A Beautiful Undoing

My Dad gave me a invaluable gift, just before he died.

Those were gentle, difficult days.  Long hours in his room, quietly, just me and him after Mom had gone to bed.  Him mostly sleeping or resting or getting ready or all of the above; whatever it is the dying do in the days before.

But he wasn't talking.

Except in this one lucid moment.  He stirred and opened his eyes.  I came to stand where he could see me, and he lifted his head and opened his mouth slightly and held up his hand for me to take it.  His grip was surprisingly strong.

"Thank you," he strained, "For all your care for me.  And for your Mom.  Everything."  He stopped to gather strength again, but kept his eyes locked on mine, "God bless you.... faithful daughter..... faithful."  It was all he could muster and he closed his eyes again.  But we still held hands. And then he opened his eyes again, and he smiled at me.

He never spoke to me again.  Two days later with my hand on his chest, I felt his last breath.  He was Home.

And that was his gift.  Calling me his 'faithful daughter'.  Leaving me with words of blessing.

We'd been through a lot together, not the least of which had been the past eleven years since a stroke left him left hemiplegic and suddenly dependent on others for his every need.  But before that, long before that, in the growing up years.  There weren't many words of blessing then.

Not back when the stresses of his work life collided with his natural human faults to bring about expressions of anger and an overkill on control that he later confided he wished he could undo, unsay.  Words were harsh often enough.  Critical.  Wondering, for example, what happened to the other three percent when I brought home a 97 is grade nine science.

The wonder of those eleven stroke-ridden years, though, was in the beauty of the undoing of all of that, manifest in the lavish praise that poured out from his heart now that his brain was bruised enough to bring down the walls of tradition or conditioning or dysfunction or whatever it was that kept him from expressing his love before.

And while it was indeed a gift that Dad's last words to me were of blessing and gratitude, they were, in fact, just a summary of all the volumes that I had been able to collect in the last decade we had together.  

I love how redemptively my Dad Story ends.  Makes me mindful of my own words, or lack thereof.  Dad's gift inspires me, motivates me, energizes me.

Thank you Dad.

The Finish Line

There's a scent of disbelief hanging in my office today.  Is it really true that I've come to the end of yet another season of ministry at Highview?  Did I really get here?

I still have the delight of our Sunday morning service (June 15) to look forward to.  And my last Sunday for this season is no less spectacular than bringing a report to the congregation of our latest trip to Hot Springs (Thailand, last March/April).

Even so, my last day in the office holds that familiar sense of crossing a finish line.

There have been many before this.  It's how I've marked the rhythms of my ministry life for the past 25 years or more, the last 8 of them as senior pastor.  And being someone who finds great significance in marking moments, I have a tradition of setting aside some time on this 'last day' for celebration of the season just past.  (Meditative reflection of these past months I'll save for when I'm at the cottage, which starts this coming Monday.)

Lots to celebrate.  This season started with it's own unique set of uncertainties.  We were two staff down; one on mat leave (expected) and another on sick leave (unexpected).  So there was a strong realization that if we were going to get to the end of it having accomplished anything, it was going to be God's deal, not ours.  Which is exactly how it panned out.

As I look back over my shoulder and see how Highview has grown in her sense of mission, and see what God did in terms of the spiritual formation of individuals and of us as a whole, I can hardly believe it.  Yes, we had to adjust, and no, we didn't check everything off 'the list'.  But still, the way people pulled together and grace-flexed and opened themselves to the work of God in their lives wasn't just amazing in itself, but allowed for astonishing and beautiful expressions of God's justice and mercy to be manifest in many different venues.

This in spite of a significant disruption when the entire basement of our church, including all our children's ministry space and my office, was wiped out for six weeks by a spring flood.  You can really see the strength of your community when not just the immediate crisis, but the tedious ongoing disruption, tests the patience and grace we want to be known for.  Highview people are truly exceptional!

Personally, despite the 'extra' responsibilities and disruption, I experienced one of the most balanced, sane seasons of pastoral service I can remember.  My own meditative times with God, my personal and academic study of His Word, and the rhythm of work, play and rest, provided me with deep nourishment and a consistent awareness of Christ's power and presence in each day.   I am rich beyond imagining.

As such, Ephesians 3:20-21 has become something of a theme text for me.

"Now unto him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we can ask or imagine according to his power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."

Yup.  His power at work within us.  Because it wasn't me, it wasn't us.

Recently I picked up Michael W. Smith's new CD "Sovereign".  I'm enjoying the spiritual food in almost every track, but one song in particular is giving voice to my sense of awe and surrender to this God beyond imagining.    I Lay Me Down  

I leave it with you in case it speaks to you as well.  And pray that your own finish line, whenever that is and however that comes to you in your own rhythms of life, will also find you satisfied and grateful and ready for the rest that restores you in the deepest of places.