace this one who now understands. They lock eyes and in that instant, he falls under the grace of God and states a truth that will ring throughout history:

“Surely this was the Son of God.”

The faith of the centurion was born that day at the foot of the cross and forgiveness was poured down over him by the crimson blood of Christ. And, he weeps.

“Surely this man was innocent.”

Surely, He was.