'God's Gift of Grieving' [a manuscript in progress]
Ever since I've been a junior in high school there has been this dream to write a book .... and only the God could recall how many idea's I've had on what the subject would be; but now I think I've figured it out. In the 'Grieving' series we've been doing I have been challenged to 'intentionally journal,' so maybe this is the seed to a book on death and the dying process. For the better part of my pastoral ministry death has intrigued me; and yet officiating at funerals is my most 'unliked' task. Three deaths that really made an impact in my life dealt with the glories of coming glory, the oxymoron of comfort and cursing and my father's coma. Let me explain a bit.
One day I got a call from a parishioner who told me her mother was coming to her home to die. They had decided that rather than her daughter making long trips back home, it would be simpler for mom to just move in with her and her family. For the sake of my faulty memory we'll call her rose, because her character was every bit equal to the beauty of one. After a couple of visits I began to really look forward to being with Rose, and on one occasion we talked about the message she would deliver to my father when she got to heaven. I have never met anyone as comfortable with coming death as Rose. She had her resting clothes picked out and cleaned and pressed, and really loved to talk about the coming glory that God was allowing her. What she didn't know was that every time I spoke with her, goose bumps literally covered my back, it was something akin to being with someone who is already sharing a part of the future with God that only certain death can bring. Rose's funeral was anti climatic because of the walk I had already experienced with her; Dad must have gotten a kick out of her delivering the message and remarking about all the sermon mistakes I so easily make.
My second story is much different. While I was a youth associate there was a little old lady who was a member of our church and lived in a nursing home. We'll call her Greta. Greta had lived a rough life, even before she was a teenager the beer halls and houses of ill-repute were more of a home to her than the family house. She didn't live this life by choice, it was the one pressed on her by her parents. While in her later teen years she began playing the piano in bars to earn money for the family. Sometime later, in her mid thirties she found Jesus Christ as her savior, and he completely turned her life around. Greta became quite a servant of the Lord, always going back into the old neighborhood to try and win those she'd once played for. She never married or had a family of her own, so when she began to physically deteriorate only her church family was there for her. Greta had become quite renown in church circles for her intercessory prayer life, and often I would stop by with a list for her, knowing that each request would be delivered into His presence. One day I got the call from the hospital that Greta was in her last days on this earth so I went to see her. Evidently I arrived at a very trying time for her, because as I mentioned prayer she began to curse at me with words sailors are more familiar with. After a rather long tirade of obscenities I had a brief prayer and left; later that night Tom, our senior pastor, visited her and she seemed quite calm and prayed with him. I never was able to figure out that visit but I firmly believe that even in our dying moments, for Greta would pass into the Lord's presence the next morning, Satan makes his last ditch-attempts to grab us, and that all the cursing was the result of going back to those days when she hadn't known the Lord. If Satan's efforts were to weaken my faith he failed that day.
My third story has to do with my father's four month long coma that led to his death. Since I lived an a far off state it was difficult for me to make it home very often. On a last trip home before I would return for his funeral I remember sitting on bed beside him and singing. I began singing the old time hymns, and as I did a very faint, soft voice joined me. It couldn't be my mom, she had taken some time to go downtown, and it couldn't be my sister, she was working. Almost unbelievably the accompanying voice came from my father, I leaned in closer to his face while continuing to sing and sure enough he was singing every word .......... and the better part of an hour I went on singing a duet with my father until my eyes became so clouded with tears I had to stop. Oh, how I hated to stop singing, for I knew the moment I stopped communication would end also. All other death experiences I've had paled compared to this .... why? why had God allowed such a miraculous experience, I've never gotten a good answer, and don't really want one. I just know that it was unique.
Numerous times I have stood with family members beside a dying loved one and watched as there has come that moment when it seemed that full recovery was coming as the one in bed would give a big smile, or ask for something, or speak a few words of cheer and family members would look at each other and comment on how wonderful this moment was, then the 'rattle', the rattle that said, 'what you've just experienced is a fraud' ... and then their loved one would breathe that final breath.
Why do I mention all these experiences? Because I'm convinced the grieving process starts even before death's final grasp. In fact, we are not only notorious about avoiding the grieving process we fail to understand the trauma[process] that many who die go through beforehand, and it is my hope in this manuscript to address not only how we can become whole again through the grieving process but how we prepare ourselves so that before our death our loved ones can will journey through it also.
[If you have any thoughts as I progress through this manuscript I would appreciate hearing them, and please include a footnote so that I might give you proper credit. A large part of any writing is giving credit, this maintains integrity; but having said that let me also say if there is any part of this manuscript, at any time, that you can use, please feel free to do and know that I will honored and humbled.]
Ever since I've been a junior in high school there has been this dream to write a book .... and only the God could recall how many idea's I've had on what the subject would be; but now I think I've figured it out. In the 'Grieving' series we've been doing I have been challenged to 'intentionally journal,' so maybe this is the seed to a book on death and the dying process. For the better part of my pastoral ministry death has intrigued me; and yet officiating at funerals is my most 'unliked' task. Three deaths that really made an impact in my life dealt with the glories of coming glory, the oxymoron of comfort and cursing and my father's coma. Let me explain a bit.
One day I got a call from a parishioner who told me her mother was coming to her home to die. They had decided that rather than her daughter making long trips back home, it would be simpler for mom to just move in with her and her family. For the sake of my faulty memory we'll call her rose, because her character was every bit equal to the beauty of one. After a couple of visits I began to really look forward to being with Rose, and on one occasion we talked about the message she would deliver to my father when she got to heaven. I have never met anyone as comfortable with coming death as Rose. She had her resting clothes picked out and cleaned and pressed, and really loved to talk about the coming glory that God was allowing her. What she didn't know was that every time I spoke with her, goose bumps literally covered my back, it was something akin to being with someone who is already sharing a part of the future with God that only certain death can bring. Rose's funeral was anti climatic because of the walk I had already experienced with her; Dad must have gotten a kick out of her delivering the message and remarking about all the sermon mistakes I so easily make.
My second story is much different. While I was a youth associate there was a little old lady who was a member of our church and lived in a nursing home. We'll call her Greta. Greta had lived a rough life, even before she was a teenager the beer halls and houses of ill-repute were more of a home to her than the family house. She didn't live this life by choice, it was the one pressed on her by her parents. While in her later teen years she began playing the piano in bars to earn money for the family. Sometime later, in her mid thirties she found Jesus Christ as her savior, and he completely turned her life around. Greta became quite a servant of the Lord, always going back into the old neighborhood to try and win those she'd once played for. She never married or had a family of her own, so when she began to physically deteriorate only her church family was there for her. Greta had become quite renown in church circles for her intercessory prayer life, and often I would stop by with a list for her, knowing that each request would be delivered into His presence. One day I got the call from the hospital that Greta was in her last days on this earth so I went to see her. Evidently I arrived at a very trying time for her, because as I mentioned prayer she began to curse at me with words sailors are more familiar with. After a rather long tirade of obscenities I had a brief prayer and left; later that night Tom, our senior pastor, visited her and she seemed quite calm and prayed with him. I never was able to figure out that visit but I firmly believe that even in our dying moments, for Greta would pass into the Lord's presence the next morning, Satan makes his last ditch-attempts to grab us, and that all the cursing was the result of going back to those days when she hadn't known the Lord. If Satan's efforts were to weaken my faith he failed that day.
My third story has to do with my father's four month long coma that led to his death. Since I lived an a far off state it was difficult for me to make it home very often. On a last trip home before I would return for his funeral I remember sitting on bed beside him and singing. I began singing the old time hymns, and as I did a very faint, soft voice joined me. It couldn't be my mom, she had taken some time to go downtown, and it couldn't be my sister, she was working. Almost unbelievably the accompanying voice came from my father, I leaned in closer to his face while continuing to sing and sure enough he was singing every word .......... and the better part of an hour I went on singing a duet with my father until my eyes became so clouded with tears I had to stop. Oh, how I hated to stop singing, for I knew the moment I stopped communication would end also. All other death experiences I've had paled compared to this .... why? why had God allowed such a miraculous experience, I've never gotten a good answer, and don't really want one. I just know that it was unique.
Numerous times I have stood with family members beside a dying loved one and watched as there has come that moment when it seemed that full recovery was coming as the one in bed would give a big smile, or ask for something, or speak a few words of cheer and family members would look at each other and comment on how wonderful this moment was, then the 'rattle', the rattle that said, 'what you've just experienced is a fraud' ... and then their loved one would breathe that final breath.
Why do I mention all these experiences? Because I'm convinced the grieving process starts even before death's final grasp. In fact, we are not only notorious about avoiding the grieving process we fail to understand the trauma[process] that many who die go through beforehand, and it is my hope in this manuscript to address not only how we can become whole again through the grieving process but how we prepare ourselves so that before our death our loved ones can will journey through it also.
[If you have any thoughts as I progress through this manuscript I would appreciate hearing them, and please include a footnote so that I might give you proper credit. A large part of any writing is giving credit, this maintains integrity; but having said that let me also say if there is any part of this manuscript, at any time, that you can use, please feel free to do and know that I will honored and humbled.]
Eutychus2,
ReplyDeleteHuman beings always frame our thoughts with symbols. In fact, all of language is symbolic, it is how we express our thoughts to each other. Language is the only means we have of communicating with each other unless we are looking at one other or touching each other.
As I read your manuscript, I thought of how both death and birth can be viewed symbolically as the two punctuation marks of life. I wonder if there are any punctuation marks that could be used to appropriately symbolize the grieving process of the dying, those who support the dying, the bereaved and God himself.
Here are a few thoughts…
The period could represent a life “well-lived and full of years.” These seem to be rare individuals like Paul the Apostle who have “finished the course and kept the faith.”
The ellipsis could represent “there is more to come…” I love the illustration of the lady who wanted to be buried with a fork in her hand because after every dinner her mother had always told her, “Keep your fork for dessert dear, the best is yet to come.”
The exclamation point could represent a life lived passionately. The non-punctuated sentence could represent a life interrupted early and suddenly by tragedy or accident. The grieving process itself could become a series of sentences where the punctuation marks change for the dying, the perception of the grievers as they all come to understand how God views the process in the eyes of the Lord. The punctuation marks at the beginning of life affect the ones at the end of life as well.
All this is simply a framework “hook” that can be used to hang your text. If you don’t use this idea, you might consider using something of a similar illustrative nature that will frame your overall work in the minds of your readers.
Blessings on ya, brother!
bro.Don
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for your thoughts; I've never done something like this before, so I need a looooooot of guidance and correction. Not being very good at English I would never have thought of your illustration and how appropriate it is.
I'll probably do some random thinking/writing first before I put it into 'real' form.
LOL! When I lived in Lancaster MA, my next door neighbor was a journalist for the Worcester Telegram. He wrote a weekly column that centered on human interest and was quite funny.
ReplyDeleteHe had a poster in his basement that struck me as something that all writers should live by. It was from an editor and it said in large letters, "I love it! Rewrite it!!" :-)