Yet another promise kept...

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My preacher.

THE LULU CHRONICLES

Sundays are the hardest days for me. My husband was my preacher. I heard him preach his first sermon; actually it was just a devotional, on the upper tennis courts on a Saturday night at Freed-Hardeman College. He was nineteen years old. We weren’t dating then, but we were about to. And I heard him preach his last sermon forty-three years later at a little barn church in Wisconsin, where we had ministered together for the last thirty-seven years. It makes me sad that the one place people go to seek comfort at a time like this only brings me more sorrow. Gary is everywhere there, but nowhere. There’s not a hymn we sing that the Hubs and I haven’t sang together. There’s not a prayer that was prayed in that building that we didn’t hold hands if we were anywhere near each other. We shared communion together every Sunday for the last forty-three years. He was my preacher, my love, my best friend, and my confidant.

Just getting in the car to drive to the church building triggers the tears. By the time I get there all I want to do is sit in the parking lot. Fortunately for me, inside awaits many open arms and loving hearts. It will be my church family that will one day, make ‘going to church’ what it should be again. I long for that day.

But for now I’ve discovered a little trick that helps. Last Sunday on the way to church the sun broke through the clouds in a most beautiful way and I tried to envision where Gary was at that very moment. Was it Sunday WhereEver he is? I think it’s Sunday every day WhereEver, don’t you? I imagined him standing in a chorus right beside Michael, the Archangel. Both are tenors I believe. On his other side stands the apostle who Jesus loved, John. Gary’s favorite as well. Also a tenor. Leading this chorus of angels and ragamuffin disciples is Jesus, very animated and enjoying himself immensely. Gary is smiling and belting out the tenor part of 728B. “There is a God, He is alive!” Gary winks at me and gives me one of his Alabama-boy smiles. Then I notice behind him, with His hands on the Hubs shoulders is Father God Himself—singing tenor of course. Gary is very much at home.

I notice that the Holy Spirit is missing. How I know that, I don’t know, since He’s only described as the Wind, etc., But He’s not there among that jovial chorus. Gary winks at me again and nods. It’s that nod I’ve seen a thousand times before, the nod that always pushed me forward and gave me confidence. “Go on,” he mouths. “You can do this.” Jesus snaps his fingers. He wants Gary’s full attention.

By the time I got to the church building the tears had subsided somewhat. I parked and sat a moment. I suddenly felt a fullness in my heart. I smiled. The Holy Spirit wasn’t missing after all. He’s on the job… in me… with me… yet another promise kept.

I walked up the sidewalk that Gary and I had walked together hand-in-hand a million Sundays in a row. The door opened and inside was my family… waiting.

I thank God for Sundays. I thank Him for a risen, gleeful Savior. And I thank Him for tenors everywhere.

deb

I was a fraud...

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THE LULU CHRONICLES

Gary and Matty

I remember learning the words to Jesus Loves Me in Sunday school when I was four years old. I still remember the Sunday morning I sat in a little, tiny chair at a tiny table and sang it for the first time. I was baptized when I was eleven years old. I attended youth rallies and Bible camp. I went to two Christian universities. I was married to a minister for forty-two years. I guess you could say that my faith was pretty solid.

Then my husband got cancer and the ground underneath me began to shift.

I didn’t want it to shift. I didn’t ask it to shift. But shift it did. I scrambled to hold on to every scripture that demonstrated God’s Presence. I read and re-read passages the reassured me if I but trust Him, He will direct this journey. Of course my interpretation of that was that God would make Gary well.

Gary got sicker. And I got confused and began feeling myself become afraid. I had no doubt that God was near, but I began to wonder if He had a different plan than me.

Gary got even worse. That’s when the bomb exploded in my chest and I realized that here on earth God's love guarantees nothing. And, I was left to decide if I could love Him back.

When C.S. Lewis’ wife died he wrote, “God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn’t.”

I thought I was a spiritual person. I had Kum-ba-yah-ed with the best of them. I left my family of origin, my southern roots, and followed my husband to a foreign land to plant a church. Wisconsin! I didn’t even own a coat when we moved here. I was a Christian pilgrim and my choices demonstrated my obedience to God.

Then Gary died. That’s when I knew that I was a fraud. I just thought I was strong in my faith. I just thought I trusted God. I just thought I loved Jesus. I thought wrong. It took Gary’s death to reveal how little faith I truly had. God, however, knew it all along.

Despite all of that something miraculous has occurred. God has taken my broken self and has begun rebuilding me from the heart out. It’s painful to face ugly truths about yourself. I thought I was a Mary, but it turns out I was more like Job’s wife. I’ve finally learned what God’s love does and does not do. In this world, it gives strength you don’t possess to slay giants. It doesn’t stop the giants from coming. After this world, there are no holds barred. God goes crazy. He throws a welcome party that’s out of this world. Think rest. Peace. Laughter. Joy. Soft bed. Good neighbors … and the list goes on.

God’s love isn’t for sissies. God’s favor could kill you. Just ask any of the apostles. But the one thing you can count on is this: God’s love never wanes. It’s deeper than the ocean and wider than the sky. It is our food, our air, and our well of water.

~ deb

Step backward day...

THE LULU CHRONICLES

MeMe & Papa with some grandkids

Today was a perfectly horrible, no good, very bad day. Yeah, Mondays can be like that for just about anyone, but this one was particularly awful. It has been almost six weeks and my husband is still dead. So, I kept bumping into my own sadness like a very bad carnival bumper car driver. For example: This morning I made the bed. Our rule was the last one up made the bed. Five out of seven mornings, I was up first. Now I have to make the bed every morning and will for the rest of my life. Then I folded laundry and one of Gary’s handkerchiefs some how got into the mix. Apparently, it was the last hankie he used. I had found it in one of his coat pockets. In today’s mail was a letter for Gary thanking him for his donation to the cancer fund. In appreciation, they sent him a bazillion stickers with his name printed on them. On the bed stand sits the last book he was reading. This afternoon I practically broke my wrist trying to open a jar. I finally just threw it in the trashcan. And finally, this evening I drove myself to our small group Bible study, the one we’d been attending together for many, many years. I love these people. Gary led this group with an open Bible on his lap. His mix of scholarship and down-to-earth teaching was such a gift. But this time I had a hard time breathing sitting in that living room without him.

Are people uncomfortable around me when I cry? Or, are they more uncomfortable if I don’t? I’ve never been one who tried living up to others expectations of me. I figured most of what I do or did was between me and God and He’d let me know if I fell short. So, I don’t know why I’m even giving it a thought now. I just want to do it right, this mourning thing. I want to honor Gary in the way I do it and not embarrass God with my foolishness. I want to help those around me who loved my husband cope with their loss, but I’m trying so hard not to disappear one limb at a time that I don’t have the energy to help anyone through anything. I hope that’s all right.

This was my step-backward-day. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able take two-steps-forward and gain some ground, or I’d settle for just a baby step if it were in the right direction. I’ve been warned these types of days would happen. It’s not my first. I’m scrambling and scratching to see the ‘good’ in this day. Maybe it’s just the fact that I got up at all and that I actually did some laundry, or that I even remembered to check the mail. After all, my best friend and love of my life died six weeks ago of cancer. Maybe I’m not doing too badly after all.

“The Lord is my Shepherd… Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”  Oh, how I’m counting on this to be true.

~ deb

God promised...

THE LULU CHRONICLES

The Hubs and Nellie Rose on the porch.

“Her voice is still vivid.  The remembered voice—that can turn me at any moment to a whimpering child.”   ~ C.S. Lewis- A Grief Observed

Yesterday I was rummaging through the photos on my iPhone when I suddenly came across a video I hadn’t remembered recording. It was a week before the Hubs died and he was on the back porch holding our youngest granddaughter, Nellie Rose. I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to touch the little arrow that would make the scene before me come alive. But, Gary’s smile and Nellie Rose’s smile was too inviting. Instantly I heard the Hubs singing to the granddaughter. It was a little song he had made up about how much he loved her. Nellie Rose giggled and nestled into his chest. The scene was lovely, but it was his voice that made my heart flicker. That voice, that sweet, lovely voice. No one sang like Gary Cleveland. His soft, perfectly pitched tenor was one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Oh, there were many other reasons for sure, but that voice was God given and always made me weak in the knees.

I’ve played that little thirty-second video a dozen times now. There are so many things I miss about the Hubs. So many things I long for, but the thought of never hearing him sing again is unbearable. It’s a good thing I don’t believe that for a second. I will hear that voice again. I will be able to pick it out among the chorus of angels. I will. I simply will.

Delayed gratification is something we worked very hard to teach our boys when they were growing up. We felt it built character and helped prepare them to handle whatever life would throw at them. You may have the candy but you must wait until after supper. You may go to the movies when your chores are done. You may play outside once your homework is completed. So, why should I not yield to that discipline now as well? Life has thrown me a huge, ugly, hairy curve ball and the only way I’m going to get through this is if my character is up to it.

I want to hear Gary’s voice again. I want to close my eyes and lean my head back and hear him reach the high notes in the song, I will Glorify as only he could do. I want that more than I want to breathe.

And, I shall have it.

After my work is done.

God promised.

deb

Something ...

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THE LULU CHRONICLES

Granddaughter, Harper Grace, Atticus and me.

Something is happening. I’m slowly, slowly, slowly feeling myself coming around a bend of sorts. Probably the first of many but today feels a little different than yesterday. Something is changing a little, letting up. The ragged jab through the middle of my heart isn’t quite as destructive as it has been. It still rips and tears, but there is just a little less… something.

I want to rush this mourning period, get it over with—move on. But sorrow can’t be rushed. If I am to come out the other side of this a whole, functioning and productive person, I must allow the sorrow to do its thing. If I am to keep my faith intact and bitterness from poisoning my soul, I must take my time and feel what needs to be felt. Death teaches patience among other things.

I don’t know if you’ve heard this or not, but our little dog, Murphy, was hit by a car a week before Gary died. I was counting on Murph to help see me through this and then suddenly he was gone too. After Gary died and the last guest went home, the two losses gained up on me big time. Not only did I lose my man, but a sweet, furry friend as well. It was too much. I needed another beating heart in the house. The silence in all the empty spaces was deafening. So, last week I welcomed another little guy into my home. His name is Atticus and he is a ten-week-old labradoodle. Atticus Finch, the dad in Harper Lee’s classic novel, To Kill A Mockingbird, was the Hubs’ favorite fictional character. Gary got a lot of sermon illustrations out of the wisdom and courage of Atticus Finch. I’m hoping my little Atticus will grow into to his name.

Maybe it’s the presence of Atticus or the passing of a month since I lost my darling, but whatever it is, I feel I’ve inched forward toward the edge of the fog. God expects something from me still. He wasn't done with Noah once it stopped raining was He? Maybe He’s not done with me either.

The tears still come. My heart is still broken. My days are still unrecognizable. But something has changed, and I welcome it. I thank my God for His gentle hand upon me and for His compassionate mercy.

“My times are in His hands…” ~ Psalms. 32:15

deb

I will be sad no more…

The Hubs on our couch.

THE LULU CHRONICLES

I’ve been missing in action again. It grows increasingly harder to write these posts. What started out as a fun little blog about a pink bike and me has turned into something else entirely. Oh, LuLu is standing by like a faithful friend. She’s ready when I am, but unfortunately, I’ve been missing there as well. Grief and Sadness are a tag team. They’ve been doing their little act since Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden. They know how to get the job done and they are perfecting it on me.

Nothing in my life is the same. It’s like someone rearranged my furniture during the night and has hidden my glasses. The floor in my house is like walking on hot coals. The couch is like sitting on barbwire. Gary’s empty recliner seems to have a flashing blue light on it reminding me every second of the day who is not here—as if I needed a reminder.

And then there is our bedroom. Our bed. Our dresser. Our closet. Our lamp. Our rug. Every time I enter this room I feel like I’ve walked into an alternate universe, a bazarro world where everything that once was a testament of a marriage, a partnership, a great love, has turned into a place of torment.

I see why they tell you not to make any big decisions for a year after a loved one’s death. You can’t trust yourself. I’ve been tempted to burn this place down a dozen times. I’ve wanted to move, to run from everything that reminded me of my life before; To rip pictures off the wall, to sanitize and erase all traces of what I’ve lost.

Grief and Sadness smile and taunt me. They dare me to do it.

But… there’s something else. SomeOne else that speaks louder, who has the power to push my tormentors aside like they were mere mosquitoes. His voice is soft, yet unwavering.  His Presence anchors the room and gives reprieve. His Spirit works on me from the inside out. He pulls the dark veil aside for a brief moment to reveal the loveliness I’m temporarily too blind to see. From the couch to the bed to the curtains to the porch to the recliner all will eventually bring comfort. Grief and Sadness are necessary evils. While they distort, they also heal. They’re like really awful tasting medicine that must be endured if one wants to get well.

So, I will mourn until I can mourn no more. I will weep until the tears are no longer needed. I will live in this house and will not allow Grief and Sadness to fool me into doing something rash and crazy. I will wake and make the bed like I’ve done for the last forty-two years and someday, someday, someday, I will be sad no more.

deb