During Christmas Grief, God is Close-Gibson

Grief is an unruly visitor, and even more so when it drops in near Christmas. Surrounded by the mirth of others, the knife of loss cuts on both sides. For a time, the death of a loved one shuts normal faculties down. Leaves only what’s necessary to survive the next moment: our own breath, though every puff feels like a new wound.

One snowy November, my oldest sister’s husband sent word to our scattered family: “If you want to see Sandra again, you should come,” he said.

From separate provinces, my sister and I, along with our elderly parents travelled to the province in the middle. Beside Sandra’s bed, holding Sandra’s hand, we said the necessary things, then we watched Sandra go home.

Our faith told us something glorious: she’d gone to live with Jesus, pain-free. Our frailty told us something shattering: she’d simply gone, and far too soon. The pain of her absence sliced us, and twinned with the complexities of regret, devastated us.

Sorrow like that carves a gaping hollow in a body, making even simple things impossible. Picking up the phone. Driving a car. Answering easy questions. Remembering to eat and drink. Choosing what to wear. Making a choice, period.

Someone has said that God comes to us in the people who come to us. He came to our family through four earthly angels that year. Too close to Christmas, in a strange hospital far from home.

The angels, strangers all, arrived just after my sister died. They came simply to be with us. Their presence loaned us strength. They brought juice and coffee. Made necessary phone calls. Stayed with us until it didn’t hurt so much to breathe, until we could get up, limp on to do the necessary things.

In the dark hollows of your own crises, perhaps you’ve met earthly angels too. Maybe you’ve been one; a neighbour, a passer-by, a pastor, friend or family member, even a stranger. They come without beckoning, simply to be with the hurting. To do what must be done, even when what must be done is simply sitting together in one place.

I’ve wondered, in the years since my sister’s death, if it took that for me to truly appreciate the deepest meaning of Christmas—that God is never absent in our darkest moments. That when emotional paralysis prevents a victorious grasping onto him, he has already grasped onto us.

“The virgin will be with child, and will give birth to a Son, and they will call him Immanuel, which means “God with us.” Matthew 1:23

What we celebrate at Christmas is God’s answer to the most universal prayer of humanity: “God, be with me. God, stay with me.”

Through Jesus within us, and those who come to us in his compassionate spirit, God answers, “Beloved, I’m right here.”

If sorrow haunts you at Christmas, remember. But if loss has carved a chunk from someone you know, go.

www.kathleengibson.ca

Little Bits of Grief - Meyer

I was reading a book today and in the story, a bride unexpectedly has her father show up for her wedding day – a father who had been absent for most of her childhood and young adult years. I suddenly found myself crying. It took me only a moment to realize that I was grieving, for the first time ever, for the absence of my father at my wedding. At the time (31 years ago), I’d put on a brave front, grateful to my brother for walking me down the aisle, and head-over-heels in love with my husband-to-be.

I’ve known for a long time now that grief is a journey, one that does not completely end until our Heavenly Father wraps his loving arms around us and welcomes us Home.

It still surprises me though – these times when there are little bits of grief for something that happened decades ago.

I very clearly remember another incident that happened a few years back. I was at a Write! Canada conference and had opted to stay in a dormitory-style room rather than the more expensive single or double rooms. There were maybe ten or so other ladies in the room. There was some friendly chatter as each of us prepared for bed then when everyone was ready, one person turned out the lights in the room. In the ensuing silence, I came to the shocking realization that everyone else around me was just closing their eyes and going to sleep. No tossing and turning. No using a small, discreet flashlight to read. No lying awake for hours then restlessly getting up for a drink or to go to the bathroom. These people just went to sleep!

In that moment, I realized that I was different – not unique, I know – but different from the norm. And in that moment, I grieved for what I had lost… for what had been taken away from me as a young child. As far back as I can remember, I have loathed those long, long hours of nighttime when I knew I needed to sleep but couldn’t do it. If I didn’t have any commitments the next morning, I’d stay up all night working and fall asleep when it was finally daylight. I loved working nightshift. The night terrors ended when I was in my late thirties (but that’s another story for another time) and as I have traveled far on my healing journey, I’m getting better and better at falling asleep and staying asleep for most of the night.

One of the big things that helped me on this healing journey was taking that moment (at the Write! Canada conference) to grieve my loss. This moment of grieving helped me to finally accept the loss. Previously, my insomnia had been compounded by frustration, guilt and confusion. With acceptance came peace – and half the battle was won right there!

The healing journey is one of transformation – of being made more like Jesus. As the Bible says in 2 Corinthians 3:18, “And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.”

May the Lord bless each of you as you continue on your own personal healing journey.

Dorene

http://www.dorenemeyer.com/

Author of "the Group" series of seven young people on healing journey. Jasmine (winner of Romance book of the year award from The Canadian Christian Writing Awards), Lewis and Joshua. Published by Word Alive Press and available in Canadian bookstores and on Amazon in paperback or ebook version.

Grieving Those Still With Us - Austin

Like joy, grief comes in many forms. Often it takes us by surprise. We think we are prepared, then find that preparing our minds fails totally at preparing our emotions.

No one lives forever here, and we grasp that without difficulty -- as a theory. But some people, even in long distance relationships, have entwined themselves in our lives so deeply that we cannot imagine a world without them.

Can this be the same man who moped around when he hit 50, because life was over? He's done quite a bit of living in the years since. Ninety-two is just nine days away as I post this.

In his 70's and 80's Dad was one of the key fund-raisers for the Canadian Leprosy Mission. With another man of the same vintage, they gathered scrap aluminum and copper, as well as old betteries and raised more than $50,000 each year. At 76 Dad set an age record for the zip-line at Camp Harmattan, and he still talked of getting roller-blades at 80, his wife telling him to act his age. On that particular birthday, Dad reached 80 push-ups, a goal he had worked toward for quite some time. It seems only yesterday that he would go for a walk and break into a jog.

Can this be the same man, tottering on uncertain steps, turning his body, then trying desperately to convince his feet to cooperate? Can this be the same man, who can still recite "The Cremation of Sam McGee," but asks the same question five times in 15 minutes? Can this man who relates stories from 70 years ago in minute detail, be the same one who cannot remember where 'home' is? Can this be the same man who moves so slowly from the couch to the phone, who has enough alertness to know he is losing some of his mental abilities, but no way to slow that loss?

How many times have I joked that he would outlive me, more than half expecting it would be true? How many times have I anticipated his line on the phone, "I'm pretty good for an old man," and somehow delighted in its predictability? How many times have I reflected on the richness of knowing he and Evelyn had prayed for my wife and I, each of our children and grandchildren -- by name -- within the last 24 hours? With close to 80 names in 10 extended families the last time I was present for one of those prayer times, there were mixups and prompts. But what price could you put on such a heritage?

Thirty-five years of daily prayer with Mom & Dad until Mom died in 1978. Thirty-two years of daily prayer with Dad & Evelyn. I'm getting up there, but that's more years of prayer than I've been around. They might have left millions for the seven families on Dad's side and the three families on Evelyn's side to squabble over. But how many millions would it take to balance this richer heritage of a lifetime of prayer? How many millions would it take to balance lives lived for God -- not perfectly -- but consistently?

I ache as I write this. I can hardly wrap my mind around this man who would still walk five miles a day two years ago, now shuffling in slow, uncertain steps. Yet in the midst of the ache, a deep joy wells up. Dad's time here is almost over, but he is finishing well. The losses hurt, for him and for everyone around him. But his faith in God remains strong. As we plan a trip west for another visit, the richest tribute I can pay him is to let him know my wife and I carry on this tradition of prayer -- daily -- for our children and grandchildren. I know the same thing is happening in most of those 10 extended families. These days it is also our privilege to be praying for Dad and Evelyn on a regular basis.

Dad's involvement in fundraising for the Canadian Leprosy Mission was integrally tied to his workshop. He stripped insulation off hundreds of pounds of copper and aluminum wire for recycling -- a tedious task, but somehow deeply satisfying for him. He also spent countless hours puttering with tools acquired over a lifetime, often reparing something for a neighbour who might be 40 years younger. Ranking someone else's losses is a dangerous thing, but possibly the biggest single loss in Dad's life since Mom died so many years ago was the loss of that workshop.
Those first years in a luxurious senior's complex wore at Dad. If he could have just gone out to the shop for an hour or two, the rest of it would have been a foretaste of heaven. He might have needed an ambulance on standby. His workshop had seen quite a bit of blood spilled through the years, but it had also left an imprint for good on many, many lives.

Grieving. . . It's a strange process. Dad is grieving a body that no longer does his bidding, and a mind that delights in the distant past, but is baffled by the present. Every one of his kids, the youngest past 50 now, grieves as well -- that this man who has seemed timeless, now somehow measures every day against a clock fast winding down.

Ah, but love is a rich, rich treasure. And we do not grieve like those who have no hope. For love, combined with a life lived for God and for others, leaves a legacy of immeasurable value.

Thank You, God, for Dad! And thank you Dad, for living your faith in God!

A Time for Everything (An Interpretation) - Atchison

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven…
(Ecclesiastes 2:20 3)

We forget. That life has seasons for every activity, for every experience. We forget that there is a time to be born and indeed, a time to die. We live each day without thought there may be no tomorrow. Sure, we dream, we plan, we look to the future – in some cases it gives us hope. But do we live for today? For what is important now. For what matters most?

The sudden loss of my brother-in-law this last month has had me looking at my past, my present and my future. There is a saying that says, yesterday is gone, and tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, so all we have is today.

Today a baby is born and today it’s someone’s time to die.
Today we plant, and we harvest.
There is no time to kill today, but my healing starts one step at a time.
While the walls of Haiti and Chile have been torn down, today is their time to rebuild.
Today I weep and laugh as I struggle with my grief.
While I mourn the loss of a family member, today I dance to the sound of nature in my backyard.
Today my thoughts are scattered. I’ll gather them during a quiet time.
I embrace those around me who need it, but know when to refrain and give them space.
I search for answers, but while I might not find them I give up.
I keep those memories that make me happy and throw those away that make me sad.
My family is torn upside down today, but we will mend.
Today I am silent with my emotions, but know when the time comes I will be brave enough to speak my feelings.
Today is the time to love my family and friends, the beautiful day and sunshine that falls upon my face. I have not time to feel hatred towards the situation.
Today while war rages, I seek peace in the world.

Today is all we have. Take the time to put a smile on the face of a stranger, for you know not what they are feeling inside. It could be they are in pain; perhaps they have lost a loved one and are dealing with grief today.

Today I send my love to all. God Bless.
Patricia L. Atchison

Website: www.patricia@patriciaatchison.ca
Writing & Publishing Blog: www.aboutwritingandpublishing.com

Preserving Your Library - Smith Meyer

"When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground," is an African proverb many of us have heard. As authors, we cringe to think of such waste.

That adage came to my mind in stark reality this past month. Within two weeks, I attended the funeral of my 68 year-old brother and a 90 year-old aunt. I wondered how many stories died with them.

My brother’s funeral came first. He was a busy man, always looking out for others, often to the detriment of his own work. We became more aware of how many and how much as we stood in line for the visitation and when well over 600 paid their final respects at his funeral service. Many spoke of him as their spiritual father. Community and business people told of his kindness and concern for their welfare. Many stood when asked to do so, if they had spent time in his class room, and some spoke of the great influence he had on their lives. I feel sure there were many more stories that could have been told.

Aunt Bernice’s funeral was a glorious triumphant home-going for a faithful saint. The funeral was almost completely conducted by her family--sermon and all. Stories were told of her as a trustworthy companion to her husband, a watchmaker, her dependability as a mother--her encouraging ways and her gentle reprimands. Her grandchildren recounted happy times they spent with their grandparents and the lasting influence on their lives. It was a heart-warming day

Both of these occasions were indeed full of story-telling and as usual, I hoped those who this was all about were told at least some of those stories while they were still with us. However, I believe those tales were just the proverbial tip of the iceberg and only what others knew about them. How many insights, how many personal experiences could have benefited those left behind, had they been put on paper? I cringed at the waste!

Soon the Haiti earthquake struck—more libraries burned down in the space of minutes! And yet out of the rubble miraculous stories arise. Accounts of bravery, or self-giving, an outpouring of money, materials and energy in this impoverished country—some survived and others didn’t, but their story will go on and perhaps inspire others to give their time and money in similar ways.

These happenings renew my desire to write, write, write. Not that I have that much wisdom, but I have been taught valuable lessons in my years of living—many coming from learning through mistakes. I know that, through reading, I have gained much from others’ experiences. Some have guided me through my own life-happenings and some have helped me avoid more of my own blunders, steering me through the obstacles to a clearer path. Some have inspired me to give more in whatever way I can give. I owe them a debt of gratitude and an obligation to pass on my own stories and those of others. God gave me the desire and ability to write and I want to use the gifts given to me in the best way I can. Is it coincidence that my children's book, Tyson's Sad Bad Day just arrived? It is a book helping children and their parents deal with death and grief. Check it out at http://www.wordalivepress.ca/authors.html

And if God has called you to write, don’t wait any longer—write!

Growing Older - Austin

On a recent trip to Alberta for a family wedding, I spent quite a bit of time with my parents. At 89, Dad is in exceptionally good shape physically. He still does pushups and walks for miles every day. However, selling the house and far more, selling his workshop with all its tools, has stripped him in ways almost beyond measuring. The retirement home they have moved into pampers him and surrounds him with luxury, yet he is lost. The craft room with jigsaw puzzles and origami holds no appeal.

He never was particularly safe in his workshop. He has made multiple trips to hospital emergency rooms over the years, blood streaming from some deep cut. But he found purpose and fulfillment there. More than that, his workshop has played an immense role in the Canadian Leprosy Mission. Dad has stripped insulation off of thousands of pounds of copper and aluminum wire. Sold for salvage, Dad and a partner have for multiple years raised $50,000 a year and more. In that same workshop a ladies group has sorted rags and rolled bandages. Lawnmowers and small appliances have been cleaned and repaired. A Bible For Missions Store in Red Deer, Alberta has been on the receiving end of those contributions, and because of them thousands of Bibles have been distributed world-wide. The workshop was a mission and Dad was a missionary. Now he’s surrounded with luxury, but feeling lost and useless.

A single lonely tree standing by the highway caught my attention on that trip. I passed it numerous times and it became a metaphor of Dad’s life.

Lonely Old Tree

There’s a lonely old tree by the highway.
It is blighted by lightning and hail.
It’s old and it’s worn. It’s alone and forlorn,
yet it spreads branches green without fail.

And the farmer’s sharp curse ever greets it
as he swings his big tractor around.
The branches that sway, just stand in the way,
so he’ll lay its old length on the ground.

For it stands all alone in the fence-row
though the fence has been taken away.
It is ancient and worn. It’s battered and torn.
Small beauty in its branches still sway.

A nuisance to the great cultivator
that rends a dark trail through the earth
where a forest once stood – a quiet, clean wood
and the tree long ago had its birth.

All the others to chainsaw have fallen
and the bight of the bulldozer’s blade.
The tree stands alone. Not a post or a stone
by this weary old source of thin shade.

And it stands half a mile from a neighbor
by the highway’s incessant harsh din.
It was twenty years past – it rubbed branches last,
quiet chatter with its closest kin.

And it is old and it’s worn and it’s battered
as it wearily stands in its place.
Still it pushes spring green, stands worn, but serene,
clothes the highway’s bare banks with quiet grace.

(Copyright Brian Austin)

As I age myself, I think somehow there must be a better way to deal with aging. All of Dad’s physical needs are met, yet he has lost what matters to him most. There was a house for sale just beside the retirement home when I was out there – with a garage. I’d give a lot today to be able to buy it, set up a workshop and then ask someone to check in on Dad a couple times a day. Yes, I’d worry that he’d bleed to death in there. But he’s bleeding to death now, without a visible wound showing. I wonder how many thousands are like him?

An Old Man’s Sorrow

They’ve surrounded him with luxury.
They’ve met his every need.
There’s a winsome smile and a good hot meal,
no need to sweat or bleed.

No need to labour through the hours,
toiling hard from day to day.
He has earned his rest – and earned it well.
Now he has a place to stay. . .

And bask in luxury for a while,
enjoy the pampered life.
He can take up gulf – go fishing,
or go on long walks with his wife.

But his workshop they have taken.
The auctioneer’s cry of “Sold!”
has stripped him of those well-worn tools
. . . left him smaller, weaker, old.

For the workshop’s where he laughed at life.
It’s also where he wept.
And somehow in that dusty place
a part of him was always kept.

And he’s lost it, though it did not sell
for no one knew it’s worth,
and little thought through the auction’s din
of the pain it brought to birth.

Now the dream’s become a nightmare.
Sears his heart as with a knife.
It has emptied from the living
the thrills and challenges of life.

And the luxury he’d surrender
without a second thought
could he just go back to that dusty room;
tools o’er a lifetime bought.

Could he earn a blister? Bleed a bit?
Get splinters in his hand?
Sweep fresh wood-shavings from the floor?
Does no one understand?

His health is good and he speaks his thanks
but still he grieves each day
o’er the worn tools in that workshop
they took and sold away.

The house is sold. The workshop gone.
Time relentlessly moves on
as an old man grieves midst luxury,
drained of purpose, hope and song.

(Copyright Brian Austin)