A dear friend tagged me in her blog yesterday with the challenge to post some little known facts about myself. I do love these lists--partly because they give me such interesting things to read about other people (who would have thought that sweet Heidi once kicked over a trash can? and does anyone have that moment captured on videotape?) and partly because there are certain things that I always wanted to say and never quite found an opportunity because they are so random that they don't fit anywhere in the usual blog scheme of things.
So here we go.
Little known facts about Caroline:
(1) I think Korean rice is one of greatest comforts in life, and I am ever grateful to the Asian market for carrying it. And anyone who thinks that pathetic atrophied excuse for rice in the American grocery stores is an acceptable substitute .... phooey, I say, phooey. You can't smell American rice and have all those memories about freezing snowy mornings riding the train to school in Uijongbu, warming your hands on a little packet of rice and taking little nibbles of it as the train pulled out of the Soyosan station ... okay, maybe that's just me.
(2) When I was a teenager in Korea (attending a school for American children), I once won $1000 for an essay in which I declared ignorance and apathy highly destructive to the American government process. The essay won locally and then regionally, and went national, where it ranked in 4th place, slightly out of prize contention for a college scholarship or something (I don't really remember anymore). Ironically, as an adult, I have never voted, mostly because I grew up in Korea and in a very secluded environment, and so I am extremely ignorant about American politics. I realized early in life that any vote that I cast would be selected by the fun but ill-informed process of Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Moe, and that didn't seem particularly helpful to the American government process, whatever it is.
The truth is that writing for the contest was a required assignment in my high school English class--a fact that I remembered on my way to school that fateful morning as I nibbled my tin-foil wrapped packet of Korean rice. And so, I pulled out a pen and a sheet of notebook paper and, in the final ten minutes of the ride, reached the pinnacle of my writing career. It has been downhill ever since.
(3) I can recite numerous chapters of the Bible from memory, but I am so bad at references that I am sometimes not sure which book they are in. Um ... Chronicles? Corinthians? Colossians? I'm pretty sure it starts with a 'C' ... I can also recite most of the Westminster Larger Catechism, but can't ever remember the number of the questions. Uh ... it could be 19 ... or 91 ... or possibly 119 ... or 191 ... If I ever do study up on politics and go to vote, I'm sure that, when faced with a ballot, I shall remember all the speeches and debates in great detail, but none of the candidates' names.
(4) I have a tattoo on my upper back that reads in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs: "I live in truth. Let not my heart be taken from me."
Upon reflection, I'm not sure that I can categorize this as a 'little known fact' because a few weeks ago, my shirt slipped down slightly at church, revealing this tattoo for the great amusement of all the people sitting behind me. It turns out that Egyptian hieroglyph tattoos are not very common in Reformed churches. (Perhaps they are not common anywhere at all--I didn't really take a poll about it.) I have ever since been pondering whether it was the tattoo in general or whether it was the hieroglyphs ...
(5) Speaking of church ... I'm the world's worst book borrower. Probably at least half the theological books on my shelf are marked 'From the Library of Rev. Tom Trouwborst', which only has the effect of making me say to myself, 'I really should return this at some point', as I flip through it for the hundredth time. And I fully intend to return it, of course, but not quite yet, not while I'm still reading it... I suspect that poor Pastor Tom is reaching the point of hesitating to let me see anything that he is reading. When it comes to theology books, I'm like the annoying little sister lurking vulture-like over her brother's ice cream cone and saying, "So are you gonna finish that or what?"
(6) I love to hear my husband play the guitar, even though I don't tell him that enough. He plays brilliantly. When we were first dating, he wrote a couple of love songs for me. Nowadays, of course, we are an old married couple and we don't often indulge in such romantic nonsense as poems and love songs. But every once in a while, he pulls out the guitar and strums a few chords ... and it brings back memories of being young.
I think the best things in life are always the those that connect us somehow to memories of good friends and fun. Things that are sweet even in their own way are sweetened so much more when we can say, "Oh, don't you remember ..."
Well, I don't know whether I have bored everyone to tears, but Heidi, here are my six little-known facts. I have to think now about who I can tag. Hmmmm ...
Phebe? Tag. You're it.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Dreadful Word
I had a conversation with my daughter Kaylee yesterday evening that went like this:
Kaylee: Mom, do you ever use the f-word?
Me: The f-word? Do you mean 'furbies'?
Kaylee (laughing): No, not THAT f-word. You know the one I mean. (lowering her voice to a whisper) The really bad f-word.
Me (being evasive, as the memory of every time the f-word has ever slipped out of my mouth flooded my mind): Well, I've never used it in front of my kids.
Kaylee: Oh. Okay.
Me (deciding that this would be a brilliant moment to discuss the concept of being in the world but not of the world): So where did you learn the f-word? At school?
Kaylee: No, I learned it at church.
So there you have it, friends. My daughter goes to public school, but she learned the f-word at church. My first impulse was to homeschool my daughter for Sunday school, lest she someday emerge from the church basement on the Lord's Day with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My second and milder impulse was to ask how it was that she came to be discussing the f-word with her friends in church.
The story, as it emerged, was as follows: It all began with the scrawling of the f-word in an obscure location in the girls' restrooms by some unknown miscreant. The adult women, who generally lack the curiosity level requisite to examine the underside of a toilet paper holder, missed it entirely. The little girls, of course, found it almost immediately.
Kendra at once snapped into High Alert and notified Misty who, in her shock and outrage, went to find Hannah, Violet, and Megan. Megan felt that Kaylee and Lisa should be warned. And so, within minutes, there was a knot of girls crowding the doorway of the bathroom stall and leaning over backward to gaze in awe and horror at the Dreadful Word.
"It's a really, REALLY bad word," Kaylee informed me solemnly. "It was inappropriate and a sin. We were VERY angry with whoever did it."
When I finally stopped laughing, I assured her that, yes, it was indeed a word inappropriate to be found upon the property of a church, and that I would talk to her Daddy (who volunteers in his spare time as the church painter) about painting over it so that it would no longer distress her or her friends.
I reflect today that, as much as we cover our children's eyes and ears to protect them from the knowledge of certain things in life, it is inevitable that someday it will find them. For now, it is only petty vandalism with a 'bad word'. But there are far worse things to be discovered in the world, things that we want to warn our children about but dread to even tell them. Children naturally tend to see the world as an Eden, unspoiled and safe and well-provided. How we wish they never had to know that even amid the beauty and splendor of God's creation, there is evil that haunts every corner. I do not even wish my daughter to see the obscenity scrawled on the bathroom stall of a church. But she is growing up, and so I cannot prevent her from seeing that, and eventually, much more.
But I hope and pray that all such knowledge will find her in such a sweet and innocent way. If, in my daughter's life, evil is always confronted by a knot of outraged girls declaring it wrong and sinful and 'inappropriate' ... then I will be a very lucky mother. Very lucky indeed.
Kaylee: Mom, do you ever use the f-word?
Me: The f-word? Do you mean 'furbies'?
Kaylee (laughing): No, not THAT f-word. You know the one I mean. (lowering her voice to a whisper) The really bad f-word.
Me (being evasive, as the memory of every time the f-word has ever slipped out of my mouth flooded my mind): Well, I've never used it in front of my kids.
Kaylee: Oh. Okay.
Me (deciding that this would be a brilliant moment to discuss the concept of being in the world but not of the world): So where did you learn the f-word? At school?
Kaylee: No, I learned it at church.
So there you have it, friends. My daughter goes to public school, but she learned the f-word at church. My first impulse was to homeschool my daughter for Sunday school, lest she someday emerge from the church basement on the Lord's Day with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My second and milder impulse was to ask how it was that she came to be discussing the f-word with her friends in church.
The story, as it emerged, was as follows: It all began with the scrawling of the f-word in an obscure location in the girls' restrooms by some unknown miscreant. The adult women, who generally lack the curiosity level requisite to examine the underside of a toilet paper holder, missed it entirely. The little girls, of course, found it almost immediately.
Kendra at once snapped into High Alert and notified Misty who, in her shock and outrage, went to find Hannah, Violet, and Megan. Megan felt that Kaylee and Lisa should be warned. And so, within minutes, there was a knot of girls crowding the doorway of the bathroom stall and leaning over backward to gaze in awe and horror at the Dreadful Word.
"It's a really, REALLY bad word," Kaylee informed me solemnly. "It was inappropriate and a sin. We were VERY angry with whoever did it."
When I finally stopped laughing, I assured her that, yes, it was indeed a word inappropriate to be found upon the property of a church, and that I would talk to her Daddy (who volunteers in his spare time as the church painter) about painting over it so that it would no longer distress her or her friends.
I reflect today that, as much as we cover our children's eyes and ears to protect them from the knowledge of certain things in life, it is inevitable that someday it will find them. For now, it is only petty vandalism with a 'bad word'. But there are far worse things to be discovered in the world, things that we want to warn our children about but dread to even tell them. Children naturally tend to see the world as an Eden, unspoiled and safe and well-provided. How we wish they never had to know that even amid the beauty and splendor of God's creation, there is evil that haunts every corner. I do not even wish my daughter to see the obscenity scrawled on the bathroom stall of a church. But she is growing up, and so I cannot prevent her from seeing that, and eventually, much more.
But I hope and pray that all such knowledge will find her in such a sweet and innocent way. If, in my daughter's life, evil is always confronted by a knot of outraged girls declaring it wrong and sinful and 'inappropriate' ... then I will be a very lucky mother. Very lucky indeed.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
To Infinity ... and Beyond!
Like many autistic children, my son Kevin loves water. He loves pools, fountains, lakes, puddles, rivers, and even standing in the rain. He seems to find a comfort in feeling it touch his skin. His characteristic hand-flapping slows. He smiles his beautiful smile, and he seems calm and peaceful.
Unfortunately, he has never mastered the art of swimming, and so we had several close calls. When Kevin was four years old, my husband walked with him to the community pool one afternoon. My husband turned away for a moment to find a place to put their towels, and he turned back around to see Kevin's brown hair bobbing below the surface of the water. He told me later that time seemed to freeze as he raced toward the pool and leaped in to pull his child out. Kevin laughed as his head came back above water, entirely oblivious to the danger. But the image of Kevin's hair under the water has haunted my husband ever since and even reappeared in his nightmares.
I was reminded of that incident today after reading this story. The autistic boy in the article could swim very well, but, like my son, he loved water and lacked awareness of the dangers.
The story is well told, and you can almost hear the anguished cry of his father's heart as his son slipped away in the sea and the darkness of the night, and then the overwhelming relief of finding him alive after all hope had been lost.
I have been asked sometimes (although fortunately not often) whether I wish I had known that my son was disabled before he was born so that I could have aborted him. I have been asked why I do not 'put him away somewhere'. Few people are quite so brazen in that line of questioning, but something not too far removed from that seems to lurk behind the more common things that a few people will say. "I could never care for an autistic child," one woman declared recently when I introduced my son to her. "You must be a very special person to do that." My face flamed red as I staggered between impulses to thank her for the compliment and to slap her for insulting my son. My son had not even done anything to warrant this judgment, as far as I could tell. He merely rocked back and forth slightly and struggled to maintain eye contact as he extended his hand and greeted her in his sweet lispy voice. "Hi. My name is Kevin. What's your name?"
But I think there is no explaining to those people who cannot see the soul of the child underneath the odd mannerisms and slow speech. And I expect that they could never understand the father that called Disney catch-phrases to his son hour after hour in the darkness of the ocean.
But, fortunately, there are many people who do understand. And, as one of those very lucky people, I say, May Walter Marino be blessed with many more years of caring for his autistic child--to infinity, and beyond!
Unfortunately, he has never mastered the art of swimming, and so we had several close calls. When Kevin was four years old, my husband walked with him to the community pool one afternoon. My husband turned away for a moment to find a place to put their towels, and he turned back around to see Kevin's brown hair bobbing below the surface of the water. He told me later that time seemed to freeze as he raced toward the pool and leaped in to pull his child out. Kevin laughed as his head came back above water, entirely oblivious to the danger. But the image of Kevin's hair under the water has haunted my husband ever since and even reappeared in his nightmares.
I was reminded of that incident today after reading this story. The autistic boy in the article could swim very well, but, like my son, he loved water and lacked awareness of the dangers.
The story is well told, and you can almost hear the anguished cry of his father's heart as his son slipped away in the sea and the darkness of the night, and then the overwhelming relief of finding him alive after all hope had been lost.
I have been asked sometimes (although fortunately not often) whether I wish I had known that my son was disabled before he was born so that I could have aborted him. I have been asked why I do not 'put him away somewhere'. Few people are quite so brazen in that line of questioning, but something not too far removed from that seems to lurk behind the more common things that a few people will say. "I could never care for an autistic child," one woman declared recently when I introduced my son to her. "You must be a very special person to do that." My face flamed red as I staggered between impulses to thank her for the compliment and to slap her for insulting my son. My son had not even done anything to warrant this judgment, as far as I could tell. He merely rocked back and forth slightly and struggled to maintain eye contact as he extended his hand and greeted her in his sweet lispy voice. "Hi. My name is Kevin. What's your name?"
But I think there is no explaining to those people who cannot see the soul of the child underneath the odd mannerisms and slow speech. And I expect that they could never understand the father that called Disney catch-phrases to his son hour after hour in the darkness of the ocean.
But, fortunately, there are many people who do understand. And, as one of those very lucky people, I say, May Walter Marino be blessed with many more years of caring for his autistic child--to infinity, and beyond!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
I'm a Presbyterian (so now I'm not ashamed)
After my partial post of the lyrics to 'I'm a Presbyterian' on a certain forum, I have received several requests to post it in its entirety, whereupon my head grew three-and-a-half hat sizes, and I decided that it would be impolite refuse people who flatter me so. (Thanks, ya'll!)
However, it may be helpful to some who read my blog to give a little bit of context for it. My little ditty is based on a real song called 'I'm a Pentecostal' which recently became wildly popular in my former denomination, the United Pentecostal Church International (UPCI). For a denomination so vigilant against the evils of television (and jeans and women cutting their hair and so on), the UPCI is surprisingly quick to video record themselves, and so, thankfully we were all able to enjoy this hyperactive song in a manner that would not otherwise have been available to us. Naturally, my ex-Pentecostal friends and I were so affected by the lyrics that one would have thought we had all fallen under the spell of the Toronto Blessing, and we determined instantly that we had to write our own equally inspirational song. I put my hand to the task and produced an ode to Presbyterian churches and sane pastors.
I have been asked also whether anyone has yet recorded this song on Youtube, and the answer is no, as far as I am aware. Anyone is welcome to do so, if they wish, and I only ask that they send me a link to it because my friends and I would enjoy that nearly as much as the original, I'm sure.
So without further ado ...
I've been known to get wild
I grew my hair way down,
Spoke in tongues almost every day,
While rolling on the ground.
I shouted and ran the aisles
And danced all around,
But being such an idiot
Is not as fun as it might sound.
I got tired of the lies and tired of the games,
Now I'm an ex-Pentecostal and that is why I say ...
I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed!
You might think my church is boring,
But at least they're not insane!
And now I can wear jeans
And nobody says I'm trying to be a man,
And it's been sixteen years since I got
My hair caught in a fan.
Well, my church don't have 'revivals',
And they don't hug in greeting,
But one thing about Presbyterians--
They can really hold a meeting.
We've got spreadsheets for our budget,
We've got Calvin on the shelf,
And we'll never judge your salvation
By your hair length or your health.
We worship nice and quiet,
We never shout or dance,
And if you fall down on the floor,
We call for an ambulance.
There's a hunger in the UPCI for stability and integrity today,
They're crying out for a better life, and that is why I say ...
I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed!
My pastor doesn't scream or rant,
Because he's not insane.
He doesn't steal our money,
And he isn't rude or mean,
And the only woman he's sleeping with
Is his wife Colleen.
So if you're tired of the madness,
Pentecost done you wrong,
You're feeling dry and empty
And no longer have a song,
Well, the story is not over,
Things for you can change.
Leaving the UPCI doesn't mean
That you'll end up in hell's flames.
There's many who have come,
And many on the way,
They're leaving crazy churches
For the good ol' Reformed faith.
There's a hunger in the UPCI that gets bigger every day
They're crying out for a better life and that is why I say ...
I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed,
I am a still a Christian,
But I am not insane.
I grew my hair way down,
Spoke in tongues almost every day,
While rolling on the ground.
I shouted and ran the aisles
And danced all around,
But being such an idiot
Is not as fun as it might sound.
I got tired of the lies and tired of the games,
Now I'm an ex-Pentecostal and that is why I say ...
I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed!
You might think my church is boring,
But at least they're not insane!
And now I can wear jeans
And nobody says I'm trying to be a man,
And it's been sixteen years since I got
My hair caught in a fan.
Well, my church don't have 'revivals',
And they don't hug in greeting,
But one thing about Presbyterians--
They can really hold a meeting.
We've got spreadsheets for our budget,
We've got Calvin on the shelf,
And we'll never judge your salvation
By your hair length or your health.
We worship nice and quiet,
We never shout or dance,
And if you fall down on the floor,
We call for an ambulance.
There's a hunger in the UPCI for stability and integrity today,
They're crying out for a better life, and that is why I say ...
I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed!
My pastor doesn't scream or rant,
Because he's not insane.
He doesn't steal our money,
And he isn't rude or mean,
And the only woman he's sleeping with
Is his wife Colleen.
So if you're tired of the madness,
Pentecost done you wrong,
You're feeling dry and empty
And no longer have a song,
Well, the story is not over,
Things for you can change.
Leaving the UPCI doesn't mean
That you'll end up in hell's flames.
There's many who have come,
And many on the way,
They're leaving crazy churches
For the good ol' Reformed faith.
There's a hunger in the UPCI that gets bigger every day
They're crying out for a better life and that is why I say ...
I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed,
I am a still a Christian,
But I am not insane.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Saved Unto Good Works
"Mommy, I help you!"
These have become my three-year-old daughter's favorite words. Whatever I am doing, she is convinced that she can do it quite as well as anyone else (or better). And she is eager to join in.
"Mommy, I help you!" as she proudly throws clean clothes into the dirty clothes hamper.
"Mommy, I help you!" as she pours half a gallon of orange juice on the floor trying to fill her own glass.
More often than not, my little Sydney's 'help' makes my job more challenging, but there is such sweetness in seeing her eagerly rushing through the room with the mop, knocking over furniture and nearly clobbering the cat in her haste to help clean up the milk that she spilled when she tried to help Mommy fix breakfast.
In her tiny hands, the adult-size dishes and laundry baskets and cleaning utensils are enormous and unwieldy, but she does her best. And when she is finished, she glows with pride because she helped Mommy. And I smile and tell her from the bottom of my heart how proud I am of her and how pleased I am with her work, and that I am glad to have her 'helping' me. In fact, when I have a big cleaning project ahead of me, I even call to her, "Sydney, will you help me?" and she appears in the doorway with the enthusiasm of a toddler on a mission. "I help you, Mom!" she says.
I wondered today if perhaps this is something like how God sees our work. Reformed Christians speak often of the depravity of man. We are reminded constantly that our works will never save us. And all of this is true. And yet the Bible tells us that God is pleased with those who do good (Hebrews 13:16), and Paul tells us in Ephesians that God even prepares good works in advance for us (Ephesians 2:10).
There is no question that Almighty God does not need the assistance of His little creatures to accomplish His purposes. And yet He calls us to be His 'workers' (I Corinthians 3:9). In our weakness and our sin, we make mistakes even in our efforts to do good. But, like a patient Father, He smiles upon His children and welcomes us to 'help' Him in His work. How often we spill the milk and dump the fresh laundry into the wrong bin ... but in the end, His hands are bigger than ours and His eyes see the things that we can never comprehend. The gigantic tools of righteousness that are so clumsy to us always move easily for Him, and He works all things for good.
When we claim that we minister to others in the name of Christ, perhaps we sound like toddlers crowing that we are helping our Daddy as we wave a hammer wildly about, striking our own thumbs as often as we hit the nail. But the glorious thing is that, in spite of all our limitations, God sees the heart that wants to serve and He graciously tells us that He is pleased with us (Hebrews 13:16).
These have become my three-year-old daughter's favorite words. Whatever I am doing, she is convinced that she can do it quite as well as anyone else (or better). And she is eager to join in.
"Mommy, I help you!" as she proudly throws clean clothes into the dirty clothes hamper.
"Mommy, I help you!" as she pours half a gallon of orange juice on the floor trying to fill her own glass.
More often than not, my little Sydney's 'help' makes my job more challenging, but there is such sweetness in seeing her eagerly rushing through the room with the mop, knocking over furniture and nearly clobbering the cat in her haste to help clean up the milk that she spilled when she tried to help Mommy fix breakfast.
In her tiny hands, the adult-size dishes and laundry baskets and cleaning utensils are enormous and unwieldy, but she does her best. And when she is finished, she glows with pride because she helped Mommy. And I smile and tell her from the bottom of my heart how proud I am of her and how pleased I am with her work, and that I am glad to have her 'helping' me. In fact, when I have a big cleaning project ahead of me, I even call to her, "Sydney, will you help me?" and she appears in the doorway with the enthusiasm of a toddler on a mission. "I help you, Mom!" she says.
I wondered today if perhaps this is something like how God sees our work. Reformed Christians speak often of the depravity of man. We are reminded constantly that our works will never save us. And all of this is true. And yet the Bible tells us that God is pleased with those who do good (Hebrews 13:16), and Paul tells us in Ephesians that God even prepares good works in advance for us (Ephesians 2:10).
There is no question that Almighty God does not need the assistance of His little creatures to accomplish His purposes. And yet He calls us to be His 'workers' (I Corinthians 3:9). In our weakness and our sin, we make mistakes even in our efforts to do good. But, like a patient Father, He smiles upon His children and welcomes us to 'help' Him in His work. How often we spill the milk and dump the fresh laundry into the wrong bin ... but in the end, His hands are bigger than ours and His eyes see the things that we can never comprehend. The gigantic tools of righteousness that are so clumsy to us always move easily for Him, and He works all things for good.
When we claim that we minister to others in the name of Christ, perhaps we sound like toddlers crowing that we are helping our Daddy as we wave a hammer wildly about, striking our own thumbs as often as we hit the nail. But the glorious thing is that, in spite of all our limitations, God sees the heart that wants to serve and He graciously tells us that He is pleased with us (Hebrews 13:16).
Friday, September 11, 2009
Double Cousins, Almost Sisters
My cousin Jessica died very suddenly yesterday morning at the age of 36. Since I heard the news, I have been unable to think of her without crying. I miss her, and yet I know that others will miss her infinitely more. She left behind a husband and three young children. I ache for them and the terrible loss that they will suffer for the rest of their lives.
There are not even words for this kind of tragedy. What does one say to a child who has lost her mother? I cannot think of anything that could ease their grief.
But I hope that one day I will be able to tell them how much I loved their mother--that the times we played together as children were some of the happiest memories of my life.
Jessica was two years older than me, and she was everything I wanted to be. I borrowed her clothes and teased her about her acne, and she took it all in her patient, good-natured way. She had a sweet spirit, but a wicked sense of humor, and I learned from her that love and laughter can go hand-in-hand, and that life is not always to be taken so very seriously.
In my mind, I can still see her at age 12, peering down from the top bunk of the bed, her glasses (so thick that she referred to them as her 'goggles') sliding down over her nose, to tell me some little story. Or when we were younger still, and she would put on adult-size clothes and stuff them with pillows to make it look as though she were enormously fat. Then she would proceed to give a politician-like speech complete with grand gestures, while the pillows wobbled wildly and I collapsed to the floor in shrieks of laughter.
Life in our world was always terribly complex, and yet there were moments that still shine to this day.
I wrote my last post on funerals only a few days before the most cutting loss I have experienced yet in my life. I can only say that, Jessica, I wonder whether you knew how much I always wanted to be like you.
Double first cousins, we used to say, almost sisters.
There are not even words for this kind of tragedy. What does one say to a child who has lost her mother? I cannot think of anything that could ease their grief.
But I hope that one day I will be able to tell them how much I loved their mother--that the times we played together as children were some of the happiest memories of my life.
Jessica was two years older than me, and she was everything I wanted to be. I borrowed her clothes and teased her about her acne, and she took it all in her patient, good-natured way. She had a sweet spirit, but a wicked sense of humor, and I learned from her that love and laughter can go hand-in-hand, and that life is not always to be taken so very seriously.
In my mind, I can still see her at age 12, peering down from the top bunk of the bed, her glasses (so thick that she referred to them as her 'goggles') sliding down over her nose, to tell me some little story. Or when we were younger still, and she would put on adult-size clothes and stuff them with pillows to make it look as though she were enormously fat. Then she would proceed to give a politician-like speech complete with grand gestures, while the pillows wobbled wildly and I collapsed to the floor in shrieks of laughter.
Life in our world was always terribly complex, and yet there were moments that still shine to this day.
I wrote my last post on funerals only a few days before the most cutting loss I have experienced yet in my life. I can only say that, Jessica, I wonder whether you knew how much I always wanted to be like you.
Double first cousins, we used to say, almost sisters.
Friday, September 4, 2009
A Measure of a Life
The subject for today is ... funerals. No, I have not gone to one recently, nor am I planning to attend one soon (as far as I know). And, although I suppose I shall definitely be the subject of one some day, I hope that day is not terribly soon.
But I sometimes do find myself pondering what my funeral might be like. It seems disappointing that the final goodbye in which people say what they think of you has to be held without you. I wonder who would attend, who would speak, what they would say.
My pastor and I had a chat about my funeral early on in my attendance at the church. I don't know what he thought of being asked by a young woman with no apparent (at the time) health problems whether he would take charge of her funeral. If he thought it was odd, he was too nice to say so. "Sure," he said, squinting at me as though he was pondering whether I always introduced myself to pastors this way. "I'll do your funeral. If you die, I mean."
"Don't let anybody else do it," I said. "Promise me that you won't hand it off to someone else."
"Ok," he said, squinting a bit more. "I won't try to dodge it."
The truth is that I can't bear the thought of having a funeral that even smells of Pentecostalism. I don't want anyone talking about how fantastic and 'on fire for God' I used to be before I 'backslid'. I don't want anyone speaking in tongues or claiming that they saw me in a vision with a message from beyond the grave. And most of all, I don't want anyone trying to raise me from the dead.
So I went on to explain to my pastor that I don't care what he does at my funeral exactly. "It can be really short," I said helpfully. "And you could lead off with 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead', for all I care. Just don't try to raise me from the dead or speak in tongues or call me a backslider."
"I'll do my best," he said. By now, the corners of his mouth were twitching. "And we have some good songs in the Trinity Hymnal that aren't about dead witches at all."
"Whatever," I said. "I'll be dead and won't be able to sing along, so that's really your call."
But as I think it over more now, I realize that I do care. I don't care at all about the format. In fact, I still wouldn't mind them singing 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead', as long as it was all in good fun. But a funeral is a unique measure of someone's life, and I wonder how well I would measure up.
There is an unwritten rule that people are allowed to say only nice things about the deceased, and yet still .... well there are funerals and then there are funerals, if you know what I mean.
A friend of mine who is a pastor once told me about a funeral that he did for an elderly woman. He didn't know her well, so he went outside where a few of her relatives were smoking cigarettes and talking together, and he asked them what he could say about the dearly departed.
"I dunno," her nephew said. "I didn't like her at all. Frank, do you have anything?"
"Nope," said Frank.
So my friend had little to say at the woman's funeral beyond, "Thank you all for coming. Now let's put her in the ground."
On the other hand, I listened to a recording of a funeral for an elderly man who had attended my church, and I was surprised and touched by the genuine grief poured out at his death. I hadn't known him very well, but it turns out that many people did know him. Some told of his talent at woodworking, some talked of his generous nature and his ministry service as a deacon. Some laughed in fond remembrance of his quirky little habits, like telling the same stories again and again and always as if they had never been told before. I knew that any of those people would gladly have had him back to tell them one of those threadbare stories one more time.
So I wonder what kind of funeral I would have. I wonder what sort of things would be remembered, if I died today.
"She would always ..."
"She would never ..."
"I'll never forget how she ..."
I can almost hear the beginnings of the sentences, but not the endings. And I suppose that is the blessing of still being alive--that there is still time to fill in the blanks, and not with great achievements and huge successes... but by being the sort of person that people can love and that later they will remember in many small ways.
But I sometimes do find myself pondering what my funeral might be like. It seems disappointing that the final goodbye in which people say what they think of you has to be held without you. I wonder who would attend, who would speak, what they would say.
My pastor and I had a chat about my funeral early on in my attendance at the church. I don't know what he thought of being asked by a young woman with no apparent (at the time) health problems whether he would take charge of her funeral. If he thought it was odd, he was too nice to say so. "Sure," he said, squinting at me as though he was pondering whether I always introduced myself to pastors this way. "I'll do your funeral. If you die, I mean."
"Don't let anybody else do it," I said. "Promise me that you won't hand it off to someone else."
"Ok," he said, squinting a bit more. "I won't try to dodge it."
The truth is that I can't bear the thought of having a funeral that even smells of Pentecostalism. I don't want anyone talking about how fantastic and 'on fire for God' I used to be before I 'backslid'. I don't want anyone speaking in tongues or claiming that they saw me in a vision with a message from beyond the grave. And most of all, I don't want anyone trying to raise me from the dead.
So I went on to explain to my pastor that I don't care what he does at my funeral exactly. "It can be really short," I said helpfully. "And you could lead off with 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead', for all I care. Just don't try to raise me from the dead or speak in tongues or call me a backslider."
"I'll do my best," he said. By now, the corners of his mouth were twitching. "And we have some good songs in the Trinity Hymnal that aren't about dead witches at all."
"Whatever," I said. "I'll be dead and won't be able to sing along, so that's really your call."
But as I think it over more now, I realize that I do care. I don't care at all about the format. In fact, I still wouldn't mind them singing 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead', as long as it was all in good fun. But a funeral is a unique measure of someone's life, and I wonder how well I would measure up.
There is an unwritten rule that people are allowed to say only nice things about the deceased, and yet still .... well there are funerals and then there are funerals, if you know what I mean.
A friend of mine who is a pastor once told me about a funeral that he did for an elderly woman. He didn't know her well, so he went outside where a few of her relatives were smoking cigarettes and talking together, and he asked them what he could say about the dearly departed.
"I dunno," her nephew said. "I didn't like her at all. Frank, do you have anything?"
"Nope," said Frank.
So my friend had little to say at the woman's funeral beyond, "Thank you all for coming. Now let's put her in the ground."
On the other hand, I listened to a recording of a funeral for an elderly man who had attended my church, and I was surprised and touched by the genuine grief poured out at his death. I hadn't known him very well, but it turns out that many people did know him. Some told of his talent at woodworking, some talked of his generous nature and his ministry service as a deacon. Some laughed in fond remembrance of his quirky little habits, like telling the same stories again and again and always as if they had never been told before. I knew that any of those people would gladly have had him back to tell them one of those threadbare stories one more time.
So I wonder what kind of funeral I would have. I wonder what sort of things would be remembered, if I died today.
"She would always ..."
"She would never ..."
"I'll never forget how she ..."
I can almost hear the beginnings of the sentences, but not the endings. And I suppose that is the blessing of still being alive--that there is still time to fill in the blanks, and not with great achievements and huge successes... but by being the sort of person that people can love and that later they will remember in many small ways.
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