Jesus, The Way, The Truth

A friend handed me a book.  ”You need to read this,” she said.  ”In fact, it’s yours, you can have it.”

Thanks, I said.  I looked at the author’s name — Mitch Albom.  He’s not my favorite author, I said, but I will read it.  I noticed the title, “Have a Little Faith.”  My friend laughed offhandedly, remarking that she loved the little book and that it was a “quick read.”

Well, it was a quick read.  I started reading it that very evening and had sixty pages read when I felt sleepy enough to turn off the bedside lamp.  The next morning, I placed the book in my bathroom.  I have to steal time to read!  So, every time I go to the bathroom, I read a chapter while I’m there.  Last night, I read the final chapter, actually the epilogue, after I climbed into bed.  When the final word nestled into my brain, I turned off the lamp and leaned back against my headboard.  I closed my eyes and thought about what I had read.

So you will understand my thoughts, here is a quick summary of the book.  Mitch Albom is born a Jew, is raised in a traditionally Jewish family, worships at the same synagogue all his life and has the same rabbi all his life.  He marries a Christian woman and the two of them make a marriage based on tolerance of each other’s faith, neither of them wishing to change.  At one point in Mitch’s life, his rabbi asks him to deliver his eulogy when he passes away.  Thinking the rabbi’s death may be imminent, Mitch feels that he must get to know his rabbi on a more intimate level.  For the next eight years, he establishes a relationship with the rabbi that is familial, very close and loving.  Also for the next eight years, he establishes a relationship with a Christian preacher who has come from a very evil lifestyle into Christianity and has determined to live his life for Jesus and to help others who are living evil lifestyles similar to what his had been.  Mitch visits the Christian preacher’s church building and finds him impoverished, but giving all he has to the homeless and hurting.  The journey through the book shows the power of faith in both men’s lives, the Jewish rabbi and the Christian preacher.  Mitch Albom comes to the concluding revelation that faith is faith wherever it is found and that the same God rewards that faith, whether the individual knows the true God toward whom his faith is directed or not.

Since I am a Christian, I understood the journey of the Christian preacher far more easily than that of the Jewish rabbi.  His reasons for becoming a Christian, for dedicating his life to serving the poor, make sense to me.  The Jewish rabbi, on the other hand, spent his entire life in comfort and in the security of his synagogue.  Yet, he suffered loss, loved people intensely, taught the precepts and law of God every day of his life, and came to the same conclusion that Christians do that loving God and loving people is the best way to live.

I sat in the dark for a long time.  I wanted to call my friend and tell her, “Yes, but…”  the primary “but” being that if a Jewish rabbi does not believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, then his faith did not take him down the right path.  I wanted to ask why the rabbi never asked himself why the promised Messiah was never sent, if in fact Jesus is not him.  I thought the author should have asked the rabbi that question.  Yet, the book made it so clear that the Jewish rabbi loved God with all his heart, soul, strength and mind.

I began to pray, “Heavenly Father, thank you for opening my mind to new possibilities, even possibilities that I do not want to embrace.  Who am I to judge another person’s faith?  Only You can do that.  Your Son said, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.  No one comes to the Father except through Me.”  I can see Him now, sitting at your right hand and He is the One through whom the souls who are passing from physical life into spiritual life find their way to You.  What if the faithful rabbi arrives there and Jesus says to You, “Father, forgive Him, for he never knew what he was doing.”  Couldn’t that be Jesus’ role?  He told us that all authority had been given to Him in Heaven and on the earth.  Jesus has the authority to forgive everyone.  He did that on the day He was crucified.  He asked You, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”  That forgiveness was not only for the ones who would acknowledge him as Messiah after His resurrection.  It was for all of them, every soul, whether they understood or not.  Forgive me for limiting His authority to what I can understand.  I pray that you will continue to open my mind and heart to the truth of your love and grace.  In the blessed name of Jesus, Amen.”

As I sat there thinking about all I had read and about the thoughts that were now racing ahead of me to some conclusion that I was not prepared to accept, I wondered about how Jesus felt when He said, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.  No one comes to the Father except through Me.”  I wondered what His perspective was.  I wondered what His judgment was.  What if He said that simply because it is the truth and not to pass judgment on an individual’s journey of faith?  It is the TRUTH, He is the Way and we must go through Him to reach God, but what if that is NOT a condemnation of the faith of men.  He sits at God’s right hand and He has all authority.  He can forgive whomever He wants to forgive and He wants to forgive all of us.  When the faithful rabbi appears before God, and Jesus sees his loving heart and his faithfulness, doesn’t He have the authority to say, “Father, forgive him, for he does not know what he was doing?”  And, based on Jesus’ authority, won’t God forgive?  And when He forgives, won’t the rabbi be safe in His presence having gone through Jesus in order to come to the Father?

I have not come to my conclusion in the matter.  I have much more study and meditation to do.  But, a new light has been shed on my heart and in that light, I am forced to confront my own faith and my tendency toward judgment of others based on my personal faith.  I don’t know where I will be at the end of this searching, but I am eager to begin.

“Have a Little Faith” is a unique story, told with gentleness and love.  But, “quick read” and “easy read” are misnomers.  It has challenged me and taught me again that faith is not something we can lock inside a box and keep the same all our lives.

Josiah

A certain little six-year-old boy has flung himself straight into my heart.  His name is Josiah.  I’ve known him less than three months and in that time, he has become a trusted friend.  He is unlike any other child I know.  He has no reserve or inhibition.  He is as comfortable with me as he would be a grandmother and he was like that from day one.  Josiah has just begun his first year of school, kindergarten.  He is extremely bright and I’m sure kindergarten holds no challenge for him.  He has a fascination with numbers, mathematics and the expanse of infinity that accompanies numbers.  I don’t know what level he has attained, but I am amazed at the math problems he can solve.  He has a pretty good grasp of geography.  We had a discussion one day about the Ukraine and how one of our elders has gone to the Ukraine to teach the gospel.  This led to him explaining to me that Russia spans both Europe and Asia and is the largest continent so they should just be considered one continent since there is no sea between them.  He said, “I wish I had my globe here.  I would show you where Russia is.”

One afternoon, his father, David, asked me to pick him up from school.  They told Josiah this might take place since they were traveling to Amarillo, TX and were not certain they could be back by 3:30.  I drove to the school and waited for him.  He saw me soon after he got off the school bus and immediately broke out in a smile and ran toward me.  “Hi, Miss Lora!” he yelled as he ran.  We talked about his day for a few minutes and he told me about his music class and how much he loves music.   Then, he took my hand and we walked toward my car.  It was then I remembered I do not have a child seat in my car.  We were only driving a few blocks, so I wasn’t worried about it.  I just wanted him to be okay with it.  Since it was the first time he rode in my car, I wanted to be sure he felt comfortable.  I said, “Josiah, I don’t have a child carseat for you.  Is it okay with you if we just use the seatbelt?”  He said, “Oh, sure. I ride that way lots of times.”  Again, to make him comfortable riding with me, I asked, “Would you like to ride up front with me, or…”   “That would be ILLEGAL!”  Josiah interrupted.  I laughed.  “All right, the back seat it is.”

Today came the crowning event.  When something like this happens, you know there is complete trust between you.  Josiah’s mother, Katie, brought him and his siblings to the church building.  Josiah came in and after we visited a while, he said he had to go to the bathroom which is directly across the hall from my office.  He went into the bathroom and I resumed working at the computer.  Suddenly, I heard him yell, “Miss Lora!   Miss Lora!  I need you, Miss Lora!”  I jumped up from my desk and walked straight into the men’s bathroom.  “What do you need?” I asked, a bit hesitant to just pull back the privacy curtain.  “I need you to check and be sure I got all the poop off my bottom!” he said.  What a wonderful kid!  So, I checked.  “Wow, you did a great job!” I congratulated him.  “Thanks,” he said.

I backed out of the bathroom and let him do the rest on his own.  It struck me that trust is something children have and develop so easily, the way they allow adults to share everything and hold nothing back.  I applaud his parents who have allowed him to enjoy every moment of life and have not stolen his precious trusting spirit by teaching him fear, shame and guilt. 

There will be more times, more moments of joy ahead for me because this little boy has come into my life.  I know it’s coming, but I wish I could hold back forever the day he will feel the need to reserve or stifle something he’d rather share.

Houses

My daughter and her husband are beginning the search for a new house.  It is a very exciting time for them.  They have saved money and been really smart and now they will be able to buy a home without many of the stresses that plague most young people in a shaky economy.  At the same time, my husband and I are looking at the possibility of selling our house–the house we have lived in for twenty-one years and that we built ourselves back when we weren’t much older than my daughter is now. 

I would like to say that it is an exciting time for us too, but “exciting” has not arrived yet.  Right now, we have apprehension and indecision.  We listed the house for sale because we feel that we don’t have other options for reducing debt and we really need to reduce debt.  But, when we actually discuss how to go about living the rest of our lives if we do sell the house, we run into major roadblocks.

Because of his poor health, my husband needs desperately to stop working.  But, can a man who loves working be expected to stop doing it, even if doing it causes pain?  When I talk to him about choosing to stop working, he gets defensive as if I am wanting to take something away from him.  So, I remind him, “You tell me every day of our lives that you are hurting too much to live and that your work is killing your hands (or back, or neck, or knees, or feet, or whatever is hurting the most on any given day.)”  And he agrees this is true.  Somehow, ‘stop working’ is not translating in his brain the same as ‘stop working.’  And, the tools… oh my goodness, the tools.  He wants to stop working, but sell a tool?  No, sir!   I’m not talking about hand tools like hammers and screw drivers.  I’m talking about huge drum sanders and huge shapers and planers and table saws.  I hope they have storage barns in retirement communities the size of warehouses because we will take these tools with us everywhere we go until we die.

Having said that, I think the best thing for us is to remain where we are.  If our place sells, we could build a smaller house with a big garage down by our pond and he could keep his big tools in his dad’s shop until we are able to build a new shop. 

Every time a new “looker” shows some interest in our place, I get a tiny thrill of hope that we might be able to leave here and live somewhere else.  I would so love to try that before I die… just to wake up in a different environment and smell different aromas and hear different sounds.  I would even like to live in a house that I didn’t have to work to build and meet new people and belong to a different church and have a different job. 

But, houses are just houses after all.  All that matters is that we are together and here is as good as anywhere, I suppose.

I’m thrilled for my daughter, though.  How wonderful to have a great new adventure!

Loading Day

Chad and Shannon left this morning about 7:30 a.m.  They still had loose ends, left now for fathers and mothers to take care of; but it was time to go.  We saw them briefly for goodbye hugs and tears.  I’m always struck by the brevity of life at times such as this.  Most experiences are memories so quickly that a person wonders if it happened at all.  They were here only a few hours ago; but, now it seems they have been gone a long time.

Yesterday was loading day.  Joe and I spent most of our day helping pack boxes full of random household goods and then filled a U-Haul trailer as tightly as possible.  I don’t think a mouse could have squeaked through any of the spaces left and still we had chair cushions and a king-size mattress and box springs to balance on top of the trailer and tie down with bungee cords.  What a day!

Joe’s trailer was also parked in front of the apartment because there were some items that, for lack of space, had to be left here.  We will store these items in Joe’s trailer until Chad and Shannon can return to pick them up, probably a month or two.  Case was so excited that Granna and Poppop were at his house all day.  He has little understanding of what is going on, so he found great delight in all of the chaos.  He called my name over and over during the day…  “Granna, come play with me.  Granna, look!  Granna, what you doing?  No, Granna, you stay here.”  Ever since he was born, I have repeated the same phrase when I hold  him, “Case, I love you so much.”  I just can’t help myself.  As soon as I pick him up, those words come out of my mouth.  This day was no different.

I took my moments throughout the day to walk with him and to spend time just sitting with him and listening to his observations.   In one of these moments, we were inside Joe’s trailer.  Case asked, “Granna, is this Poppop’s trailer?”   I said, “Yes, this is Poppop’s trailer.”  He pointed outside in the direction of the U-Haul and asked, “Is that Daddy’s trailer?”  I said, “No, that’s the U-Haul trailer.”  He turned his head to the side and asked, “My haul trailer?”  I chuckled, “No, it’s called a U-haul trailer.”  He frowned and said, “My haul trailer or you haul trailer?”   How can I explain that one?  I just said, “It’s just called U-haul trailer.”  He said, “Okay, my haul trailer.”  After that, he called it “my haul trailer” the rest of the day.

In the evening, I went inside and retrieved Jake from his baby swing.  I sat in a black folding chair and just held him.  His tiny fingers grasped my pinky even though he was sleeping.  He is a beautiful baby.  Every minute that passed, I could feel my heart breaking, knowing that Jake will have no memories of a Granna who loves him so much and Case will not have enough to keep us alive in his mind.  I am deeply sad that so much distance will separate us.  Case played in the living room in front of me, constantly doing cute things to make me laugh.  He is imaginative and entertaining and so endearing.  There was a pile of pink styrofoam packing peanuts in a pile on one side of the room where someone had emptied a box.  Case asked me what they were.  I said “peanuts” before I thought about it and he immediately bit down on one.  I said, “No, no, they’re not for eating.  They are packing peanuts.”  He repeated perfectly, “Packing peanuts!”  He started breaking them in two pieces and throwing them, making an even bigger mess in the room; so I suggested that he throw them out the window where Chad had removed a window air conditioner.  He grabbed a handful of the pink peanuts and threw them with both hands and yelled something that sounded like “What-cha!”  This was a good game for at least ten minutes.  Then, I decided to shut the window and door because it was getting cold in the room.  After I sat back down with Jake, Case said, “Look, Granna!”  He broke a couple of the packing peanuts and threw the pieces on me.  I said, “Oh, no!” and he laughed and laughed.  Then, he stopped and looked at me. Of course, I was grinning at his antics.  He ran over to me and reached his little hands up and said, “I want to give you a hug.”   I sort of moved Jake to the left side and picked Case up with my right hand.  He threw his little arms around my neck and hugged me hard.  Then, he said, slowly and deliberately, “Granna, I love you… so… much.”   Then, he wriggled out of my arms again and returned to playing. 

I was overwhelmed with emotion.  Tears filled my eyes as I watched him play and his sweet, trusting words replayed themselves over and over again in my mind.  It was a precious moment that I will never forget.  I prayed a silent prayer of thankfulness.  In my anguish about Chad’s family moving so far away, I believe that God reached down and gave me a gift.  It is a gift that I can take out whenever I’m down and it will lift me up.  I’ve never known a sweeter child, not even my own.  Case has a unique place in my heart, not a favored place because I dearly love all my grandchildren, but a place that belongs only to him.

This morning when they stopped by to say their final goodbyes, he hugged Poppop first and before Poppop was ready for it to end, he reached toward me and said, “Give Granna a hug.”  I took him in my arms and he hugged me and then unexpectedly kissed me on the cheek.   When, they were gone, Joe and I both cried.  I don’t think young people realize the profound effect that grandchildren have on a grandparent.  I know I didn’t when our children were young.  It is a relationship unlike any other, one of unconditional love so simple and basic that it outshines all other loves.  I don’t know how else to explain it.  I pray that they will find a good life in Fort Collins; but I will miss them more than I can express.

Give to those who ask…

The phone rang.  The lady said, “My name is Dora.  I’m calling to get help for my daughter. You know her husband beat her up real bad and she left him but you know she has a baby you know and she needs money for food and pampers for the baby you know.  I was just wondering if you know someone who would give her money for pampers for the baby, ’cause he broke her ribs you know and she’s pregnant. You know I’m on Social Security and I only get $500 a month but I told her she can come over here, but she’s afraid cause he knows where I live you know and I just feel so bad for her to go to the hospital and sell her blood just to get pampers for the baby, you know.”

I confess that I am not prepared for these kinds of calls.  I told her that we have clothing here and food and we’d be glad to give her daughter food and clothes, but that we don’t have funds available to give her money.  (This is what I’m told to say to the callers who want money.)  And, it is true that we have allocated very few budget dollars for benevolence.  I suggested that her daughter report her husband and get a restraining order against him and I suggested that they call the police and ask about help for battered women and I suggested the daughter go to Community Services and see if they can offer help, and to apply for WIC.  Is this the equivalent of “be ye warmed and filled?”  I think it is and yet I let Dora hang up the phone without giving me her phone number or any other information that might have aided me in helping them.  As soon as I hung up the phone, I knew…  I knew I should have gotten more information, at least a last name; and I knew I should go find Dora after I leave work and take pampers for the baby.  I knew this… yes, I knew it too late. 

Now, I have Dora’s daughter on my heart and I don’t even know her name.  I see her, frail and pregnant with broken ribs at the hospital selling her blood for pampers.  Oh, it makes me sick at heart to think of that.  So much pain in the world and I let an opportunity to do something pass me by.  I just said the practiced words and let it pass me by.  The weight of it is very heavy.

Honoring a Parent

Last Sunday afternoon, I went to the nursing home in Clovis to see my mother.  I don’t go very often.  I know others have judged me unkindly with regard to my mother’s care as if perhaps I don’t berate myself enough or feel guilty enough.  I love my mother.  If love is really love, there is action involved.  I believe that too.  Love that moves us to action is the only kind that has eternal value.  This, I know and believe as well.  But, I can’t do anything about my mother’s fate.  My older sisters have made this decision to keep her in a nursing home and I have no power to change it.  Even if I tried, I could not meet her needs in my own home nor would she want to stay with me.  There is little value in making excuses for my infrequent visits.  I don’t need to be judged; because in this, I judge myself. 

My mother will be ninety-two years old in August.  She is frail and fragile, barely a hundred pounds.  Once a robust, domineering woman, she is now small and weak.  More than that, she is lost and alone.  She no longer knows who I am, or any of my sisters, but more tragic, she doesn’t know who she is.  Her little body still tries to work.  From her wheel chair, she moves the furniture around in the sunroom and straightens magazines.  She no longer knows why she does it.  Sometimes, she rolls her wheel chair into the nurses’ station and tries to straighten up their things.  They yell at her and make her leave.  While I was there on Sunday, she rolled into a male resident’s room and began trying to move his bedside table out into the hallway.  Something told her that it needed to be moved.  He stared at her without speaking.  The nurses did nothing.  And, when my sister and I retrieved her and rolled her back to the sunroom, she became very agitated.  She spoke some words we couldn’t understand in a high-pitched, sort of falsetto voice, and I knew it was born of anger and helplessness because other people force her to do what she does not want to do and force her not to do what she wishes to do.

Back in the sunroom, my younger sister broke a cookie and handed her a piece of it.  She ate it and wanted more, so my sister gave her more.  Another sister, had a small ziploc bag of Hershey’s kisses.  Mother kept taking the chocolates out of the bag and putting them back in it.  Over and over again, she would take them out and expect that we might share them and when we didn’t she put them back in the bag and said something that sounded like “they don’t want any.”  A nurse brought over a tiny square milk box that contained a strawberry shake mixture and Mother tried to drink it.  She kept bending the side of it with her thumb which prevented it from opening and that frustrated her more.  She spoke over and over again in the strange falsetto voice the same words.  “Baby” was somewhere in the middle of it.  I thought it sounded like “My baby’s gone”  or “My baby’s dead”  or “My baby died.”  My sister said it couldn’t be that.  She said, “Mother always talks this way.  She always talks about babies, but I don’t think she’s worried about babies.  She’s just talking about them.”  But, I feel certain that she is worried, perhaps even suffering because of something she imagines about a baby, whether it is her baby or someone else’s.  She said the same phrase more than a hundred times in the hour that I spent with her.

I grieve for my mother.  Her life, regardless of whether it was what we wanted it to be, belonged to her and it has been stolen from her.  I don’t know if disease has taken it, or if being locked up in a prison called nursing home has taken it, or if she just didn’t try to keep it and it slipped away.  But, she is an empty shell left on the shore.  The waves still lap against her and sometimes others find her and inspect her and look for life that isn’t there and then they leave her where they found her and walk away and forget. 

When I left the nursing home to drive the twenty miles back to my house, I felt so empty.  The person I had visited had no resemblance to the mother who raised me.  I thought about all of the difficult times I experienced with her as a child, as a teenager, as a young woman and I thought that if I could have them back now, I would see them differently.  She did the best she could with what God gave her and she did the best she could with all of the experiences of her life that made her an individual.  Every moment of our lives changes us in one way or another and it is in that process that we become a personality.  I wept for my mother, so lost and vacant.  I begged God to take her home because He loves her more than anyone here does and because she needs to experience His love, love that will save her, resurrect her, breathe life back into the forgotten shell.  I want her to experience that perfect love from Him.  She deserves to be loved.

I grieve for the loss of relationship that I wanted with both my parents and especially with my mother.  I needed it.  I thank God that He has allowed me to live long enough to realize that it is not about me.  My mother strongly affected the woman I have become.  In her own way, the only way she was capable, she loved me.  I no longer believe that you honor a parent only through affection, meaningful conversation, or even time spent together.  I believe you honor a parent by living a life that would make them proud, one that would bring honor to their name, and one that would honor God who gave it.  And in those ways, I believe I honor my mother.

Life’s About Changing

Chad and Shannon are making plans (at least in their heads) to move to Fort Collins, Colorado.  It’s a beautiful place; and enjoyment in living goes along with a beautiful environment I suppose.  Don’t you think its strange how something that you thought you had to get away from is appealing to you once you’ve left it behind?  I can remember how Chad was so eager to return to New Mexico after Mandy left.  Now that he has Shannon and Case in his life, he sees Fort Collins in a different light.  It’s as if it holds everything he and Shannon need — independence, freedom, happiness, and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  But, now he sees it from the perspective of a man who is loved and respected.  Good relationships are the key to most things.

There is always something holding you back and interfering with you seeing your dreams come true.  In Chad’s and Shannon’s case, it is the house he is building here in New Mexico.  He needs to finish it and then place it on the market and sell it and pay off his mortgage.  They are working hard now to complete the house.  Things will come together… it’s just a matter of time.

The thing that is the most difficult is knowing that we will seldom see Case once they move away.  It is ten hours of driving one way and I know that as we grow older, we won’t make that trip often.  I guess I always thought, or at least hoped, that I would have an abiding kind of relationship with my grandchildren.  I don’t want to settle for an occasional hi-how-are-you-my-you’ve-grown-so-tall kind of relationship.  I want the kind that includes sleep-overs and baking cookies and learning to catch a fish at our pond.  I want the kind that shares secrets, laughter and tears, church services and shopping trips.  I want to watch T-ball games and attend honors assemblies and graduations.  Pictures are nice but they don’t hug you and their eyes don’t shine when you tell them you’re proud of them. 

Some grandparents, the fortunate ones, do not have to wait and hope for a chance to hold a tiny hand or kiss a tiny cheek.  I look around me at church and I see grandparents and grandchildren sitting together on the same pew.  I see tiny heads asleep on Nana’s lap and others with Granddad’s arms around them and his big hand holding theirs while they draw a bunny or a sailboat or maybe draw around their hand during the sermon.  Sometimes, my grandson waves to me across the aisle.  My eyes well up with tears every time I think about the day he will no longer be there to wave and grin at me.

It seems that my grandchildren’s lives will run parallel to mine, not intersecting.  It’s not what I wish for; but, it’s not my choice to make nor within my power to change.  I am at the mercy of my sons and their desires for their own lives that have nothing to do with mine.  I will accept the way it has to be, I guess.  I was never close to my parents as I was raising my children.  I have lived a long time “on my own” and I have learned that “on my own” is not what it promises to be.  Family is what is precious and valuable and even eternal.  Building good relationships is vital to happiness and joy.  My daughter-in-law, April, told me, “We are not in this world to just take care of ourselves.”  She has it figured out.  In the final analysis, isn’t that what God wants us to learn?  That family matters?  And, that in loving each other generationally, we learn more about God?