Like Rolling off a Blog

Every once in a while I am struck with an almost irresistible urge to call my mom ... or my dad. It makes me a little sad. You know the song, "I Did It My Way"? Those lyrics that begin with, "Regrets, I've had a few ..." I've had a lot! Not the least of which is good, healthy communication with my parents. I do not believe that my parents are looking down on me from heaven. That's not how this works. If I don't want to live eternity praising Jesus, then I'm going to be pretty disappointed with heaven. It seems we really don't know what we've got til it's gone. All those questions left unanswered. All those squandered opportunities to say "I love you." Or to find out where a person stands with God. I hope that SOMEONE somewhere will take the advice of those who have lost loved ones and truly make the most of every moment. We always say we will, until it's too late. Call now, because there are no phones in heaven...

Over the many years of my father's pastorate and chaplaincy, he collected Last Supper memorabilia: tapestries, paintings, etched glass, carved candles, china plates. And when it came time to downsize after my mother's death, Dad had to decide what to retain of these keepsakes, and what to give to family or donate. The final Last Supper in his possession in his single room in the memory care facility was a 2x3 ½ foot tapestry of the DaVinci painting (albeit a poor reproduction). When we "happened" to be in Grass Valley the week that my dad passed away (nothing is unplanned to God), I came home with that final Last Supper tapestry. But what to do with it? I have too much stuff as it is, and I actually have a much larger version of Dad's collection hanging in my dining room. After attending a fundraising banquet for Wayside Cross Rescue Mission (now called Wayside Cross ministries, to cover their full spectrum of service), I determined that donating it to this ...

Don't say I didn't warn you! You could have kept scrolling, but no ... Do you know what today is? Yes, it is MOTHER'S DAY. See that apostrophe? That means it is a possessive noun. The day belongs to MY MOTHER. You see, the original intent was to honor the one who birthed you (or perhaps who adopted you and raised you). It is NOT "women's day." Nor is it a day to celebrate all mothers or motherhood. That may sound strange to you, but no. The day is to honor YOUR MOTHER in whatever way is appropriate. There are women who have lost children to disease or suicide or accident, for whom this day is painful, and it shouldn't be. I hope you take what I just said in the way it was intended. There are also women who cannot conceive or will never marry and have children. This day is also not about that. Do you also know that there are actually women who avoid FB and church today? Because of what this day has become, rather than its original intent. Please, ...

My mother has been gone for a bit more than two years now. I miss her frequently. So, M is for missing. Mom would love to tease about her being self-sacrificing. You know, giving up that last piece of pie. Or going without a new purse so the kids can have shoes. So, O is for others. No matter where we lived or where we visited, Mom was always ready with tidbits of information and fun ways to learn. So, T is for teaching. One of the last times I saw my mom alive, we looked at her baby book. My grandmother had traced around her tiny hand, and I asked my mother to place her 82-year-old hand next to the drawing. Those hands have held mine, shaken hands of great and lowly, and served wherever she was planted. So, H is for her hands. Have you ever seen a mama bear? Watch out if you cross her cubs! Even though my mom was generally soft-spoken, she had no problem standing up for us when she felt we had been wrongfully treated. She was able to feel with us because she had lived ...

Today the sadness hits. I cannot see through the tears. Regret building and filling my eyes to overflowing. Why am I such a coward? Why didn’t I confront him with the truth of a Biblical gospel? Was I more concerned with temporal peace than eternal peace? Lord, have mercy. Was just told that the cremation took place today and the urns of remembrance are ready. Ashes to ashes. That’s depressing.

I can't say that I saw a relationship with Jesus in my Dad's life. I saw religion. I saw "swallowing a camel and straining at a gnat." Rules were many and strict. But the big things called sins in the Bible seemed to be palatable, at least in the dark side of Dad's life.

The catatonic gaze was unsettling. Pupils constricted. Stare drilled to an unseen point on the ceiling. "What are you looking at, Dad? What do you see?" No answer. No movement. "I wish I could put something on the ceiling for you to look at. What would be good to look at up there?" Nothing. "What are you thinking, Dad? Are you thinking about Mom? About heaven?" At this point, I began to weep. We–my two sons, my husband, a daughter-in-law, my sister, and three grandchildren–had been in the room a couple of hours earlier. We had gotten some response from Dad, including his trying to mouth words that seemed to echo our "I love you"s. But now it was just me in the room. I knew I wanted to tell him ... what? "I love you, Dad" as I stroked his cheek. I'm told that even those in comas can sometimes hear when all other input or expressions are void. So I tried again. "Dad, you know I love you. But Jesus loves you more. Yo...