Category Archives: Remembering

Dialogue in a Deli

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On Friday I drove the 90 miles from southwest Michigan to Chicago, back to a place I call “Nate’s hospital.” It’s the place where we learned he had terminal cancer, where we drove the long round trip 14 times for radiation treatments, and where we met Dr. Ross Abrams.

Dr. Abrams had the difficult job of delivering one piece of bad news after another to our family as Nate struggled through his 6 weeks of cancer. The doctor also positioned himself to be our soft place to fall after each new (and always bad) development. Somehow, in the 2½ years since those dark days, the doctor and I have found enough common ground to become friends.

The relationship is based on respect for one another, fleshed out in hour-long conversations that take place only once every few months. All of our meetings are at Nate’s hospital. This time as I arrived to connect with Dr. Abrams he said, “Let’s talk upstairs in the deli rather than in my office.”

As I followed him through a labyrinth of halls, everything suddenly looked familiar. And as we came to the deli, which was full of medical personnel eating breakfast in their scrubs and white coats, a Nate-memory swallowed me up. I’d sat in that place before on one of Nate’s most difficult cancer days, and the feelings of confronting a hopeless disease came rushing back.

Nate’s brother had accompanied us to radiation that day, after which Nate was scheduled for a full body bone scan, the kind that requires an injection of dye beforehand. Those three appointments (for the injection, the radiation, and the scan) were supposed to take 4 hours total, but a big delay between appointments #2 and #3 found us waiting two extra hours.

That’s when Nate, Ken, and I ended up in the deli, a beautiful facility well stocked with goodies. My memories of that visit are only of sadness, frustration, and a husband in pain. Unbeknownst to us that day, Nate wouldn’t live out the month.

So this last Friday when Dr. Abrams and I sat down at a deli table with our coffees, it was difficult to focus forward rather than back. We talked about the sloppy realities of birth and death, marveling at how these two events have much in common. We touched on life’s disappointments and the unwelcome challenges that come to us. And we agreed that many of these things are tests from God.

I am an evangelical Christian, and Dr. Abrams is an orthodox Jew. Each of us knows what the other believes, and we disagree on many of the religious basics. So why do we keep meeting? What’s the point of our conversations? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because I’m curious about his faith, and he’s curious about mine.

Whatever the reason, I have a hunch God is at the center of it.

“If someone asks about your Christian hope, always be ready to explain it. But do this in a gentle and respectful way.” (1 Peter 3:15-16)

The Benefits of Nostalgia

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My dad was born in 1899 and grew up in a Chicago that had dirt roads and wooden sidewalks. The women wore floor-length dresses, and ordinary folk didn’t own cars, telephones, or electric anything. Most people never traveled farther than the blocks of their own ethnic neighborhoods, and national election results were announced with fireworks.

My sister, brother, and I heard fascinating tales about Dad’s growing up years and hoped to preserve them for generations to come. Video cameras weren’t available in the early ’80’s, but we did have cassette players, so we decided to record his remembrances as we followed him to each of his childhood homes and neighborhoods, taking pictures along the way to accompany the tape. No one was more thrilled about this than him.

Years after Dad died, we did something similar with Mom, and today Mary and I talked about our own children, wondering if they’d be interested in preserving our histories as we had with our parents. This morning we decided to make a preliminary tour of the pertinent sights from our younger days, planning how we might organize the information. At each house from our pasts, we knocked on the door and walked around the property. No one was home.

Our last stop was Nate’s and my first house, beautifully maintained since we’d last lived there 37 years ago. The owner, working at home, answered our knock and, after hearing why we were interested, enthusiastically invited us in.

Although the house had been reconfigured in several minor ways, it was much the same. In the upstairs bathroom I recognized the tiny floor tiles and old toilet and tub. “High quality,” the man said. “No need to replace them.” I looked at the tub and remembered the early morning in 1973 when I sat on the edge of it trying to decide if I was in labor or not, and several hours later, we became parents.

As we walked through each room, old memories flooded my mind and Mary’s, too. The man seemed interested and asked us endless questions about the house. We left promising to send photos from the 1970’s and the original house listing.

Why is it so much fun to rehash the old days? Maybe it’s a validation of the path we’ve walked. Maybe it’s a longing to go back, to be young again. Or maybe it’s gratitude that we don’t have to.

As Mary and I talked between stops, we shared remembrances, some sweet, some bittersweet, and decided the best approach was to count the blessings rather than the sorrows. Part of that was identifying where God had interjected his influence and changed the course of events.

We talked of how he’d directed Dad’s and Mom’s lives, how he continued by guiding ours, and how he’s lovingly touching our children the same way. “And if you forget everything else,” God said, “remember that.”

“Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me.” (Isaiah 46:9)

Burden-Bearer

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After a woman learns she’s expecting her first baby, like it or not she’s joined the Burden-Bearing Club. She doesn’t feel the weight of it at first, but as the weeks pass, understanding dawns. Then after 9 months, she’s eager to go through the misery of labor and delivery, because it means she can unload her burden.

But burden-bearing doesn’t end there. All parents quickly become acquainted with the lifting, hauling, and holding that their new role brings. Even a 7 pound newborn becomes a back-breaker after enough carrying duty.

Looking back on the heavy lifting of parenthood, my prominent thought is of Nate. His M.O. was always to lighten my load, and his constant question was, “Can I carry that for you?” Even if he already had his arms full and I had only one thing, he’d offer to take it from me.

I remember trudging through Disney World years ago with our own children and another family, watching Nate walk ahead of me next to the other dad. The two men were laughing, having a good time, and Nate resembled a pack horse for all the bags and bundles hanging from his shoulders. But because his motivation was always to help me, he carried his load lightly.

Scripture describes a similar picture when God says, “Can I carry that for you?” He’s referring to our sins, knowing how burdened we feel when we know we’re in the wrong and haven’t done anything about it.

The biblical David described this exact dilemma: “My guilt overwhelms me—it is a burden too heavy to bear. I am on the verge of collapse… But I confess my sins; I am deeply sorry for what I have done.” (Psalm 38:3-4,17-18) If we follow David’s example, we’ll find the same relief he did: “May all who search for you [Lord] be filled with joy and gladness in you. May those who love your salvation repeatedly shout, ‘The Lord is great!’ You are my helper and my savior.” (Psalm 40:16-17)

Although Nate’s shouldering of my burdens had to end when he passed away, God’s carrying never stops. He established it permanently when Jesus took responsibility for all sin, for all time, everywhere. And it’ll continue forevermore for anyone who takes advantage of the reprieve he offers.

I probably shouldn’t have taken such regular advantage of Nate’s offer to carry my burdens, but his “can I carry” continued, even when he didn’t feel good. This picture, taken about 6 months before he died, tells the tale. We knew nothing of his deadly cancer then, although it had probably already taken hold, but his back was torturing him. Even then he asked if he could carry my weighty red purse on a sight-seeing trip in England.

 

Although every good man offers to carry his wife’s burdens, only the finest will shoulder her purse.

“Give your burdens to the Lord, and he will take care of you.” (Psalm 55:22)