I'll get back to my Grandparents' stories very soon... My call to write their stories actually was a significant reason I decided to attend a conference in Portland - the one I mentioned in my very first blog post - and one I'm about to walk to in a few minutes. Before I leave, however, I'd like to post something I wrote this morning...
I’m in Portland right now, snuggled in a terry robe in my hotel room, praising God for this journey. While I’m super excited to be in Portland, the journey I’m praising Him for is so much bigger than this trip. It’s the journey of my life, which is mapped out in a tapestry that I will not be able to view the completed result of until eternity. Yet I get glimpses of it now... Snippets of a small section of the tapestry here and there… Glimpsed views of intertwining, colorful and pleasing combinations of threads that are being lovingly stitched together to create a piece that is so amazing, and so thrilling to see, that it will cause every viewer to fall on their face and worship God. It’s an expansive piece of artwork which includes the lives of all of God’s current and future children – those who accept His salvation – and live with Him forever.
Yesterday on the way to Portland I got one of those snippet views of my thread... My day began at 5 a.m. CST and ended at 10:30 p.m. PST and is a day I’ll never forget – for many reasons, and many thoughts and conversations – but one in particular stands out and wants to be shared. It was my first flight from Minneapolis to Denver. I found my window seat in a smaller, United plane and got out a book, wondering who would be joining me in the aisle seat, and if it would be a silent, reading flight, or one with conversation. A very pleasant looking man – I'm guessing in his late thirties, but I’m a terrible judge of age, claimed the seat and sat down. We exchanged hellos and then he commented on the book in my lap, and our two-hour, non-stop flight and conversation began.
This man is a pastor, come to find out, and he’s on his way home to Tucson, after officiating a wedding in Minnesota. I told him I was on my way to a Donald Miller conference in Portland and he has read Don Miller, so camaraderie began and we launched into a conversation that was largely about authentic Christianity and what that means and looks like in today' world. We discussed our passion to engage believers in loving, and interacting more with our world, and ways to do that. He told me of some cool programs at his church that are reaching out to partner with the secular community in various non-faith specific efforts, and of a program within the church that makes it easy for people without church backgrounds or beliefs to see what following Christ is all about, in an easy, non-judgmental and open way.
By the time we landed in Denver, it was clear to me, and I’m fairly sure to him, that our seat assignments had been no accident. God’s Spirit had been with us and I was encouraged and full of joy from chatting with this brother in Christ. Yet there was to be an added reason for joy…
As our plane arrived at the gate and people began stirring and gathering their carry-ons, the lady in the seat directly in front of me turned around, and her husband, slightly, as well. They were probably in their late sixties/early seventies (again, I'm a poor judge of age) and she said, “I’m sorry, but I have to tell you that I’ve been listening to your entire conversation. When you started talking, I thought to myself, ‘now this is something I’m interested in,’ so I tuned in and have listened to it all. I want to tell you that it really blessed me (her eyes were a little moist at this point), and I want to say thank you.”
This was awesome… To realize that you can talk for two hours to a virtual stranger, and bless another, unknowingly, is surely a God thing. We smiled at her and thanked her for telling us and then the Pastor looked at me and asked, “What was that one key thing you said to me again?” I thought a second, and said, “Oh boy, I don’t know if I remember - why don’t we ask her?” and smiled at my joke, as she was now part of our conversation. She said, “Oh yes, you told him: ‘Don’t settle!’” And we all laughed – as she was right. Then he and I exchanged business cards, and we all said our goodbyes.
It strikes me now, in a big way, that later today I will attend the conference – the reason I took this trip. But as I do, I’m very aware that the reason I think I may be doing something (i.e. attending a conference in Portland) may or may not be the primary reason. I think I’m out here to become a bit more inspired in my quest to live a better story with my remaining days here on earth. Yet even as I’m seeking to live a better story, God is working through me to help me – live a better story.
As I make my way out of this comfy hotel bed and into this new day in Portland, I’m excited to see the city and attend this conference. But especially, to see what God has in store next... I can’t wait to meet Don, the author and conference host/speaker, and people who will encourage me, and who I hope to encourage, as well. Yet this event is simply one more tool, one more needle, if you will, which is being used to stitch the amazing tapestry God is creating. The highlight of my trip may have happened before I even landed in Denver...
May God bless and encourage you my dear friends and family who are reading this,and have encouraged me in this journey so much more than you could know! Your blog, and live, comments mean a lot! And if there’s someone I don’t know who is listening in...I appreciate you, and ask that God will bless you, too. Welcome to the story – which you are all, also, very much a part of.
Always,
Annie
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
How to die (part 4 of 4)
The last lesson Dad taught me concludes with this post... It was written in 2003, not long after Dad went home.
When I looked at the body of my Dad lying in the nursing home bed and realized, so quickly and certainly, that he was no longer in that body, I felt lonely, and the mourning began. But strangely, with the tears and sorrow, and the dull ache that was spreading through my soul as I began missing the dad of my life, another emotion was about to emerge – one I hadn’t fully expected.
After Mom, my sisters, and I hugged and cried for awhile, a nurse knocked on the door and peeked in. We told her that he had gone and she cried and hugged us. She said she could tell he was a wonderful man and she was so sorry for our loss, but was glad he didn’t have to suffer any more. While the funeral home was being called to come and take Dad’s body, we gathered his personal items together, and I seized this opportunity to make a visit to the ladies room.
When I closed the door and had a moment alone, it suddenly hit me. Dad was home! He was with His Savior. He had crossed over into eternity right before our eyes. He had run the race, fought the good fight, and won. “You did it Dad!” I cried. I was suddenly smiling, and tears of joy were streaming down my face, mingling with the tears of sorrow from moments earlier. “You did it! You’re home!” I said over and over as the reality of his triumph sunk in. It was indescribable joy.
July 13, 2003 was my Dad’s – Harold Revne’s – last day on this earth. It was exactly two weeks from the day he, Mom and I prayed in their living room that he would go. Only two weeks…the miracle had happened.
July 13, 2003 was also Dad’s first day face to face with his Savior. Suddenly eternity and heaven seemed amazingly close, and extremely welcoming.
My Dad taught me a lot throughout his life, but his last lesson was the greatest one of all. He taught me how to die. What lesson is more important? Since the Garden of Eden, we are all sentenced to die. On the very day we were born our bodies began their countdown to death. Death is the most certain event of our life, yet how many of us truly prepare for it?
Dad taught me that there’s only one way to prepare for eternity. You must accept the sacrifice of Jesus’ death on the cross. Getting that right is the most important thing in life. If you don’t get it right, you may very well “gain the whole world, but lose your soul.” Preparing correctly for eternity isn’t tricky, and no one is excluded from the offer of God’s grace, but ignoring it or thinking you are above needing it is both common and, frankly, scary. Dad taught me that there is absolute truth, and he taught me to find it in God’s word.
As I watched Dad pass to the other side of eternity, it was confirmed to me that the message my faith is clinging to is true. It is truth from an almighty and loving God, and not simply a human concoction. Dad’s peace during those last moments, when he could no longer respond to us, but clearly heard us, is something I will never forget. I know I will remember it when it is my time to cross over, and it will ease my fear. Death is ugly. In fact, I don’t think there could be much, if anything, worse than the physical dying process of a body. It’s Satan’s last hurrah. It is the final horrid outcome of sin for mortal beings. But Dad did not die alone. He died in the presence of, and with the help of, his Savior who knew exactly what he was going through – and comforted, and helped him. And Dad did not stay dead. His soul was immediately with the Savior he trusted, in heaven. He left his dying body, with the promise of a new, eternal one, in an eternal place.
Since we are all sentenced to die, is any lesson greater than learning how? Is any preparation more important? Thank you, Dad. Thank you, God.
So it’s now seven years later... I’m seven years older and closer to my own death (although I hope it’s a long time from now!). I am comforted even now by what was impressed on my heart when Dad died. When things get rough, and they will, and at the seemingly very worst of life – I know that I will not be alone. The Savior I am trusting will carry me through and bring me home. Where the best part of my life will begin and never end…
When I looked at the body of my Dad lying in the nursing home bed and realized, so quickly and certainly, that he was no longer in that body, I felt lonely, and the mourning began. But strangely, with the tears and sorrow, and the dull ache that was spreading through my soul as I began missing the dad of my life, another emotion was about to emerge – one I hadn’t fully expected.
After Mom, my sisters, and I hugged and cried for awhile, a nurse knocked on the door and peeked in. We told her that he had gone and she cried and hugged us. She said she could tell he was a wonderful man and she was so sorry for our loss, but was glad he didn’t have to suffer any more. While the funeral home was being called to come and take Dad’s body, we gathered his personal items together, and I seized this opportunity to make a visit to the ladies room.
When I closed the door and had a moment alone, it suddenly hit me. Dad was home! He was with His Savior. He had crossed over into eternity right before our eyes. He had run the race, fought the good fight, and won. “You did it Dad!” I cried. I was suddenly smiling, and tears of joy were streaming down my face, mingling with the tears of sorrow from moments earlier. “You did it! You’re home!” I said over and over as the reality of his triumph sunk in. It was indescribable joy.
July 13, 2003 was my Dad’s – Harold Revne’s – last day on this earth. It was exactly two weeks from the day he, Mom and I prayed in their living room that he would go. Only two weeks…the miracle had happened.
July 13, 2003 was also Dad’s first day face to face with his Savior. Suddenly eternity and heaven seemed amazingly close, and extremely welcoming.
My Dad taught me a lot throughout his life, but his last lesson was the greatest one of all. He taught me how to die. What lesson is more important? Since the Garden of Eden, we are all sentenced to die. On the very day we were born our bodies began their countdown to death. Death is the most certain event of our life, yet how many of us truly prepare for it?
Dad taught me that there’s only one way to prepare for eternity. You must accept the sacrifice of Jesus’ death on the cross. Getting that right is the most important thing in life. If you don’t get it right, you may very well “gain the whole world, but lose your soul.” Preparing correctly for eternity isn’t tricky, and no one is excluded from the offer of God’s grace, but ignoring it or thinking you are above needing it is both common and, frankly, scary. Dad taught me that there is absolute truth, and he taught me to find it in God’s word.
As I watched Dad pass to the other side of eternity, it was confirmed to me that the message my faith is clinging to is true. It is truth from an almighty and loving God, and not simply a human concoction. Dad’s peace during those last moments, when he could no longer respond to us, but clearly heard us, is something I will never forget. I know I will remember it when it is my time to cross over, and it will ease my fear. Death is ugly. In fact, I don’t think there could be much, if anything, worse than the physical dying process of a body. It’s Satan’s last hurrah. It is the final horrid outcome of sin for mortal beings. But Dad did not die alone. He died in the presence of, and with the help of, his Savior who knew exactly what he was going through – and comforted, and helped him. And Dad did not stay dead. His soul was immediately with the Savior he trusted, in heaven. He left his dying body, with the promise of a new, eternal one, in an eternal place.
Since we are all sentenced to die, is any lesson greater than learning how? Is any preparation more important? Thank you, Dad. Thank you, God.
So it’s now seven years later... I’m seven years older and closer to my own death (although I hope it’s a long time from now!). I am comforted even now by what was impressed on my heart when Dad died. When things get rough, and they will, and at the seemingly very worst of life – I know that I will not be alone. The Savior I am trusting will carry me through and bring me home. Where the best part of my life will begin and never end…
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
How to die (part 3 of 4)
The last lesson Dad taught me, continues (written in 2003, shortly after he died.)...
The next day, Monday, Dad was moved to a nursing home. That Friday I got another call at work saying, “You might want to come; it may be soon.” Dad’s family again gathered around him, singing, praying, looking into his loving eyes, and wondering how many gazes we had left. As we said good-night to him, he kissed each of us, raised his arm in a parting wave, and smiled. We marveled at his display of love for us while in such discomfort...
I returned the following afternoon and spent a couple of hours with him. They were miserable hours for me – I can’t imagine what they must have been for Dad. All I know is that the whole time I was in his room (the only one there at the time) I was silently pleading with God to take him home and release him from his pain and discomfort. I sensed he knew I was there but he seemed to be sleeping or perhaps in a semi-conscious state. He was clearly miserable as he coughed, and breathed with difficulty. I cried, pleaded with God, and wondered how long it would be…
That night at home I felt so helpless from not being able to ease Dad’s pain and discomfort. I was discouraged. I desperately wanted to do something to lift his spirits, or to whisper comforting words to him, but it seemed all words had been used up and there was nothing left to say or do. As I wandered around the house, trying to accomplish meaningless tasks, my mind was continually on Dad. Suddenly, seemingly miraculously, God gave me perfect words for him. I had this urge to drive to the home and immediately share them with him to see if they would bring the comfort I was sure they would, but I decided to wait until morning.
I woke up on Sunday morning slightly relieved that Dad hadn’t gone during the night because I now had some new, hopefully comforting, words to give him. In fact when I got the phone call that morning saying that he may be going and we should come quickly, I really wanted to get there in time to talk to him. When I arrived, my Mom and sisters were already there. We hugged, with tears, realizing that this would probably be the morning we had both dreaded and anticipated. Dad’s eyes were shut and he did not seem to be responding to us but the nurse told us to talk to him anyway, because "hearing is the last sense to go." I’m so glad she told us that. It was all the encouragement I needed... I placed one of my hands gently over one of his swollen hands and my other hand rested on his cold forehead. Then I leaned in, close to his left ear, so he could hear me.
“Dad,” I began, with the words whispered to my heart the night before, “I don’t know what you must be going through right now, but there is someone who does. It’s Jesus. He died - on a cross - so he knows exactly what you’re going through. And He can help you. And He didn’t stay dead, and you won’t either. He rose from the dead and you will too. Not because you’re such a wonderful man, though I think you’re pretty wonderful, but because you’re trusting in Him. You’re saved, Dad. Don’t let Satan tell you otherwise. You’re saved, and you’re going to be with Jesus.” Then I added, “And don’t worry about Mom, you know we’ll take care of her, and Jesus will too, like He’s taken care of you.”
As tears streamed down my face, I sensed God’s truth was releasing Dad and he was letting go. I quickly turned to Mom and my sisters and said, “I think he’s going.” They immediately came closer, as they had stepped back to let me speak to him. We gently covered his hands with ours, and Mom caressed his cheek. We quoted Bible verses out loud, said some spontaneous words of prayer, and with many tears said our final, loving good-byes.
Each breath became farther apart from the last one and then, in a minute or two, there were no more. Dad had gone home.
(Next post...the best part...)
The next day, Monday, Dad was moved to a nursing home. That Friday I got another call at work saying, “You might want to come; it may be soon.” Dad’s family again gathered around him, singing, praying, looking into his loving eyes, and wondering how many gazes we had left. As we said good-night to him, he kissed each of us, raised his arm in a parting wave, and smiled. We marveled at his display of love for us while in such discomfort...
I returned the following afternoon and spent a couple of hours with him. They were miserable hours for me – I can’t imagine what they must have been for Dad. All I know is that the whole time I was in his room (the only one there at the time) I was silently pleading with God to take him home and release him from his pain and discomfort. I sensed he knew I was there but he seemed to be sleeping or perhaps in a semi-conscious state. He was clearly miserable as he coughed, and breathed with difficulty. I cried, pleaded with God, and wondered how long it would be…
That night at home I felt so helpless from not being able to ease Dad’s pain and discomfort. I was discouraged. I desperately wanted to do something to lift his spirits, or to whisper comforting words to him, but it seemed all words had been used up and there was nothing left to say or do. As I wandered around the house, trying to accomplish meaningless tasks, my mind was continually on Dad. Suddenly, seemingly miraculously, God gave me perfect words for him. I had this urge to drive to the home and immediately share them with him to see if they would bring the comfort I was sure they would, but I decided to wait until morning.
I woke up on Sunday morning slightly relieved that Dad hadn’t gone during the night because I now had some new, hopefully comforting, words to give him. In fact when I got the phone call that morning saying that he may be going and we should come quickly, I really wanted to get there in time to talk to him. When I arrived, my Mom and sisters were already there. We hugged, with tears, realizing that this would probably be the morning we had both dreaded and anticipated. Dad’s eyes were shut and he did not seem to be responding to us but the nurse told us to talk to him anyway, because "hearing is the last sense to go." I’m so glad she told us that. It was all the encouragement I needed... I placed one of my hands gently over one of his swollen hands and my other hand rested on his cold forehead. Then I leaned in, close to his left ear, so he could hear me.
“Dad,” I began, with the words whispered to my heart the night before, “I don’t know what you must be going through right now, but there is someone who does. It’s Jesus. He died - on a cross - so he knows exactly what you’re going through. And He can help you. And He didn’t stay dead, and you won’t either. He rose from the dead and you will too. Not because you’re such a wonderful man, though I think you’re pretty wonderful, but because you’re trusting in Him. You’re saved, Dad. Don’t let Satan tell you otherwise. You’re saved, and you’re going to be with Jesus.” Then I added, “And don’t worry about Mom, you know we’ll take care of her, and Jesus will too, like He’s taken care of you.”
As tears streamed down my face, I sensed God’s truth was releasing Dad and he was letting go. I quickly turned to Mom and my sisters and said, “I think he’s going.” They immediately came closer, as they had stepped back to let me speak to him. We gently covered his hands with ours, and Mom caressed his cheek. We quoted Bible verses out loud, said some spontaneous words of prayer, and with many tears said our final, loving good-byes.
Each breath became farther apart from the last one and then, in a minute or two, there were no more. Dad had gone home.
(Next post...the best part...)
Monday, September 20, 2010
How to die (part 2)
More about the last lesson Dad taught me...
The prayer was on a Sunday night. That Wednesday, Mom called me at work and said Dad wasn’t feeling very well and had a slight fever. As she shared her concern a brief thought surfaced and I almost said, “Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised.” But I didn’t. We had seen dozens of fevers come and go, with as many infections, in recent years. It was probably just the current round.
Two days later, Dad was in the hospital. He was extremely ill; his infection was not responding to the antibiotics this time. His wife, daughters, son-in-laws, grandkids, and great-grandchild were gathered around him singing hymns, thanking him for his love and example, and praying with him. I watched in wonder and awe. Was God really going to take him home now? So soon, like we prayed for just last Sunday?
Dad had always been a praying man... His mom and dad were missionaries in Africa back in the 1920s, when they took my newborn dad by dugout canoe into an African village, where he lived until he was eight years old. His first pets were a monkey and a lamb. His first language was Norwegian, since his parents were originally from Norway, where Dad was born. This was not a usual American childhood, but one full of his parents’ love, and full of prayer to a God he was taught to know and love. He carried this belief in God throughout his entire life but never was it more significant than at the end of his life.
Well, Dad had a fighting body, he always had, and he made it through Friday night. Saturday night as my Mom, sisters, and I said goodnight to Dad and prayed with him before we left the hospital, he asked, again, that we pray he would go soon. This time he asked to be gone by morning. I left thinking, “This will surely be the night.” God answers this man’s prayers!
When I awoke Sunday morning I felt sad. There had been no call during the night. God had said no. Dad had to face another day of pain. I arrived at his hospital room early. It was dark and he was asleep. As I sat in the quiet and prayed, I wondered...how would Dad be feeling? Sad? Discouraged? He had been through so much, and I was very sorry that his request had been denied. In fact, I was a little mad at God. “Here’s a man who wants so very much to be released from this life. Why don’t you take him, God?” I thought.
His hospital door opened, a light went on, and in walked his capable male nurse, who just happened to be a believer. “Good morning, Harold!” he cheerfully called out to wake Dad. I cringed at his joyous greeting on this not-so-joyous morning. The nurse had no idea of the evening prayer or of my discouragement and continued, “It’s Sunday! ‘This is the day that the Lord has made.’” I cringed a bit more and then I heard it. Dad’s feeble voice was finishing the verse the nurse began. “We will rejoice and be glad in it,” he said. I was stunned. How could Dad say that? Not today. Didn’t he know God had denied his request and sentenced him to at least one more day of suffering?
The nurse left and I rose from my chair and walked over to his bed. I took his hand and looked into his eyes. As I did so, I wondered how much discouragement and sadness I would find. His gaze locked into mine and he said in a hoarse, weak voice, “You can’t order Him around.” “What?” I asked, not sure what I had heard. “You can’t order Him around…God.” And his eyes closed from the strain of talking.
I was speechless. Dad knew I was frustrated and wanted to remind me that God was God. I thought it took amazing faith to pray the evening prayer with belief, but it didn’t come close to the faith I witnessed that morning. Blessed are those who believe, though they do not see... God had told Dad, “Not yet, Harold,” and Dad had said, “Okay, you know best. I don’t understand it, but I’ll trust you and praise you anyway. You made this day and I will rejoice and be glad in it.” Dad was not mad at God even though Dad was lying in pain on the opposite side of the eternity he desperately longed for. He acknowledged God’s sovereignty. It didn’t keep him from asking for what his heart desired, but he didn’t give up or get mad when God said no. My Dad was still teaching me what faith in God looks like. I still had a lot to learn…
(Continued in the next post…soon...)
The prayer was on a Sunday night. That Wednesday, Mom called me at work and said Dad wasn’t feeling very well and had a slight fever. As she shared her concern a brief thought surfaced and I almost said, “Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised.” But I didn’t. We had seen dozens of fevers come and go, with as many infections, in recent years. It was probably just the current round.
Two days later, Dad was in the hospital. He was extremely ill; his infection was not responding to the antibiotics this time. His wife, daughters, son-in-laws, grandkids, and great-grandchild were gathered around him singing hymns, thanking him for his love and example, and praying with him. I watched in wonder and awe. Was God really going to take him home now? So soon, like we prayed for just last Sunday?
Dad had always been a praying man... His mom and dad were missionaries in Africa back in the 1920s, when they took my newborn dad by dugout canoe into an African village, where he lived until he was eight years old. His first pets were a monkey and a lamb. His first language was Norwegian, since his parents were originally from Norway, where Dad was born. This was not a usual American childhood, but one full of his parents’ love, and full of prayer to a God he was taught to know and love. He carried this belief in God throughout his entire life but never was it more significant than at the end of his life.
Well, Dad had a fighting body, he always had, and he made it through Friday night. Saturday night as my Mom, sisters, and I said goodnight to Dad and prayed with him before we left the hospital, he asked, again, that we pray he would go soon. This time he asked to be gone by morning. I left thinking, “This will surely be the night.” God answers this man’s prayers!
When I awoke Sunday morning I felt sad. There had been no call during the night. God had said no. Dad had to face another day of pain. I arrived at his hospital room early. It was dark and he was asleep. As I sat in the quiet and prayed, I wondered...how would Dad be feeling? Sad? Discouraged? He had been through so much, and I was very sorry that his request had been denied. In fact, I was a little mad at God. “Here’s a man who wants so very much to be released from this life. Why don’t you take him, God?” I thought.
His hospital door opened, a light went on, and in walked his capable male nurse, who just happened to be a believer. “Good morning, Harold!” he cheerfully called out to wake Dad. I cringed at his joyous greeting on this not-so-joyous morning. The nurse had no idea of the evening prayer or of my discouragement and continued, “It’s Sunday! ‘This is the day that the Lord has made.’” I cringed a bit more and then I heard it. Dad’s feeble voice was finishing the verse the nurse began. “We will rejoice and be glad in it,” he said. I was stunned. How could Dad say that? Not today. Didn’t he know God had denied his request and sentenced him to at least one more day of suffering?
The nurse left and I rose from my chair and walked over to his bed. I took his hand and looked into his eyes. As I did so, I wondered how much discouragement and sadness I would find. His gaze locked into mine and he said in a hoarse, weak voice, “You can’t order Him around.” “What?” I asked, not sure what I had heard. “You can’t order Him around…God.” And his eyes closed from the strain of talking.
I was speechless. Dad knew I was frustrated and wanted to remind me that God was God. I thought it took amazing faith to pray the evening prayer with belief, but it didn’t come close to the faith I witnessed that morning. Blessed are those who believe, though they do not see... God had told Dad, “Not yet, Harold,” and Dad had said, “Okay, you know best. I don’t understand it, but I’ll trust you and praise you anyway. You made this day and I will rejoice and be glad in it.” Dad was not mad at God even though Dad was lying in pain on the opposite side of the eternity he desperately longed for. He acknowledged God’s sovereignty. It didn’t keep him from asking for what his heart desired, but he didn’t give up or get mad when God said no. My Dad was still teaching me what faith in God looks like. I still had a lot to learn…
(Continued in the next post…soon...)
Saturday, September 18, 2010
How to die (part 1 of 4)
This week my dad would have turned 88. He’s been gone from us for more than 7 years now, yet as my thoughts have focused on Grandpa lately – who I hardly knew…I can’t help but meet more of my entire Dad in Grandpa’s stories. I learn more about his unusual upbringing and I’m discovering the stories that helped faith take root in Dad’s life at an early age. Since my dad is a key link between Grandpa and me (obviously), during this week it seems right to bring him into my blog.
Like me, Dad was far from perfect. Nevertheless, he taught me much, for which I’m eternally grateful. I’m going to tell you about the last lesson Dad taught me. And incidentally, or perhaps significantly to my story, I wrote the following eight years ago, in the immediate weeks after Dad’s death, and long before this blog…
It was about how I imagined death. The man is 80 years old and lying on a nursing home bed. His closest family is with him. They tenderly pat his head, caress his hand, and whisper final words and prayers. Then it happens. His slowed, shallow breathing ceases. And he is no longer with us. Death is the critical point where you discover if your beliefs were correct. It is the moment where one’s faith, or lack of it, is rewarded or penalized. It is the moment of truth for every human being. The man was my Dad and his death was an unforgettable lesson of truth, faith in God, and God’s faithfulness to those who believe. It is a lesson to tell, to live by, and to die by.
My dad had prostate cancer. Cancer, that dreaded, miserable, disease. Though the disease didn’t take Dad’s life for about 10 years, it definitely changed his life, as complications from radiation treatment transformed him into a person with disabilities.
My mom, my two sisters, and I, were with Dad when he died. That was an answer to prayer, and no small answer, either. One of my sisters is a missionary, and spends three of every four years in Papua New Guinea, but perfectly, she was home on furlough. I was supposed to be playing keyboard in the worship band at church the morning Dad died. I came so close to keeping my morning commitment, thinking, “it is only for an hour… What are the chances Dad will leave us during this one hour?” But God intervened and I was clearly led out of my morning responsibilities to spend that hour, Dad’s last, in a worship service with him. I will never forget that morning, or the memorable days leading up to it…
It was a summer evening in 2003 and I dropped in to Mom and Dad's condo for a visit. When I arrived, Dad was home alone. He greeted me from his electric recliner, the chair he virtually lived in day and night, with his usual “hi” and smile that sparkled across his face, beaming straight from his eyes into mine. He had a way of making you feel that you were the most special, significant, person on earth. Once we began chatting, I realized he was troubled. He began sharing his concern with me: he was worried he would need to go to a nursing home soon, and for the rest of his life. The reality that he may have to leave his own home was not what was discouraging him. Rather, it was the possibility that his stay in a nursing home would drain Mom of all financial assets so she would not be able to live out her life comfortably. He was a man of genuine concern for others, and he dearly loved his wife.
Before long, Mom arrived home and joined our conversation. She told Dad he was worrying too much, and encouraged him not to. As I was getting ready to leave, I realized that I was now troubled, also. Dad had always been a man of strong faith; it was difficult to see him in such turmoil. “Do you want me to pray with you before I go?” I asked. “Yes, please,” he replied. And I continued, “Anything you’d like me to pray for, specifically?” I did not anticipate his reply, nor was I ready for it. “Please pray that I will go; that God will take me,” and then, as if that wasn’t difficult enough, he added, “and pray that it will be soon.”
Wow... Dad had done so much for me throughout my life, is there any way I could not pray for his request, one that he longed for, but also one that would take him from me? He wanted to go home. Home to his Heavenly Father... Home to His Savior… He had fought the good fight and now he wanted the fight to end. He was ready to rest and receive the prize - life eternal through the grace and mercy of the one true God – a promise he fully accepted and believed. His eyes were full of tears, and mine were overflowing as I prayed that God would take my dearly loved Dad home to be with Him, and, “please take him soon.”
After the “amen” Dad immediately quoted, in a hoarse voice, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst.” A peace came over him and I left, comforted that he was a calmer man than when I arrived that evening. As I drove away though, I couldn’t help but think how Dad’s health had been fairly stable, and his body seemed to fight and overcome almost anything. I didn’t think I had enough faith to believe that God would answer that prayer and take him home soon. He had survived so many things, how would he actually ever go? And quickly? It would take a miracle… My lack of faith was discouraging because I had just left a man’s side who clearly believed God was going to answer that prayer.
(Continued in the next post…soon…)
Like me, Dad was far from perfect. Nevertheless, he taught me much, for which I’m eternally grateful. I’m going to tell you about the last lesson Dad taught me. And incidentally, or perhaps significantly to my story, I wrote the following eight years ago, in the immediate weeks after Dad’s death, and long before this blog…
It was about how I imagined death. The man is 80 years old and lying on a nursing home bed. His closest family is with him. They tenderly pat his head, caress his hand, and whisper final words and prayers. Then it happens. His slowed, shallow breathing ceases. And he is no longer with us. Death is the critical point where you discover if your beliefs were correct. It is the moment where one’s faith, or lack of it, is rewarded or penalized. It is the moment of truth for every human being. The man was my Dad and his death was an unforgettable lesson of truth, faith in God, and God’s faithfulness to those who believe. It is a lesson to tell, to live by, and to die by.
My dad had prostate cancer. Cancer, that dreaded, miserable, disease. Though the disease didn’t take Dad’s life for about 10 years, it definitely changed his life, as complications from radiation treatment transformed him into a person with disabilities.
My mom, my two sisters, and I, were with Dad when he died. That was an answer to prayer, and no small answer, either. One of my sisters is a missionary, and spends three of every four years in Papua New Guinea, but perfectly, she was home on furlough. I was supposed to be playing keyboard in the worship band at church the morning Dad died. I came so close to keeping my morning commitment, thinking, “it is only for an hour… What are the chances Dad will leave us during this one hour?” But God intervened and I was clearly led out of my morning responsibilities to spend that hour, Dad’s last, in a worship service with him. I will never forget that morning, or the memorable days leading up to it…
It was a summer evening in 2003 and I dropped in to Mom and Dad's condo for a visit. When I arrived, Dad was home alone. He greeted me from his electric recliner, the chair he virtually lived in day and night, with his usual “hi” and smile that sparkled across his face, beaming straight from his eyes into mine. He had a way of making you feel that you were the most special, significant, person on earth. Once we began chatting, I realized he was troubled. He began sharing his concern with me: he was worried he would need to go to a nursing home soon, and for the rest of his life. The reality that he may have to leave his own home was not what was discouraging him. Rather, it was the possibility that his stay in a nursing home would drain Mom of all financial assets so she would not be able to live out her life comfortably. He was a man of genuine concern for others, and he dearly loved his wife.
Before long, Mom arrived home and joined our conversation. She told Dad he was worrying too much, and encouraged him not to. As I was getting ready to leave, I realized that I was now troubled, also. Dad had always been a man of strong faith; it was difficult to see him in such turmoil. “Do you want me to pray with you before I go?” I asked. “Yes, please,” he replied. And I continued, “Anything you’d like me to pray for, specifically?” I did not anticipate his reply, nor was I ready for it. “Please pray that I will go; that God will take me,” and then, as if that wasn’t difficult enough, he added, “and pray that it will be soon.”
Wow... Dad had done so much for me throughout my life, is there any way I could not pray for his request, one that he longed for, but also one that would take him from me? He wanted to go home. Home to his Heavenly Father... Home to His Savior… He had fought the good fight and now he wanted the fight to end. He was ready to rest and receive the prize - life eternal through the grace and mercy of the one true God – a promise he fully accepted and believed. His eyes were full of tears, and mine were overflowing as I prayed that God would take my dearly loved Dad home to be with Him, and, “please take him soon.”
After the “amen” Dad immediately quoted, in a hoarse voice, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst.” A peace came over him and I left, comforted that he was a calmer man than when I arrived that evening. As I drove away though, I couldn’t help but think how Dad’s health had been fairly stable, and his body seemed to fight and overcome almost anything. I didn’t think I had enough faith to believe that God would answer that prayer and take him home soon. He had survived so many things, how would he actually ever go? And quickly? It would take a miracle… My lack of faith was discouraging because I had just left a man’s side who clearly believed God was going to answer that prayer.
(Continued in the next post…soon…)
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Straight and plumb
Grandpa’s stories continue…
It appears my Grandpa was a bit of a perfectionist, huh? An article written and published about him after he died said that “Revne is further remembered for his careful construction of buildings at the various stations on the field. He loathed sloppy work. Every wall must be straight and plumb.” (C. Christiansen, Nov. 20, 1963, Faith and Fellowship)
I just have to say, “Really, Grandpa... Does every brick have to be placed exactly so? You’re in early, twentieth-century Africa for crying out loud.”
Can you see how we’re different? (Until I read about him, I did think I had some perfectionist tendencies in me, but I will tell you I would never re-lay bricks in the middle of an African night. Not with snakes, bats, tigers and more in the vicinity... And what do I think of my Grandma’s lantern-holding? I think she loved Grandpa very much.)
I’m not exactly sure why, but the statement that Grandpa “loathed sloppy work” makes me smile each time I read it. I think it might be because when you add up all the accomplishments of Grandpa’s life, he almost seems like some sort of super human person to me. Someone I would never measure up to... But he was just a man, with a great and mighty God working through him. His natural tendencies and personality didn’t disappear so he could do God’s work. He worked (and struggled no doubt) with those tendencies and from that personality.
Too often I long to be someone I’m not. Or think I need to be someone I’m not... A little less opinionated, perhaps, or less analytical, or more patient… Not that I shouldn’t try to improve myself, or offer my best to God – but He did make each of us uniquely different. And we bring those personality traits with us when we follow Christ – by design.
I plan to travel to Cameroon in January (Lord willing) where I will see some of the buildings Grandpa built all those years ago. I’ve heard that many have stood the test of time quite well (no surprise there). I know I will smile when I see them...and cry some tears of joy at getting to see them…because that is the way God has wired me.
Building a mission station is quite an undertaking. You have to have residence for the missionaries, school houses, chapels and other houses. The great problem is materials. When we first came, there was nothing but local material to build from. We built the walls from clay – burnt bricks – and the roofs from straw and wood. The making of bricks was no problem because we had clay and we made wooden molds. The Africans quickly learned how to mold bricks. The problem, however, was laying the bricks, as cement, for mortar, was not available then.
About one hundred miles from our station, the government built a factory to burn sandstone that would serve as mortar to lay the bricks on. We could buy it from them, but transportation was the next problem. We had no wagons or anything to hold the materials. The only available transportation was a donkey. We ended up filling sacks and placing them on the donkey’s back. Much of the material was lost on the way because of the bad sacks we were forced to put it in.
Arriving at the stations we had still another problem. There was not a man in the country who knew how to lay bricks. I often had to tear down what helpers had built up during the day, but I had to be careful, or I would be reprimanded. Sometimes I would do work over at night. My wife would hold up a lantern while I tore it down and rebuilt.
It appears my Grandpa was a bit of a perfectionist, huh? An article written and published about him after he died said that “Revne is further remembered for his careful construction of buildings at the various stations on the field. He loathed sloppy work. Every wall must be straight and plumb.” (C. Christiansen, Nov. 20, 1963, Faith and Fellowship)
I just have to say, “Really, Grandpa... Does every brick have to be placed exactly so? You’re in early, twentieth-century Africa for crying out loud.”
Can you see how we’re different? (Until I read about him, I did think I had some perfectionist tendencies in me, but I will tell you I would never re-lay bricks in the middle of an African night. Not with snakes, bats, tigers and more in the vicinity... And what do I think of my Grandma’s lantern-holding? I think she loved Grandpa very much.)
I’m not exactly sure why, but the statement that Grandpa “loathed sloppy work” makes me smile each time I read it. I think it might be because when you add up all the accomplishments of Grandpa’s life, he almost seems like some sort of super human person to me. Someone I would never measure up to... But he was just a man, with a great and mighty God working through him. His natural tendencies and personality didn’t disappear so he could do God’s work. He worked (and struggled no doubt) with those tendencies and from that personality.
Too often I long to be someone I’m not. Or think I need to be someone I’m not... A little less opinionated, perhaps, or less analytical, or more patient… Not that I shouldn’t try to improve myself, or offer my best to God – but He did make each of us uniquely different. And we bring those personality traits with us when we follow Christ – by design.
I plan to travel to Cameroon in January (Lord willing) where I will see some of the buildings Grandpa built all those years ago. I’ve heard that many have stood the test of time quite well (no surprise there). I know I will smile when I see them...and cry some tears of joy at getting to see them…because that is the way God has wired me.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Praying for eggs
Grandpa’s stories continue…
Grandpa's story reminds me of a repeating sequence in my life with God:
Knowing I’ve been heard by the living and active God gives me the energy and hope needed to explore a different direction, wondering how He may be going to answer my need… I have no doubt that when I call out to Him, He does lead me and He does answer. I may pray for eggs and get fish, but that only adds to the excitement of following Christ.
Food was a problem for the missionaries in the beginning. When the Africans come and greet the missionaries, they always come with eggs or chickens. Occasionally, it is hard to buy those things. Once we tried very hard to do so but it seemed the nationals had gone on strike, and for what reason we don’t know even to this day. We sent our workers out to buy them, but they came home with nothing.
One forenoon I thought I would go out myself and perhaps they would have more respect for me than my workers, and thus sell things to me. I walked all morning searching for places to buy eggs and I came home with six rotten ones. After this we prayed much about it.
Since our mission station was near the river I got the idea to go fishing. I asked one of my national workers to go with me but he was very reluctant. I found out the reason later when he told me this was not the fishing season and no one would get any fish now. People would laugh at anyone fishing out of season. But I begged him to go and get the fishing rod and line and show me how the people there fish. He was still reluctant to go, but finally yielded and went with me. We walked by his house to get his rod and line but he was ashamed to tell anyone for what purpose we were going down to the river, fearing that all would laugh.
I had barely gotten the line out in the water before a nice sized fish began to bite. Now my friend’s attitude about our fishing changed completely. Returning home again he was not ashamed to tell anyone about our going fishing, and he told everyone how God had given us that fish. We went home, prepared the fish and the entire family was fed that day.
Grandpa's story reminds me of a repeating sequence in my life with God:
1. I encounter a problem.I’m not thinking that God is mad at me for taking steps 1, 2 and 3. I pray nearly every day that “His will be done here on earth, as it is in heaven…” I do believe we should use our brains and our resources to live out our lives. Yet, I do think that I become too anxious and/or discouraged when those efforts aren’t fruitful. It’s at this point (number 4), when I talk much with Him about the issue. And it’s often after that, when He inspires me to try a new direction.
2. I seek to solve it in several ways.
3. I fail. (Sometimes I get what I seek, only to find it’s “rotten” and not beneficial.)
4. I then pray much about it.
5. I take steps in a new direction, which may not make much, or any, sense to others.
6. God solves the problem.
7. He solves it in a way I didn’t anticipate, and in a way I wouldn’t have first thought to try.
Knowing I’ve been heard by the living and active God gives me the energy and hope needed to explore a different direction, wondering how He may be going to answer my need… I have no doubt that when I call out to Him, He does lead me and He does answer. I may pray for eggs and get fish, but that only adds to the excitement of following Christ.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Mortal meets eternal
I attended a wake this past week. The next morning I was thinking about how the family would be celebrating this dear woman’s life at a memorial service that day, and also how they would be grieving their loss. I prayed for them, and then I thought about where she is right now. She believed, and trusted in Jesus. She’s in heaven. And then I thought about what her day might be like and I wondered…how does one exist in Heaven? How do us earthlings possibly stand in a holy place before a Holy God and even begin to take in the never-before-experienced, perfect glory of His Kingdom?
I mean, won’t we need to simply kneel with faces to the ground, bury our head in our hands and maybe squint through our fingers once in a while to glimpse the wonder around us? Couldn’t the stunning brilliance easily blind our eyes, or send us into massive culture shock? Sometimes, when things are going so well here on earth and God’s Spirit is so clearly present in me, I can hardly take the amazing feeling of joy. It comes close to overwhelming me. So, how will I ever be able to exist in such an unbelievably wonderful place as heaven?
As I considered this, I pictured myself – a newcomer to heaven - kneeling, as described above, face to the ground with my head buried in my hands. Envisioning this, I could feel glory overpowering me and I began to panic at the stark contrast of this place, to my recent, and seemingly lingering, human sinful nature and surroundings. And then I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder… I looked up and saw a hand held out to me. It was a hand from one coruscating in a mixture of brilliant whites, metals and fire. His eyes were blazing flames of fire, until He looked at me...
Immediately those flashing eyes transformed into shimmering pools of warmth and attraction that were sparkling at me as smiling eyes do. He sweetly, but firmly, took my hand and helped me off the ground and into His arms. As He did, I noticed a jagged, round scar on his hand and knew that I had nothing to fear…
Jesus walked, and was crucified, on this broken, sinful earth for me, so that I can walk with Him in a perfect, glorious place that is being prepared for all who follow Him. Thank you my Savior! Without this surety, the entire lot of Grandpa’s humanitarian and spiritual work would have amounted to limited benefit to the people of Cameroon or the world. With it, the benefits are for, and last, an eternity.
I mean, won’t we need to simply kneel with faces to the ground, bury our head in our hands and maybe squint through our fingers once in a while to glimpse the wonder around us? Couldn’t the stunning brilliance easily blind our eyes, or send us into massive culture shock? Sometimes, when things are going so well here on earth and God’s Spirit is so clearly present in me, I can hardly take the amazing feeling of joy. It comes close to overwhelming me. So, how will I ever be able to exist in such an unbelievably wonderful place as heaven?
As I considered this, I pictured myself – a newcomer to heaven - kneeling, as described above, face to the ground with my head buried in my hands. Envisioning this, I could feel glory overpowering me and I began to panic at the stark contrast of this place, to my recent, and seemingly lingering, human sinful nature and surroundings. And then I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder… I looked up and saw a hand held out to me. It was a hand from one coruscating in a mixture of brilliant whites, metals and fire. His eyes were blazing flames of fire, until He looked at me...
Immediately those flashing eyes transformed into shimmering pools of warmth and attraction that were sparkling at me as smiling eyes do. He sweetly, but firmly, took my hand and helped me off the ground and into His arms. As He did, I noticed a jagged, round scar on his hand and knew that I had nothing to fear…
Jesus walked, and was crucified, on this broken, sinful earth for me, so that I can walk with Him in a perfect, glorious place that is being prepared for all who follow Him. Thank you my Savior! Without this surety, the entire lot of Grandpa’s humanitarian and spiritual work would have amounted to limited benefit to the people of Cameroon or the world. With it, the benefits are for, and last, an eternity.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
God's wondrous protection (part 3)
Grandpa’s words continue in the final segment of the section he titled: God’s Wondrous Protection in Times of Danger. In the last post he talked about being delivered from a horse accident which had him lying in a ravine with his horse on top of him. This one is about snakes!
God' protection of me will continue until He brings me home, where I’m safest, forever. The next post will talk more about this...
On our station in Yagoua we had several experiences with poisonous snakes. The Egyptian Cobra is very dangerous. He tries to climb into places, perhaps mostly for his own protection, but in so doing he gets into places where it is hard to see him. Most of our belongings we have had to lock up so we have storerooms that we place our things in. In these storerooms we have a lot of boxes or cases, sometimes piled ceiling high; usually these rooms are dark because there are no windows.I just had an interesting typo, as I was typing the last paragraph above. Instead of “depend," the word in Grandpa's original manuscript was a bit smudged and I first typed “spend.” When I realized I had it wrong and was correcting it, I couldn’t help but think about how “spend” could fit. If, in fact, I do believe (and I do) that we have a marvelous God and Father who continuously cares for us, can I “spend” that care and step out a bit (or a lot) more boldly into the world? Or do I have a storehouse of His wondrous care at my disposal and sheepishly conserve it, staying in the safest place I can find? I’m fond of safety – so was Grandpa, I’m sure - yet who do I credit as the source of my safety? Or to what location? Or to what item or items? If the source is a who, and the who is God, am I not safe wherever I go, even if facing down an Egyptian Cobra? (I pray that is never one of my challenges…)
Once, when going into the store room, not thinking of any danger, I reached across some of these boxes and cases only to discover a cobra raising his ugly head toward my hand, but his neck was too short to reach it. This was indeed a direct intervention by God. I went out of the storeroom thanking God for His protection and called the servants to kill the serpent.
Another time I went into this same storeroom looking for something, once again not expecting anything out of the ordinary. This time, one of these spitting cobras spit right in my face. The nationals say that the spit of this cobra is poisonous but I don’t believe so. I just ran out of the storeroom, washed my face and went on with my work.
I do not tell these stories to scare young people from going to Africa and becoming missionaries; neither to show what missionaries have to go through, but rather to show what a marvelous God and Father we Christians have, that we can depend upon His ever present care for us.
God' protection of me will continue until He brings me home, where I’m safest, forever. The next post will talk more about this...
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
God's wondrous protection (part 2)
Grandpa’s words continue in the section he titled: God’s Wondrous Protection in Times of Danger. (In the last post he talked about being saved from a broken leg, or worse, during a bicycle accident.)
When I first read this story and got to the part where Grandpa said he never thought he would get out alive, I thought back to a time in my life when I had that same thought... I was 19 years old. It was a twenty-below-zero, Wisconsin, January morning and I was on my way to register for a semester of college in a nearby community. As I was accelerating to merge onto I-94, my car hit a patch of black ice and suddenly I was spinning, and afraid that I would go over the edge of the embankment. When my car stopped on the pavement, I rejoiced, thinking I was safe. And then I looked up…and saw a semi truck headed straight for me. (My car had stopped alright, but facing the wrong way on the interstate.)
Like Grandpa, I had only fractions of seconds to consider this, but I distinctly remember thinking, “I’m going to die.” And...I distinctly remember one of my first thoughts after impact was “God has a plan for my life.” It was obvious to me in that moment that God so easily could have taken me home. In fact He likely had to send angels to push against the semi to keep me here. While I sat in the freezing cold car, going into shock from both the trauma and a broken-in-three-places jaw, I remember feeling special. I had always heard “God has a plan for your life,” and pretty much always believed it. But that day I felt it, and realized so clearly that nothing – not even a head-on collision with a semi – can kill us if God wants us alive. You are reading this, so there’s a high probability you are alive. God has a plan for your life.
Another time I was in even greater danger than this. I was coming from Garoua, going to Yagoua. I had stopped at the government rest house at Golombe. From Garoua to Yagoua it is more than 200 miles and needless to say I was tired by the time I got to Golombe which is about half way. About 2 miles out from Golombe on the way to Yagoua there was a deep cut in the road. It was too steep for the horse to walk down and too far up on the other side; it was too wide to jump over. In such cases we just had to let the horses do as they preferred. In my case the horse chose to walk into the ravine and climb up the other side to get across.
The descending went fine, but trying to get up the other side the horse got into trouble. It was slippery and too steep. Attempting to jump out of the hole, the horse fell backwards and landed on its back on top of me. In this way I carried the weight of the horse instead of vice versa. I was perfectly conscious of it as I was laying there under him. These too were agonizing fractions of seconds as I was lying in the ravine under the horse. I never thought I would get out alive. I was praying much and the good Lord heard my prayer. In some way, I do not know how, the horse rolled to the side freeing my body. After much struggle I was able to climb out of the hole and onto the horses back again.
When I first read this story and got to the part where Grandpa said he never thought he would get out alive, I thought back to a time in my life when I had that same thought... I was 19 years old. It was a twenty-below-zero, Wisconsin, January morning and I was on my way to register for a semester of college in a nearby community. As I was accelerating to merge onto I-94, my car hit a patch of black ice and suddenly I was spinning, and afraid that I would go over the edge of the embankment. When my car stopped on the pavement, I rejoiced, thinking I was safe. And then I looked up…and saw a semi truck headed straight for me. (My car had stopped alright, but facing the wrong way on the interstate.)
Like Grandpa, I had only fractions of seconds to consider this, but I distinctly remember thinking, “I’m going to die.” And...I distinctly remember one of my first thoughts after impact was “God has a plan for my life.” It was obvious to me in that moment that God so easily could have taken me home. In fact He likely had to send angels to push against the semi to keep me here. While I sat in the freezing cold car, going into shock from both the trauma and a broken-in-three-places jaw, I remember feeling special. I had always heard “God has a plan for your life,” and pretty much always believed it. But that day I felt it, and realized so clearly that nothing – not even a head-on collision with a semi – can kill us if God wants us alive. You are reading this, so there’s a high probability you are alive. God has a plan for your life.
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