The Thrill of It All

Posted on by

Today my college buddies came to church with me, making it easier to be without Nate. We found seats in the back and were settled in to worship when I noticed the family sitting in front of us with four young children. My best guesses were: a boy of 12, girls about 8 and 9 and another boy around 6. All of them were well behaved as the service proceeded, and the mother, sitting in the middle, continually quick-glanced in both directions to monitor them. She never needed to shush them, though, since they were so good.

Toward the end of the service, she leaned over to her youngest boy, probably a first grader, and whispered, “Yes, you can take communion today.”

It was as if he’d been told there was a new bike waiting for him in the parking lot. He wiggled and squirmed with excitement he could barely contain, gently tugging on his older brother’s sleeve as if to say, “Did you hear that? Mom said yes!”

As the plate of crackers came, he didn’t hesitate but took one and passed it on. Soft music played as he studied his tiny treasure and looked at his mother’s face. She smiled and put her hands together to let him know he should pray, and he immediately bowed his head. When the pastor gave the signal to eat, he looked at his brother, who gave him the go-ahead. A similar routine occurred with the cup.

I can’t stop thinking about this little guy’s enthusiasm for communion. He made a joyful mark on me, and I knew God was watching him with satisfaction. I prayed this child would always remember the happiness he felt as he took communion for the first time.

Children are naturally drawn to Jesus. It was detailed in Scripture and is still true today. God must have endowed them with a special understanding of his love for them. They never question it and usually receive salvation as the uncomplicated free gift it is. They have no thoughts of “But what about this or that…” and readily take the Lord at his word. They trust he is who he says he is and will do what he says he’ll do. What delight this must bring to the heart of the Father. If only we adults could think in this unfettered way.

The little boy’s behavior showed he’d been prepared for communion, schooled in the deep significance of the cross. I hope when he put his head on the pillow tonight, his mom or dad asked for his thoughts about the morning, because I’m sure he could have taught them something.

Once in a while, all of us would do well to think like a child.

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.” (Rev. 3:20)

FFF

Posted on by

There’s no friend like an old friend, and 45 years of friendship definitely qualifies.

Nine of us college pals are here at the cottage for a few days, 405 years of accumulated friendship and good times. We met at Wheaton College in the mid-sixties and lived in off-campus housing together senior year. That’s when we really became close, sharing all-night study gigs fueled by a brand new product, Diet Rite Cola. Looking back at pictures, you’d think we spent all our time fooling around rather than hunkering down over books.

One day Kathy decided we needed a pet and came home with three goldfish in a bowl. She named them Figgy, Figgy and Foo, and although the fish didn’t last very long, the name stuck. Eleven of us became the Figgy Figgy Foos, or the Figs, or just plain FFF.

In the 43 years since graduation, we’ve been diligent about getting together, meeting every three years for a three day weekend in different homes. The decades have shaped our lives in cities across America and one in Germany. We’ve ended up becoming a missionary, a dean of students, a pastor, an editor, a social worker, a computer consultant and several school teachers. Coming together every three years takes effort… completely worth it.

The longer we live, the more interesting our gatherings become. We’ve taken divergent paths, and when we come together to catch up on three year’s worth of stories, the conversation is rich. Email has made it easier to arrange our reunions, and today we even spent a few minutes huddled over a laptop watching our favorite YouTube video clips, howling with laughter. Wasn’t it just yesterday we learned what the letters PC meant?

And that’s what old people do. They reminisce and say, “It seems like yesterday.”

How can it be that we all went on Medicare this year? Why is it that many are retiring? How come we’re talking around health issues? Can we be that old already?

Tonight, as we got sore stomachs from raucous laughter playing “Catch Phrase,” we had as good a time as in our college days. Age didn’t matter. Longstanding friendship did.

Although having fun has been our consistent theme, we’ve had to get serious, too. Two of our number have already died, both from cancer. And now Nate, too, is gone. Although he wasn’t a Fig, he was an adjunct member just like the other husbands are, and he is missed. We’re well aware time does run out on earthly friendships and want to make the most of the ones we have left.

When the 11 of us left the college campus in 1967, none of us knew how long we’d remain pals. And tonight we concluded that although laughing and being goofy has kept us wanting more, the core reason for Fig-unity is our shared belief in Jesus Christ. He’s the constant, the one who is present at every gathering and most important to us as individuals. He’s the glue that holds us together.

We can’t deny we’ve gotten old, but we don’t mind, because God is the one keeping us going, and he is timeless.

“For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’ ”(Acts 17:28)

One Year Ago: Part II

Posted on by

Thinking back to the significant events of a year ago with Nate’s cancer dominating him, I’ve been reading my own blog posts: Sept. 27, the shock of diagnosis; Sept. 28, last day at work; Sept. 29, first radiation treatment; and Sept. 30, a difficult treatment day.

I’m letting my mind think back to that time just until the 42 dates have passed. And then, I tell myself, I won’t do it again. My widow pals say, “Go ahead and spend time remembering. Experience it again. It’s the most dramatic time of your life and won’t be dismissed without acknowledging the pain.”

And so I’m there.

Although reading the blog this week and looking at my 2009 calendar has been an exercise in mourning accompanied by occasional weeping, for the most part it’s been manageable and has made me appreciate Nate more than ever. But today a dam broke.

I was cleaning house in preparation for the arrival of nine college friends, sweeping up swirling clouds of Jack’s dog hair. Trying to slide a living room chair aside, I felt resistance so reached underneath, pulling out a child’s puzzle, the kind with tiny knobs on each piece for little toddler fingers. I’d bought it for Skylar, and when she recently visited, we’d found the other puzzles but not that one, the newest one.

With a rush of emotion, I knew it had to have been shoved under the chair a year ago when all of us daily sat with Nate in the living room. That one realization zapped me like an electrical shock, and I started to sob. When the puzzle went under the chair, Nate was still alive. Instantly I was swamped with overpowering longing to go back to this date a year ago; memories and blog reports weren’t good enough. I wanted to go back for real, to have Nate with me again.

Finding the puzzle produced a wrenching moment of impossibility without any remedy, and I could hardly stand it. The only thing to do was to pick up my broom and sweep… and sob.

In several more minutes the floor was clean and the crying was over. But then I thought of all the different reasons people cry, all the tough situations life brings. The variety is endless, and tears eventually come to all of us. No one is exempt from the feeling of “wrenching impossibility.”

As difficult as it was to experience that today, my gut instinct tells me it was a few moments of healing. I believe God orchestrates these blips on our emotional screens to distance ourselves from the heartbreaks in our history and bring us to a better reality absent of wrenching impossibility. This doesn’t mean new heartbreak won’t come. But somehow knowing we’ve made it through one disaster will help us get through another.

Before I put the puzzle away, I stared at it for a minute. I wanted to picture my grandchildren playing with it rather than the circle of sad family members in the living room last fall. And with the cheery mental picture of those little ones, I knew I could move forward.

At least for now.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)