Lonely Vigil

 

For the most part I was alone for the day. I awoke around 3a.m. and took over for Denise as she’d had a long shift. Textbook vigil. Dad was always a fighter – on the wrestling mats of Gardena High School, in and around the gridirons of football, in the boxing ring on the USS Point Cruz. His biggest fight, he lost. Smoking is a mother-effer to kick and he couldn’t and so we were on a vigil for the final count. Emphysema was the knockout punch that smoking threw at him and he couldn’t duck it though he fended it off as long as he could because he fought death up to his final few breaths.

With the exception of a bathroom break and a few moments to force myself to eat and stand outside to pray and be met by God’s Spirit, I stayed with him from the time I awoke until I helped carry him to the transport van and watched it roll down the driveway. We tried as best we could to keep him from being restless, as good as the uneducated can with drugs prescribed by people with M.D. after their names. I pictured the final fight scene in Rocky where he took a beating from Apollo Creed only my dad couldn’t block a punch nor throw one back and there was no referee to stop the fight, nobody but me in his corner to the throw in the towel. And I did.

Bob came by at some point in time and sat with us for a half an hour or forty minutes and we talked as he kept me company. He’d lost his own mom and had his own vigil not all that long ago. Denise stopped by from time to check on me and I told her I was okay and that I had it 'under control'. The struggle for a man in respiratory distress is violence contained in one rented hospital bed. I’d lied. That’s what big brothers do. But I wasn’t okay and I knew it but by the end of the vigil I did have it under control. God’s Grace is sufficient.

Mom came over for the last couple of hours and was there with me at the end, the two of us holding dad’s hand. She had her own massive fight going on while we helped her struggle to regain her strength and endurance. Throughout the day I played various renditions of Amazing Grace for him, mom liked that. The end finally came with the three clearest and easiest breaths I’d seen him take in years. It was a quiet end to a lonely vigil.

Now I’ve just told you about people coming by and sitting with me so how could this be lonely? It was lonely by choice. I could take in their comfort only so deeply as to get me to the next moment. If I had allowed myself to connect as much as my soul screamed for I would have lost it and not been up to the task for dad, or have been there for Denise or Bob or Mom or Stacey...

It has been 537 days since this happened, why bring it up now? Because I sit removed by a couple of short miles from friends and family on their own vigil and because I love them so much that I am on vigil as well, only somewhat removed.

These are the cruelest of vigils, the meanest of fights, when we have given ourselves over to inevitability. How I hate these things. I badly want to spare them this waiting, sit in their place for them. However, I am not allowed and must suffer my own portion as best I can and pray they have peace on the front lines of their particular fight. I grieve already for my friend, his family, and his friends.

This probably sounds like a lot of unbelief and lack of faith and that is correct. It is. And so the only thing I can really say is Maranatha, come quickly Lord Jesus.

In His grip,

jerry

Where Did That Come From?

 

Where Did That Come From?

God is The Creator and he created man in his own image. Therefore, man is creative. This is the line of thinking that spurred me to become a writer. When I was young, I used to think my creativity was expressed on the basketball court. Perhaps it was true, but to be honest, it was a low target (and likely a copout) so when I couldn’t play, what then? I searched and now I write. Here I go…

While condensing my parent’s lives from a house and woodcrafter’s shop on ten acres with storage in every nook and cranny to a target of a family history and distributed memories, I have over the past 18 months drifted in and out of grief and written of it from time to time. Today I was at the storage facility where we keep boxes of stuff (tools, papers, photos, memories), high-end golf equipment, a piece of furniture, and an old workbench. My target for the day was to dismantle the workbench.

My objective was troubling to me and I went about the work with a haze of melancholy draped over my shoulders. It was easy for me to understand. The bench was older than me. My grandfather built it for his workshop in Gardena. My dad brought it to La Crescenta and put it in his little workshop that he had excavated underneath our deck in the backyard in La Crescenta and he then moved it to Merlin, Oregon and created amazing works of intarsia on it.

I moved it to the storage facility with the thought we would move it to Ashley and Matt’s new place in Santa Barbara once they were organized in their garage and they would create on it. However, the bench needed a lot of work to be stable and it was on its last legs. I discussed this at length with Ashley and we decided to move it to an alternate place which would have been in our backyard as a potting bench. It still needed a lot of work and we don’t pot much so we passed and there was no one in the family who could use it.

When I put screwdriver, claw hammer, and prybar to the bench I was saddened. I could not figure out how to get another generation out of this thing. I removed the three-sixteenth-inch steel top and decided to put it on the worktable I’d built in my own garage. As I stacked the 2x12s and 2x4s on my dolly I sunk a little deeper into glummyland but when I got down to the 1x stuff, a tongue-and-grove backing and some support strips, I remembered the Christmas trees I’d made of the old roofing materials from our front porch project and now I think there will be a Christmas tree or two to pass along. Then I remembered the bird houses and other decorative things I made from the old cedar fencing from our replacement project and I think there will be birds finding new nesting places.

The wood from a two-generation old workbench will find new life with three more generations; mine, my kids, and their kids.

Thinking about how creativity sprung from a feeling of melancholy lead me to wondering what it was that inspired God to create. Was He melancholy and then turned his creativity to making everything we see and feel? Was She lonely? These are not questions I will try to answer – they are way beyond my paygrade. It likely has something to do with the fact that God is love and needs entities to express that love toward.

While pondering this and wondering where sparks of creativity come from and what motivates someone to create, I came across one of my favorite Bible verses:

Psalm 121: 1 – “I lift up my eyes to the hills-- where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.”

No mater the source or who your muse is, once the spark is set to the idea, put your heart and hands to the task and see what good comes from it.

In His grip,

jerry

 

Author’s note: Melancholy may not be the proper word for me to use in describing my feelings of the day as an online definition reads, “a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause”. I know the cause but I like the term and my friend Webster’s definitions give me some latitude so I’m keeping melancholy. After all, it’s my story.

The Fast That He Has Chosen

 

Isaiah 58:6 “Is not this the fast that I have chosen: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the bands of the yoke, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?” American Standard Version

I had a hankering, a yearning, and I longed to take up a spiritual discipline I had sitting dusty on the shelf of underappreciated disciplines. I used to fast on occasion when I was hitched to particularly difficult tasks. It has been several years since I last undertook a fast to clear the way for the Holy Spirit but I’m in a place where I find that I am again in need of the discipline.

I turned to a couple of old friends, if you don’t mind me being so familiar with them. Dallas Willard and Richard J. Foster both wrote about the discipline of fasting. Dallas in his The Spirit of the Disciplines, Understanding How God Changes Lives and Richard J. in Celebration of Discipline, The Path to Spiritual Growth.

It is interesting to me that these men eschew the use of Dr. on their book covers and instead simply use their names. I have seen them both in person and their humility is worn about them like an old familiar sweater.

Dallas Willard is known for his writing on Christian spiritual formation and having had a focus on ‘phenomenology’, a study of the structures of experience and the consciousness. He says of fasting, “Fasting confirms our utter dependence upon God by finding in him a source of sustenance beyond food. Through it, we learn by experience that God’s word to us is a life substance, that it is not food (“bread”) alone that gives life, but also the words that proceed from the mouth of God (Matt. 4:4)”

Again, from Willard: “We learn that we too have meat to eat that the world does not know about (John 4:32, 34). Fasting unto our Lord is therefore feasting – feasting on him and on doing his will.”

And again, “Actually, fasting is one of the more important ways of practicing that self-denial required of everyone who would follow Christ (Matt. 16:24)"

In his Celebration of Discipline, Richard J. Foster quotes John Wesley: “Some have exalted religious fasting beyond all Scripture and reason; and others have utterly disregarded it.”

Foster says, “Scripture has so much to say about fasting that we would do well to look once again at this ancient Discipline. The list of biblical personages who fasted reads like a “Who’s Who” of Scripture: Moses the lawgiver, David the king, Elijah the prophet, Esther the queen, Daniel the seer, Anna the prophetess, Paul the apostle, Jesus Christ the incarnate Son.”

There are a range of fasts: full fasts where we abstain from all food, solid or liquid, but not from water, partial fasts whereby we restrict the diet without total abstention (Daniel 10:3), and an absolute fast where nothing is taken in. For reference, these are people who fasted in the Bible: Esther in Esther 4:16 for 3 days, Paul in Acts 9:9 after his visitation, and Moses in Deut. 9:9 and Elijah in 1 Kings 19:8 for supernatural absolute fasts of 40 days.

For the most part, fasts are of an individual and personal nature. There are times when groups are called to fast such as the Day of Atonement for the Hebrews or when in 1756 the king of Britain called for a day of solemn prayer and fasting because of threatened invasion from France. Of this fast John Wesley writes, “The fast day was a glorious day, such as London has scarce seen since the Restoration. Every church in the city was more than full, and a solemn seriousness sat on every face. Surely God heareth prayer, and there will yet be a lengthening of our tranquility.” France did not invade.

In any case, group or individual, partial fast or complete or even absolute, we must remember one central tenet as Foster put it, “Fasting must forever center on God. It must be God-initiated and God-ordained.”

I have leaned on Foster for what I am thinking of as the process for fasting:

1.       Define your fast objectives. Outline whatever you hope to breakthrough on during your fast and define it but remain open to the Holy Spirit to redefine it.

2.       Jesus said in Matthew 6: 16-18, “¹⁶And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. ¹⁷But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, ¹⁸so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”

3.       Define your fast parameters. What are you giving up and living on? How long will you fast? The following is a list of progressions to take for fasting. Figure out where you fit on the spectrum from beginner to ‘old-hand’:

a.       Begin with a partial fast of 24-hours.
  i.      Use fruit juice and water, plenty of water
  ii.      Repeat weekly for several weeks
  iii.      Monitor the attitude of your heart – prayer, meditation, singing, and worship

b.   Graduate to a full fast of 24 hours with water only and lots of it. Use the normal time spent on eating for prayer and/or meditation.

c.     Step up to a 36-hour full fast or three meals.

d.    Consider a multi-day fast of three to seven days and then after, even longer if you feel up to it. Things to consider on the long fast:
i.      The first three days are tough as the body rids itself of toxins.
ii.     Headaches are mild withdrawal systems from caffeine, consider weaning yourself before a long fast.
iii.  Around the fourth day your hunger pains should begin to subside, there may be feelings of weakness and occasional dizziness, these should be temporary.
iv.   You should feel stronger and more alert around the six- or seven-day mark of your fast.
v.     Your longer fasts should be broken with fruit or vegetable juice and small amounts of those until your system gets back to normal. I learned the hard way on this one. As a 20-year-old zealot of sorts, I broke my 4-day fast with a big greasy burrito. It was not elegant.

Foster writes of fasts extended from seven to 40 days. I won’t go into these here. If you are moved to do anything longer than I have covered in this short post I recommend a deeper study of fasting on both the spiritual and physical levels.

CAUTION: If you have, or suspect that you have underlying medical issues consult your doctor. It is best to go into the discipline of fasting with your eyes wide open.

We must remember that the major work of scriptural fasting is in our spirit. What goes on in our hearts and souls is more important than what is occurring in our bodies. A spiritually critical period is when we break our fast and relax. Fasting can bring us breakthroughs in the spiritual realm that we can’t find any other way. I have seen it work in my own life and am looking forward to it doing so again.

We should remember Paul’s warning to the Colossians in chapter 2, verse 23, “Many things have an appearance of wisdom in promoting rigor of devotion and self-abasement and severity to the body, but they are of no value in checking the indulgence of the flesh.”

Finally, let’s remember that it is His fast and the purpose is to break chains of bondage.

In His grip and under His Grace,

Jerry

Authors note: In reaction to a sermon I alluded to in this post I swore off purchasing and eating meat. This was not a lifestyle change but a fast of protest, surely not a spiritual fast in any shape or form. I discovered in writing this post that I no longer held my grudge and have taken up eating meat again but I have determined not to do so in the presence of my vegetarian wife, daughter, or grandson. I have perceived it as an affront to them the numerous times vegetarians have been denigrated from the pulpit.

A Love So Sweetened

 

A year ago tomorrow, my love was sweetened through the cost of bitter tears and tears of relief and sadness, and some of love and thankfulness.

I had the onus of sitting with my dad through his last hours, how many it does not matter. My mother joined me for the last couple of hours or so, my brother-in-law spent time with me and my sister as well. I say ‘onus’ and indeed, the task was heavy. But onus is not quite the right word, too negative. It was not a pleasure, to be sure, but it was a place and time of honor, of the deepest intimacy that I could experience with my dad, the moment in time when he reached a final peace after what seemed an age of suffering.

We sat together with him holding his hand and as he breathed his last three breaths and it was eye-opening. He breathed free and easy for the first time in years and he went with a look of astonished wonderment on his face knowing that he would be breathing easy forever after.

All this is fine but what did it do for me right after or what does it do for me now? It allowed me to let go and love more sweetly. Love for my dad, for my mom, and for anybody I am brave enough love – my kids, their kids, and a wide range of family and friends and acquaintances. If I let myself do it.

I wish I’d known this as a young man when I lost friends far too early, family so near, and as an older man feeling the same as the losses grew. It is hard to forget them. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not been so encumbered by losing friends and family as others, many others, maybe even most others.

Over the years I have told others that they have big hearts. Hearts big enough to hold the memories of a lost loved one and to continue loving others and even ‘another’. It is no disrespect the departed to love more fiercely, more sweetly once they have gone, it is an accolade to memories of them. As my friends David, Stephen, Graham, and Neil like to say, ‘love the one you’re with.’

My cousin is showing me this right now as they sit with her husband along with his mother, her mother, their kids, and grandkids, as many as can be there. They are in a place to love more. More sweetly. And they are doing so and inspiring me and warming me up. Thank you, cousin.

Hug your loves more tightly, speak to them more tenderly, laugh with them more often, be sweeter to them always.

And yes, I believe my love for Jesus has been so sweetened.

In His grip,

jerry

To My Daughters, et al.

 

To my daughters, et al.,

“Et al.” is an interesting term to use in a salutation but perfect for my point. Et al. is short for the Latin term ‘el alia’ which means ‘and others’.

It is such a broad term that it can encompass anything anyone wants to add in for reasons both proper and true and reasons so obscure only the adder knows why, adder as a noun and not to be confused with a snake. The punctuation for the term is a bit esoteric and I did the best I can.

I have been blessed with two daughters of my own, a daughter-in-law, and a bunch of bonus-daughters via their association with my kids or having come through the various youth programs I’ve served. Some of my bonus-daughters have daughters of their own who have children and that is a reflection on me being in the youth work game for a long time and achieving the title of old man. I embrace it.

You young women are raising children who are loving, open, and inclusive. As mothers, you are completely vested in your kids and present in their lives. You take them on adventures to the park, walks around the block, vacations, and stay-at-home exploits and flights of fancy. You guys hug your kids through every childhood misadventure and scraped knee, laugh with them in play, and dance, and understand jokes only your child knows the punchline to.

The investment of unyielding and unconditional love from mothers, and in particular the ones I am holding in my heart as I write this, will pay off in healthy, loving, and brave young adults and responsible people over the next generation. I am in awe of you and in truth, more than a bit proud. You warm my heart on chilly days and refresh me like the breeze coming in off the lake on a hot summer day.

These things did not come about by accident. Your mom invested in you as their mothers invested in them. They put the right ingredients in the bowl just so and if you were a fortunate lass, your grandmothers added dashes of wisdom and caring and stirred the pot just enough that all the ingredients were thoroughly mixed. They didn’t stop with the mixing and taste testing, they put you in the oven and let you bake into the women you have become. I salute them and wish I could hug each of them right now and thank them for the work they did and the miracles they performed.

Thank you ladies for being amazing. Happy Mother’s Day.

Now, if you have read this far and you are asking yourself if I meant you then yes, I meant you. If you don’t have kids yet or might never have kids then I submit to you that you likely still qualify as a bonus-mom or a fantastic aunt and are adding critical ingredients to the next generation. Keep stirring them in and watch that they aren’t left in the oven too long and burn. And, as any good cook will do, taste test often.

Again, happy Mother’s Day.

I love you all,

Dad or Jer Bear as the case may be.

Confessions of a Wayward Writer

 

What do you do when you believe God has called you to a vocation and you engage in all manner of ‘good’ things instead of that which you are called to? 'Good', as in necessary everyday activities like three sets of tax returns, including your recently deceased parents’ final return, and any number of things – wash dishes, cook, do yard work, work on estate processes, spend time with family… What do we do when we know we should be spending time and energy on activities we are beckoned to do by that quiet voice we have come to trust as God’s?

Confess with a sincere heart, move on, and get down to it. And so I confess:

I am a writer. I believe God has called me to it and He did so after I searched for the creativity that exists in each of us. We who are created in the image of God have a spark of The Creator in us. I searched for mine after giving up on the notion that I was creative on the basketball court. While that may have been so, if the divine creativity for me was that of an athlete I would be writing this as a former NBA player, or at least that is how I see it.

I did a lot of business writing for the phone factory and was well thought of for my efforts. White papers, business cases, reports, and all sorts of communications that paved the way for me to have a nice little career.

I hadn’t started my search for the creative spark at the time but when a student ministries director asked me to do the writing for the church’s monthly newsletter, I took to it and enjoyed the outlet. I wrote about our youth activities and what was coming up and did some pieces about the depth of our mission trips and camps. What I really loved doing was zeroing in on a particular person and writing a story about him or her and what I found special about them. I could and did write from the heart on those occasions and they were the ones that touched people. My mom and mother-in-law were my biggest supporters in this and they carried it over once I heard the call to write creatively.

I am not a good writer and I feel this way for several reasons. I do not do it consistently enough to say I have a writer’s life but I wish that I could claim that I have such a life. My work needs a lot of editing and I need to learn the craft more completely. I write some good pieces here and there but nothing that has been published outside of my own blogs or social media outlets. Some of that has to do with me lacking the confidence to believe the piece is worthy of printing and some of it has to do with me lacking a tough inner shell to withstand the common practice of writers to collect rejection letters.

I completed a novel a couple years ago but it has been left idol. It is the book I believed I was urged to write by the Author of our Faith and yet I cannot bring myself to rewrite it as it desperately needs. The book needs to be cut it in half if there is any hope in having a publisher even look at it. The story is mortally out of date due to my delays and I need to refigure the timeline and at least bring it up to the point where it touches on the pandemic.

All of this falls short of a legitimate excuse for falling short of having a writer’s life, one meant to touch the hearts of at least one person with each piece I publish. For all of this, I am sorry and will rekindle my efforts.

I am a writer. My best of friends Mike and Jim say so. Mike even puts ‘Writer’ as my occupation when he uses me as a reference when he is job seeking. Mike is a professional editor so it must be true that I am a writer. Jim is my coach and he tells me how touched he is when he reads my work. He was key in showing me the error in a short story I have now submitted several times to start my collection of rejections, so it must be true that I am a writer.

Ani is a published writer, has a master’s in fine arts (MFA) Degree, and is an entrepreneur. She took a short story I wrote almost on a whim for the family and put it in a picture book for us. My mom had me autograph her copy, so it must be true. I guess this means I need to retract my earlier statement that I have not be published outside of my own media resources.

What led to me writing this confession was Phil talking to the men on our Zoomeeting the other morning and telling the group what a good writer I am and how he appreciates the works that I put up. Having spent that morning in the presence of the Holy Spirit, I was uplifted, touched, and convicted all at the same time. Phil is a published writer himself, so it must be true.

Thus, I must confess that I fall short of God’s call to me.

I looked on the back of a piece of intarsia my late father did for me and he said, “Together in His grip, love Dad”. And so I’ll sign off on this confession as I frequently sign off on my Calvary's Thread posts.

In His grip,

jerry

Waves of Grief

 

Personal observations on the process and state of grief upon the loss of a parent or spouse, or maybe worse yet, a child:

Grief is like standing on the beach just in the surf-line where most of the waves lap up and tickle our toes and encompass your foot. As the wave recedes we can feel the sand erode from under our feet and sense that if we stood there long enough, the beach would altogether cover us up.

Now and again a wave comes in as an ankle slapper and we get surprised but not too worried at the sensations. Then an outsider comes and we are standing up to our thighs in the ocean and we feel like we’ll be pulled out to sea. And so we sob quietly but manage to recover on our own though the emptiness leaves us hungering for another day with our loved one.

Then there is the rogue wave. The ones we hear about that come unexpected and wash people out to sea because they weren’t being vigilant while going about their day on the beach or sitting on the jetty letting their minds wonder. The wave takes us out, off the beach and into a surf so roiled as we feel we may drown. We need help, a lifeguard to show up in his rescue dory or maybe in a Baywatch boat. We need them to pull us in and take us to safety.

Let the toe ticklers do their work. Let the ankle slappers have their way. Be wary of the outsiders and stand firm. Let the lifeguards to their job and bring us in when the rogue wave crashes over us and tosses us about. If you don’t see them, call out and someone will come for you.

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Author’s Notes:

During the past six months my family has endured the loss of both my parents, first my dad early in September 2020 and then my mom ten weeks later in November. Neither was the result of covid-19 and the path we followed starting this last July was shocking and unexpected, almost violent. No, certainly violent to our souls.

While traveling the path of grief I have on occasion written a piece about each of my parent and put up various Facebook posts on the sensations of grief and loss. I took the first motorcycle ride with friends since this all began for me and we ended up at Duke’s Malibu for lunch out in their patio dining area. The above piece came to me while enjoying discussions ranging from home sales riding and what the future has in store for us as we learn to contend with the pandemic. We did not speak about my loss and grief but the waves coming up on the rocks below us and the vast Pacific Ocean stretching out in front of us spoke clearly to me.

Putting up the above observations as a Facebook post generated good discussion points and a great deal of sympathetic replies. One such reply came from my friend Lisa Brickner, a practicing psychologist. She suggested that with so many people in isolation and experiencing the ravages of loneliness that I should submit the writing to newspapers, something I’ve never done. Once I put this post up on Calvary’s Thread I will heed the advice of the professional and submit it somehow to our various local papers and perhaps to the Grants Pass Daily Courier where I will shortly be sending the obituary for my parents.

As a Christian, I have the additional benefit of The Great Lifeguard, Jesus Christ, and his followers.

I am no professional, simply a man in grief feeling his way along the surf line.