In late-March, I experienced a most unusual week during which I attended two separate and distinctly different memorial services.  I’m still a young whipper-snapper by most accounts, so I thankfully encounter funerals only a few times per year at most.  To attend two in one week was certainly unprecedented.

The first was in Chillicothe, Ohio , about two and half hours due east from my home.  The deceased was my great uncle, Bernard, although he was always lovingly referred to as “Bun.”  He was my grandpa’s brother, and he was truly an amazing man.  He passed at the age of 100 years, 6 months, but he didn’t look a day past 70.  Last September, we had all made the trip to Chillicothe to attend his 100^th birthday party, the most memorable part of which was when my little Sarah, just two years old, ran right up to Uncle Bun and planted a kiss square on his lips – a most unusual move for her.  Fortunately I was able to snap a photo of this most endearing moment between two souls with 98 years and a whole lot of love between them. 

Miraculously, Uncle Bun lived his entire life in near-perfect health, even being able to cut his own grass just last summer.  Perhaps even more amazing, he was married to his wife, Martha, for 73 years.  She is alive and well, also having enjoyed near-perfect health her whole life.  The couple has two daughters, several grandchildren, and some great-grandchildren.  Uncle Bun was a faithful man, always devoted to his church and to providing for his family.  Given all this, Bun’s memorial service was truly more a celebration of his life than a mourning of his death.  Until then, I had never experienced a funeral with even the faintest hint of celebration. 

It filled me with pride to hear of Bun’s 42 years of service at the Mead Paper Mill, pride in knowing that I am part of his bloodline.  He had missed a few hours of work his entire life, and that was because he had broken his arm on the job and needed to leave only long enough to have the arm set in a cast.  Riding in the funeral procession past the mill, I mourned the loss of the pioneering American work ethic that Uncle Bun had so glowingly possessed.  A tear escaped my eye as a policeman in formal dress saluted each car as we pulled into the cemetery.   Knowing that Bun lived a life most people would envy, I could not feel sad.  It will be strange not giving Uncle Bun a kiss on the cheek during future visits to Chillicothe , but I’m happy for him that he lived as flawlessly as a human can on earth and is now living eternally in paradise.

The second memorial service I attended was in Nashville, Tennessee , about 7 hours southwest of home.  I had never met the deceased, nor had the majority of the world.  He was the unborn son of a friend, having passed away in utero at 8 months gestation.  His name was Elijah.  It goes without saying that the feel of Elijah’s memorial service was vastly different from Uncle Bun’s service.  When a child dies, regardless of his or her age, there is a tangible sense of injustice and heartache that cannot be explained or eased.  A life was cut short before his unique personality could be discovered, explored and appreciated.  From the mother’s perspective, it is a loss incomprehensible to anyone who has not experienced it.  To those of us who are mothers, we cannot even allow our minds to fully go there.

Elijah’s parents had opted to have photographs taken of him alone and with them after his birth.  There is a volunteer organization called “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep,” made up of professionals who donate their time to photograph a dead or dying child for the sake of providing keepsakes for grieving families.  (I thought my job was hard).  The photos of Elijah with his heartbroken family were the most surreal images my eyes had ever scanned.  Some were not unlike typical pictures of newly expanded families, full of smiles and hugs; others subtly but succinctly illustrated the anguish felt by my friend, realizing that her arms held a dead child that only days before had been cavorting playfully inside her.  A few of the photos were of Elijah close-up.  While he was perfect in every way that we define perfectness in a baby (ten fingers and toes, a cute button nose), it was clear that life had escaped him.  His lips were black from the physical tendencies of blood that has nowhere to flow; the skin surrounding his arms and hands likened to that of a frail elderly person’s – wrinkled and peeling from lack of continuous nourishment.  While I felt privileged to have viewed these photos, I pray in all sincerity that I never see anything like them again as long as I live.  It’s one thing to have an abstract understanding of the concept of a dead baby; it’s quite another thing altogether to see pictorial evidence of it.

Perhaps the most emotional moment for me came just prior to the memorial service.  We were at the church, a very large and grandiose church among many in the city.  My friend had asked me to videotape the service, so that they would have another significant keepsake of their young son’s life and death.  I affixed the camcorder to a tripod in the balcony above the rear of the sanctuary, so that when the service started, I could simply press record and return to sit with my fellow mourners.  I zoomed in on the alter, on the small glass case on the table containing a photo of Elijah and amazingly detailed plaster molds of his tiny hands and feet.  But it was what rested in the center of the case that melted any composure I’d been able to maintain to that point.  A simple silver urn sat holding the ashes of young Elijah – a vessel so small, most salt shakers would tower above it.

I am a crisis counselor by trade, and thus used to speaking with people in unspeakable circumstances.  Here, however, I found myself completely at a loss for words.  There is absolutely nothing that can be said or done to adequately address the loss of a child, particularly when the loss was suffered by someone you’ve known and loved since kindergarten.  Gradually, I was able to accept the unacceptable, and just allow myself to do the only thing any of us could:  to live and grieve in the moment; to cry because it’s perfectly reasonable to cry; to periodically grow numb, space out and even laugh,  because something so tragic cannot bounce around the brain indefinitely; and finally, when I returned home, hold my daughter, kiss her a thousand times, and thank God endlessly for the blessing of her.

Today, nearly two months removed from this week of funerals, I look back on this time with sentimentality and gratefulness.  Death is always tragic, and it is of course something destined for us all to experience.  Given that I can’t shield myself from this reality, I’ve come to the conclusion that during that unusual week in March, I was the most fortunate woman in the world.  To share in the remembrance of the oldest of the old and the youngest of the young is a privilege, and I am grateful to have experienced it.  The minister at Uncle Bun’s graveside service recounted the tragic story of his three year-old daughter’s drowning death many years ago.  At her funeral, someone uttered a phrase to him that he has shared at every funeral he has officiated in his career: “You can’t lose something if you know where to find it.” 

I know where to find Elijah – cradled in Uncle Bun’s arms, comfortably rocking, eternally living.

We are in the midst of Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter, which is the most precious time for Christians.  It is a time to contemplate the suffering and sacrifice of our Lord on our behalf, a time to contemplate just how miraculous God’s gift of his Son was, and continues to be.  To that end, I have been thinking about two separate issues that have been discussed recently at a Bible study I attend on Monday evenings.  I am in awe of the truth Jesus brings to my life and the lives of so many others; yet I am equally in awe of those who refuse to accept that truth.

The first issue at hand is Jesus himself.  The vast majority of non-Christians and skeptics in the world acknowledge that Jesus, the man, did in fact exist and that he was a good and moral person.  They acknowledge that his teachings of love, compassion, service and forgiveness are exemplary lessons we should all strive to live by.  Where the skeptics stop agreeing, however, is on the point of Jesus’ deity.  He was a good man, but only that – a man.  He was not the Son of God, the Savior and Redeemer that his followers claim him to be.  All truth and evidence aside, there is one fundamental problem with this view of Jesus:  Jesus repeatedly identified himself to be the Son of God, the Savior and the Redeemer.  We know this not just because the Bible says so, but because both his disciples and his enemies used these claims as justification for following or destroying him.  If Jesus was just a man and nothing more, then he could not possibly be characterized as a good and moral person whose teachings were exemplary.  If Jesus is not the Son of God, then he was a habitual liar, a deceiver, a blasphemer, and an instrument of evil for leading so many people astray.  Either Jesus was exactly who he said he was, or he was a complete and total fraud.  There is no middle ground.

The second topic of discussion is miracles.  Based on the definition provided in the book we are reading in our study, a miracle is defined as an event orchestrated by God that falls outside the scope of natural law.  The author asserts that God created natural law – predictable, orderly patterns in our world – so that we are able to recognize miracles when they happen.  And the ultimate purpose of miracles is to affirm our faith.  Assuming these things, there are two schools of thought on the presence of miracles in the current world.  Some in our Bible study believe that miracles still occur in the world.  By this, we mean singular, miraculous events (not generalizations, such as “the miracle of birth,” or “the miracle of life”).  The purpose of these miracles is the same as it has always been – to affirm our faith.  Others in our study believe that miracles stopped with the resurrection of Jesus.  Jesus dying, rising from the dead, and ascending to Heaven was collectively the largest and most profound miracle that ever occurred.  This miracle is the foundation of the Christian faith, and the Scriptures provide all the information, evidence and affirmation we need to trust in it.  So, if the skeptic asks why it appears that God does not perform miracles today, perhaps the answer lies in another question: If you are unable to believe the greatest miracle God has ever performed, what is the likelihood that you would believe, or even recognize, a miracle that occurred today?

Like many Christians, I have often thought of my faith in Christ as being based on the Word of a God I trust unquestioningly.  That certainly still holds true, however as I gradually mature in my understanding of Christ, I realize that scientific and logical reasoning has a strong place in an honest discussion of the faith.  In fact, logic and science do much more to support faith in Christ than they do to refute it.  Upon careful consideration of the facts, those who have declared science and logic as their religion will, in turn, prove the truth of Jesus Christ - how ironic, and sweetly divine!

For the past year or so, a sweet little bird has been visiting my office.  Now, I’m not one to get excited about birds.  In fact, if they all disappeared one morning, I might notice that it’s considerably quieter than usual, but otherwise I would carry on with my day.  It baffles me that there are people in this world who spend hours of their time examining the different species of birds and their unique coloring and behaviors.  Don’t get me wrong – I’ve got nothing against birds, except that Hitchcock’s portrayal of psychotic feathered monsters didn’t do much to spark a love for them.  To each his own, as they say.

For reasons I’ve clearly explained, I couldn’t hazard a guess as to what kind of bird has been visiting me.  To avoid having to constantly refer to it as “the little bird,” I came up with the brilliantly creative name of Robin.  So, Robin has been coming to see me at least twice a week regularly for about a year, even in the winter.  My office is on the second floor of a tree-lined Victorian house, which I suppose might be an appealing area for me if I were a bird.  When Robin first started coming, I was not terribly happy about it.  The last thing I needed during my work day was to have an uninvited, chirping, wing-flapping creature making herself at home outside my window.  Interestingly, she seemed to sense my lack of excitement at her presence.  If it’s possible for a bird to look shy and unassuming, Robin fit the description perfectly.

When it became obvious that Robin was planning to make a habit out of visiting me, I decided to examine her a bit more closely.  She was a beautiful little thing, that’s for sure, although it looked as though she had recently lost a few feathers.  There’s no telling what toils and terror such a delicate creature could endure, and it appeared Robin had seen her share.  The fact that she continued to visit me through the harsh winter told me a lot about her strength.  I suppose even a cold and relentless wind pales in comparison to the trials she has faced.  She also proved to be quite punctual and reliable – I could count on her presence more than some of my colleagues.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I found myself looking forward to Robin’s visits.  When she sat on my windowsill, she looked right at me and told me all about her life.  And, although I fear I might be writing my own admission ticket to the nearest psych ward by admitting this, I found myself talking to her about my life too.  We might speak completely different languages, but we seemed to understand each other perfectly.  (I suppose if we can grow close to dogs and cats, we can do it with birds).  I had grown quite fond of Robin, and I think she also took a liking to me.  Never in all my days did I think I would befriend a bird, but I guess it goes to show you that you never know what little gifts God will put in your path.

Today is Friday, a wet and dreary day with the markings of early spring.  It occurred to me in the midst of answering phone calls and emails that my window sill is empty.  Except for the typing of my computer keys and the steady ticking of my clock, my office is eerily quiet.  I always knew that eventually, Robin would stop coming to see me.  I knew that we were unlikely friends at an unlikely place and time.  Even knowing those things, I am sad and I miss her.  Just as we are entering the season made for birds, she is gone.  I suppose that one day, she might stop by just to check in and say hi, but she has her own life and I have mine.  It’s the way of the world.

And so, my little Robin, wherever you may be, I thank you for coming to visit me.  No other feathered friend will compare to you, but one thing is for sure: I’ll never think of birds the same way again.

Have you ever experienced a “sign” from God, or from some spiritual connection with another person?  Sometimes we know right away when something happens that it’s a sign, while other times it takes the clarity of hindsight to reveal what had been an unnoticed sign in the past.  I’ve certainly experienced this, and lately, it’s been on mind.
 

This contemplation of signs began last weekend following a discussion with my mother in-law, Sharon .  We were talking about a couple we both know who are getting divorced.  We both attended the wedding in 2003, during which something happened that has always stuck with Sharon but which drifted past me like a summer breeze.  When the couple attempted to light the unity candle, it would not light.  They made several attempts, complete with obligatory nervous laughter from the congregation, but the darn thing just refused to light.  I don’t even recall this little snafu, and had I remembered it, I’m sure I would’ve just chalked it up to the inevitable glitches that happen at all weddings.  Maybe the candle wick was moist, there was a draft, or the couple was too nervous to hold the flame steady to the wick.  Anything’s possible.  At the time, Sharon worried privately that this candle mishap was a sign that the couple wasn’t supposed to be getting married, or that their marriage would fail.  After all, lighting a unity candle is a sign of a couple’s commitment to share their lives as one, obeying and trusting in God.  Now that it is apparent the marriage has failed, it makes me wonder…was it a sign that God knew this couple was not meant to be together?

This past summer, Sarah and I were outside enjoying the warm sunshine.  Sarah was happily digging in the dirt with her miniature garden tool set, when suddenly, she looked intently in the direction of our neighbor’s backyard and said, “Hi, Great-Grandpa.”  Following her gaze, my eyes discovered nothing but grass and trees.  She continued her stare for a moment, and then returned to her digging as if nothing had happened.  I struggled to make sense of it.  Sarah has only one living great-grandfather, whom she has never met, and to the best of my recollection, we had never introduced her to the term “great-grandpa.”  A couple of weeks later, however, Sarah and I were sitting in Aaron’s grandmother’s kitchen.  Among several photos of various family members and friends on the refrigerator, Sarah looked at an old Polaroid of Aaron’s now deceased grandfather.  Having never met him or seen a picture of him before, Sarah pointed to the photo and said, “Great-Grandpa.”  Could his spirit have been revealed to her that day in the yard?  It makes me wonder…was it a sign that our loved ones are indeed around us and communicating with us?

Perhaps the most profound experience with a sign that I’ve had came shortly after Sarah was born.  It was mid-morning and as a new mother, I was exhausted from lack of sleep.  Sarah was finally sleepy, so I put her in bed with me – something I hadn’t done before and never did again.  She was nestled close to my chest, and my elbow was propped on the pillow, my hand supporting my head.  Fatigue set in and not only did I drift to sleep, but my head and upper body fell from my hand, partially covering Sarah.  I abruptly woke up to what sounded like a bowling ball being rolled slowly across the entire length of our attic, resting just above our bedroom.  Realizing that I was partially lying on Sarah, I sprang from the bed in outright terror.  Once I was assured that she was still breathing, I went to the living room to ask Aaron what had made that noise.  He said, “What noise?”  It makes me wonder…was God, or someone, protecting Sarah?

In times past, I may have interpreted these things as being funky coincidences, however now I rest comfortably in the belief that these signs are worldly manifestations of a living God.  It makes me question how many signs I’ve missed due to my own ignorance or preoccupation with insignificant details of daily life.  Sometimes if we are still, we know that God is there just by looking, hearing and feeling, in which case we don’t have to wonder.

I fell madly in love on Monday at a quarter past seven in the morning.  I have fallen in love many times before of course, but there was something about this particular morning that set my heart on fire.  I opened the door to Sarah’s room and turned the light on.  Immediately, pitiful protests escaped from the little bed in the corner.  Sarah was not at all ready to get out of bed, and she was going to let me know about it.  My gentle back rubs and soft coaxing only deepened her resolve.  I was sure that if curse words were part of her verbal arsenal, a sailor would have blushed.  I reach down and picked her up, her body purposefully limp.  She was not about to assist me in being removed from a perfectly warm, comfortable bed. 

Her head was a portrait of disarray:  Hair, curly like her mother’s, was haphazardly strewn in all directions, such that only Don King would find such a ‘do fashionable. Her tender face was caked with dried snot from the cold she had caught from her cohorts at daycare, nicely accompanied by a thin line of drool cascading from the corner of her mouth.  A few strands of hair had become enmeshed in the snot, concealing the majority of her right eye.  When she finally opened her eyes, a look of utter disdain shone through, as if to say, “How dare you wake me up!” 

Before I could plop her on the toilet seat, a mischievous smile caught my attention.  She opened her mouth, her foul morning breath puncturing my senses, and proudly announced, “Mommy, I pooped!”  That would teach me to get her out of bed.  I quickly detoured back to the changing table in her room, the smell of her revenge making itself known.  I laid her down and took stock of the situation.  A dirty butt, drool, dried snot, and snot-pasted hair all had to be addressed.  Where to start? 

It was then that I fell in love.  You can have all the fragrant roses and crème-filled candies of Valentine’s Day that you want.  I’ll take this wonderful little creature laying here, complete with poop, snot and drool.  What can I say?  This is true love.

To all my friends who will read this blog, I hope you enjoy the thoughtful ramblings of simple, little ‘ole me.  If ever you’re having a bad day, I’ll do what I can.  But remember… be still and know.