If only

It's been a weekend of saying "if only."

It began about 1:00 on Sunday, just about the time the Atlanta Falcons kicked the game-winning field goal over the Seattle Seahawks, following Seattle's furious fight back from the brink of total domination.

If only the defense could have made a play in the last 30 seconds, they'd be playing again this Sunday.

If only the Seahawks had held a lead earlier in the season against Miami. If only they had found a way to beat Arizona or St. Louis or one of the other teams they should have beaten this year. Then they would have been the NFC West champs and had home-field advantage, and they're still playing this weekend against San Francisco.

If only they actually showed up in the first three quarters and played like they're capable of. If only Chris Clemons isn't hurt in the game against the Redskins.

Any number of tiny details, had they gone the other way, and Seattle is still in the hunt for the Super Bowl. Which made the loss bitter, and the response a litany of "if only?"

But then Monday morning rolled around, and I took a call from a church member who is also the local school librarian. In a broken voice, she told me that a young mother in the community had killed herself over the weekend, taking a gun to her own head to end her life. And that her two daughters and their dad were in the house and heard the shot, and he went in and found her dead on the floor.

This mother used to bring her daughters to the activities at our church. Her youngest was part of our children's group, her older daughter came to the girls' Bible study led by my wife. More recently, that youngest daughter had come to our youth group in the last few months.

Last Thursday I went to the Middle School for a band concert. At the intermission I was standing near the front and saw this mother near the back, standing by herself. You know the thought that runs through your mind. "I should go say hi." But then somebody wanted to talk to me, and the concert began again, and afterward you have to pick up your kid and it's all chaotic and you never do go say "hi."

And there's a whole new slew of "if only."

If only I had gone and said "hi" on Thursday. If only our kids' program had been healthier, and the Bible study hadn't fallen apart in turmoil at the end. If we'd been able to keep them in our loop, instead of losing them when our church went through some hard times a few years ago.

But, no. There's really no blame to be had, no great lesson to be learned. Not knowing the explanation behind the act, there's no knowing whether we could have made a difference. The only truth is that a woman was distraught enough to end her life, and she's left behind a grieving, broken family. The mind begins to run down the "if only" road, but I can't go there. Yes, I wish I'd talked to her on Thursday, but there was no reason to believe at that point that this would happen. So I can't regret my choices that night.

What I do take away is this: we're surrounded by hurting people. And we need to love them. And we need to be involved in peoples' lives. And we need to look them in the eye and say "how are you doing?" And we need to realize this isn't a game. And we need to take the chance when we have it, because there may not be a tomorrow. We're not responsible for the actions of other people, but we can at least let them know we care.

If only we can do that, then we're going to make a difference.

Lord, Have Mercy

There is so much in ministry that is functional. Pastors do things. We create things. We write things. We organize things. We preach sermons. We plan Christmas Eve services. We meet people for coffee and talk about stuff - usually, somewhat important stuff. Sometimes we blog about life and other important things. We pray, we read, we update our church's facebook and twitter status. We go to meetings and retreats. It can be a busy life.

And then. . .sometimes we just sit. We sit with the woman, the single mother, who is dying of cancer. We sit and hold her hand, and say a prayer, and offer words of comfort (that she may or may not hear) and we modestly avert our eyes when, in her confusion, she rolls out of her hospital gown. We offer kind words to family members who stop by. We read scripture. But mostly, we sit, because there's not much else to do. And we promise her that she is held firmly in the grasp of God, so she can let go when she feels ready, because, really, it's all good.

But we sit, with death. Nurses come and go, because they have stuff to do. But we mostly sit.

And we realize that this is the real stuff, the place where life is at its most real and most raw. Everything else feels like treading water. These are the holy moments. And so we sit, and, if we are wise, we mostly keep our mouths shut.

And then we say a few halting words, and head out into the bright sunshine, but our hearts are heavy, because we carry the burden of death with us.

Lord, have mercy on a friend who is going home, and have mercy on those who care for her these long days and long nights.

Warren

I first met Warren a couple years ago, when he was volunteering in our church's ministry to the homeless and low-income of the Key Peninsula. He'd had a rough life, made some bad decisions, but was working to get his life back together.

Last year, on a walk with some friends around the town of Home, we saw Warren sitting out on his front porch in the sun; we had a good talk about the warm weather and God's goodness to us all.

He came to our Christmas Eve service this last December. One of our 'festive' pieces was a dramatic reenactment of the 12 Days of Christmas. Warren made a joyous and hilarious Partridge in a Pear Tree. 12 times, he played that partridge, as we counted down each of the days.

A few weeks ago he came to our church and asked for prayer; he'd had heart surgery and wasn't feeling well, wasn't recovering. So Howard and I prayed over him, anointing him with oil.

Shortly thereafter, he collapsed, and was rushed to the hospital. He's been there, in a coma, ever since. (editor's note: don't try to draw any conclusions from that sequence about the dangers of letting me pray for you)

This morning his son called, and let us know they expect Warren to die today. In the next few hours, most likely. So a few of our people are heading up there to be by his side, to pray with him as he leaves this earth and goes to be with the Lord.

It always amazes me how quickly some people go; full of life and energy one minute, gone the next. I expected Warren to stick around for quite a bit longer. But it seems life caught up to him; perhaps some of his old mistakes wore his body down too much. But Warren loved people, he loved serving others, and he loved the Lord, so I don't doubt that paradise awaits him, a place where all those old mistakes are washed away, where redemption replaces brokenness.

Our prayers are with Warren and his family and community today.

Kimberly Joy

I suppose, like teachers, youth pastors ought not to have favorites. But let's be honest. . .having spent 15 years in youth ministry, spread over three different churches, I can't help but have special memories about those few special kids who endeared themselves in so many ways. Yes, we've loved all 'our kids,' but in the midst of those have been a handful that ended up being more loved than others.

Kimberly Joy is one of those kids.

Kim was in my first youth group, at Foothill Bible Church, in Southern California. But it's not really fair to say Kim was a "part" of that group. . .it was more like Kim and everybody else. Bright, energetic, prone to more than her share of embarrassing moments and awkward conversations, Kim was a friend to any and every person who crossed her path. One of our earliest events with that group was our summer camp trip to Hume Lake. That trip still comes up in conversations; especially memorable is Kim's 10 minutes of terror at the top of the Pamper Poles - a telephone pole you climbed as part of the high ropes course. She couldn't seem to take the last step to reach the top, choosing instead to cry, to panic, to beg and plead to be let off. Of course, this being Kim, she fully enjoyed every second of attention she received up there, as well.

Kim was on our student leadership team, she went on most of our beach trips and snow retreats. She was the recipient of too many practical jokes, but secretly relished the fact that, even in those jokes, she was the center of attention.

I was single at the time, but Kim (along with her sister Erin) took pity on me, regularly inviting me over to their house for spagghetti or pancakes.

Of course, like most high schoolers, Kim had her struggles. I remember one Sunday when Kim and her boyfriend Sean sat in the front row of church, she with blue hair and he with a chunk of steel through his septum. The pastor asked me later "what are we going to do with these kids setting such a bad example in worship?" I could only respond "how about we love them?" Because if Kim was anything, she was loveable. She could be funny, she got frustrated and angry perhaps too quickly, she never met a rule she didn't want to break. . .but she was a fiercely loyal friend, and she cared, deeply and passionately, about the people around her.

One winter we took a weekend trip into Los Angeles to do an urban mission trip. When I first announced it, she, in her usual blunt fashion, blurted out "you expect people to pay money to go serve homeless people?" And yet she went on that trip. And I remember one moment, when a homeless man came to the van and asked for money. . .after sending him away I turned around to discover Kim weeping in the seat behind me, her heart broken at the thought of this man sleeping on the streets. Kim desperately wanted to make people happy, and sometimes she struggled when confronted by the pain and sorrow of others - especially in those moments when there was nothing she could do to ease that pain.

Kim and Sean were the 2nd wedding I performed, on a sunny day on a Southern California beach. Shortly after we moved to Oregon, they came up and spent a week with us, visiting Tillamook and Multnomah Falls and meeting Ed the Grumpy Landlord. And so Kim (and Sean) transitioned, to us, from 'youth group kid" to true friend.

Over the last years, as Karina and I had two daughters and moved a couple times, and as Kim and Sean had a daughter and lived through struggles of their own, we talked less; we moved on with our lives. But we never could forget. Whenever we talk about "the old days," Kim (and Erin, too) somehow ends up central to those conversations. And, with the help of Facebook, we still said "hello" occasionally, keeping attuned to where she was in life, her joys at parenting, her excitement at Erin moving back to town and being able to play Aunt more regularly.

But Kim had long had significant health struggles, as well. . .and a couple nights ago those caught up with her. Kimberly passed away early Sunday morning. I found out by reading Sean's facebook update; for five minutes I stared at the screen, wondering what kind of sick joke he could possibly be playing, not believing that one so full of life, energy, passion, and love could be gone. But of course it wouldn't be a joke; she truly was gone. Yesterday afternoon Sean and I shared a hard, wonderful conversation, in which he gave me the fuller story. Mostly, though, we just shared memories. And there were so many. . .so many.

Kim was many things. She could be a complicated person. Sometimes I think even she was still trying to figure out who she was. But in the midst of it all, Kim was a friend. Kim was a ray of sunshine to every person who had the privilege to meet her. She even pushed me to be a better youth pastor; I'm sure much of who I am today as a minister traces back to those first days of youth ministry, and Kim was a manifestly important part of those days. Yes, she made my life difficult, she TP'd my office and house multiple times, she organized a group of friends to steal my SPAM collection, she always asked the wrong question at the wrong time, she did things her own way regardless of our wishes. . .but she also lived life out in the open, fearless to state her opinion, to challenge any perceived wrong, to try something new. She forced me to realize that ministry wasn't about any skill-set, but in being the human being God created me to be, ever being vulnerable and honest while living along those God has placed in my charge.

When Olivia was born, Kim and Sean gave her a copy of Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. Inside she wrote "Always remember that God is like the giving tree. . ." I think, perhaps, this is where Kim most reflected the image of God. Even in her moments of brokenness, even though she has such a propensity to seek the spotlight, she was still one who would give anything and everything to make other people happy. Kim couldn't stand to be in a room where anybody was upset; she had to find a way to cheer them up. It's just who she was.

Including sending cheerful little notes. I found one of those notes in a file last night. Enjoy. . .

May the Lord have mercy on Kim's parents Van and Debbie, on her sister Erin, on Sean and all those who mourn, and, most especially, on her daughter Robyn. And may the Lord finally give Kim the health and peace she so longed for in this world. She will be missed.

Kyrie eleison
Christe eleison

Book Review: This Incomplete One

This Incomplete One is a difficult, painful, searing book. It is also a book every pastor ought to have in their library. Perhaps it's a book that every Christian ought to have in their library. It's that important.

It's important because it walks on ground few of us are ever prepared to tread, it enters into places we never want to go; yet, all too often, we find ourselves there, and need help, need resources, need something to begin to show us how to regain our feet and our faith.

This Incomplete One is a collection of sermons preached at funerals for people who died too young. There are sermons for unborn babies, for children, for teenagers, for young people just entering into their adult lives, for a pastor in his mid-30s. There are sermons for people who died of sickness, of car accidents, of mountain climbing accidents. There are sermons by pastors who barely knew the deceased; there are sermons by fathers burying their own children.

As you might imagine, every emotion is seared across the pages of this book: doubt, fear, rage, hope, joy in happy memories, disgust with the trivial words of thoughtless well-wishers, and, of course, deep sorrow and sadness.

There are sermons by well-known pastors, teachers, and theologians across the centuries, including Karl Barth, Jonathon Edwards, Fleming Rutledge, and Friedrich Schleiermacher, as well as sermons by men and women unknown to me.

The book becomes then a resource in two aspects: 1) it gives the minister words to consider when confronted with similar situations, and 2) it forces the reader to enter into this painful killing field, wrestling with the deep, unanswered questions found there, and thus, hopefully, preparing them emotionally and spiritually for the day they are called to minister in these trying times.

As the book is simply a collection of sermons, the reader can pick it up and enter at any place, rather than reading straight through. I found this helpful, as it was difficult to read more than one or two chapters at a time without having to put it down and process what I was reading. Even as I read the last few sermons while flying home from Chicago earlier this month, I found myself choking up, tears coming to my eyes at the raw, naked emotion laid out in the thoughts and words of those facing the darkest terrors known to humanity.

On the other hand, I've already given a copy to a friend who recently lost her son, copied a chapter for a couple who lost a child last summer, and recommended it to another friend who lost his nephew last summer. I have the feeling I'm going to be returning to this book many times; I also believe I'll continue to hand out copies to help people in their grieving process in days and years to come.

And, finally, I must add that Fleming Rutledge's sermon, given for a young man who died of AIDS, was such a powerful Easter word, such a beautiful, simple explanation of Christ's atoning work delivering us from death to life, that I believe it has planted the seed for my own Easter sermon. "And then he was alive. The tomb could not hold him. The stone was simply blown aside by God's returning life - not returning human life, which always ends in dissolution and death, but God's life, which is triumphant over anything and everything that threatens human existence, including most of all dissolution and death. The resurrection of Jesus Christ means that God has reversed the story, reversed the odds, reversed the direction - from death to life."

I was, sadly, mistaken

Not all of my classmates are still living. Apparently, two or three years ago, Rex Slagle went to bed and never woke up.

You know the character Jud Nelson played in The Breakfast Club? That was Rex. Although Rex wasn't quite as angry as Nelson's character, not as dark. Rex had a better sense of humor, and tended to be more sarcastic than moody. But still. . .rebellious, angry at life, dealing with huge issues.

I heard stories Saturday night, telling how Rex as a freshman, used to sit under the stairs in our high school getting drunk before going to class. As seniors, I shared a table in study hall with Rex. He enjoyed getting a rise out of our supervisor, Nora Scheib. And he would tell me stories about sneaking his girlfriend into his bedroom after his parents went to sleep, and the trouble they'd go to to make sure she was out before they woke up.

Rex sold me a pair of parachute pants once.

The story is, after high school he continued to party hard. He was one who used and abused alcohol and all sorts of drugs. But apparently he'd moved to LA and gotten into the world of fitness. I'm not sure if it was just working out, or body-building. But he was into fitness, and so cleaned up his act. I heard he was married and had a child. Then, around the age of 36 or 37, he died in his sleep.

I wonder if he ever found whatever it is he was looking for?

On our end, it is sad because it closes that door forever. Sure, not everybody showed up to the reunion, but there's the thought that they could have, if they so desired. The potential was there to get everybody together again. But no more. One of our class is gone, and with him, his memories, his experiences, the role he played in our lives.

And when we watched the graduation slide show, and his picture came up, there was a laugh, a joke, and a sad pause, all at the same time.

Funny how I hadn't thought of him in years. And now that I find he's dead, I mourn for him.

(as to the reunion, it was good. I'll tell you about it later)