Archive for the 'grief' Category

Moses’ tears

Published
by
Mike
on January 31, 2005
in family, grief and the wreck
. 8 Comments

Moses’ Tears

It’s been almost three years ago that our beloved dog, Molly, died. After an appropriate period of mourning, Diane and Chris went to the library to check out dog books so they could read up in preparation of selecting just the right dog.

Then I went out to run one morning. When I returned, a mutt puppy was in our garage. Clearly, he had been dumped and had wandered in. I yelled to Diane to come see. Her eyes grew as big as saucers and she screamed, “Chris, come here!” This was not what I anticipated, and I didn’t like where it was going. “Oh, no,” I objected. “This isn’t our dog. He’s just a mutt that someone left here.”

The two of them stared at me in disbelief. Diane finally said, “Chris has been praying for God to send us just the right dog, and it looks to me that God maybe answered his prayer.”

So I had a choice: I could hold off for the RIGHT DOG, or I could have a son who spent his life as a believer instead of an infidel.

Anyway, Moses (named Moses because he was “drawn from” the garage) is our dog. Our big dog. Our big dog who can’t quite get out of the puppy stage and is just a bit too welcoming anytime you go in the back yard.

But when I leave town, I feel like he’s watching over my loved ones. It’s hard to imagine him being mean; but he’s smart and fiercely loyal.

Now Moses presses his face up against the back door staring at the twelve year old who is his constant companion. Wondering why he isn’t coming out to play. Wondering why he’s sitting in a wheelchair instead of walking.

I think I’ve seen Moses cry. Or are those my tears I see reflected?

Like a Rabbit Loves to Run

Published
by
Mike
on January 27, 2005
in family, grief, prayer and the wreck
. 30 Comments

“I’m tired of this.” “I wish this didn’t happen.” Very simple statements from my son this morning, but I understand. To borrow Seder language, “If only he had cracked a couple ribs, dayenu [that would have been enough].” “If only he had cracked a couple ribs and a thumb, dayenu.” “If only he had cracked a couple ribs, a thumb, and a vertebrae, dayenu.” “If only he had cracked a couple ribs, a thumb, a vertebrae, and a skull (slight fracture at base of skull), dayenu.”

But to go with all that is a sore butt and a headache.

The “bone guy” (translation: pediatric orthopedic surgeon) said that after three months, he ought to be brand new. But three months to a twelve year old boy in the middle of his basketball season and right before baseball begins is like a decade to me.

When we first saw him in the E. R. at Hendrick here in Abilene (before he was flown to Cook’s), he was hardly recognizable. He had been beaten horribly. When he heard our voices, he began crying uncontrollably. I leaned over and whispered in his ear the words I’ve said to him at bedtime a thousand times:

Love that boy.
Like a rabbit loves to run,
I said I love that boy.
Like a rabbit loves to run.
Love to see him in the morning.
Love to say, “Good mornin’, son.”

Then, for the moment, he calmed down.

My prayers for the previous hour had been fairly simple: “Please, God. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.” I think you’d expect more from a 48-year-old minister. But that’s about all that would come.

As I leaned over him, not knowing yet how serious his internal injuries were, nothing profound came. So I prayed the same words I say over every baby born at Highland: “May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be on you always.”

Sometimes familiar words fit the best.

Out of ICU

Published
by
Mike
on January 20, 2005
in Church, family, grief and the wreck
. 29 Comments

It’s late Thursday evening and I’m bone-weary. But I have a moment at the computer to catch my blog friends up on what’s happening here.

We are officially out of ICU!! Chris has a slight fracture at the base of his skull (which will heal itself and is nothing to worry about we’re told), a broken thumb, a couple broken ribs, and a broken L4 vertebrae. It will take quite a while to recover. But he will. Fully. Or so we’re told by the doctors and so we’re believing.

We have a lot of work ahead of us which we’re thankful to be facing. I’m getting ready to clear my calendar of all traveling for quite a ways in the future. I know the places I’m scheduled to speak will understand. (A friend of mine started the process today by calling the wonderful folks at Ozark Christian College, and he said they couldn’t have been more understanding.)

This afternoon, we shared the sad news about the death of his friend with Chris. He cried and then we prayed a prayer of tears. Not long after that, he got out of bed for the first time since he was placed on a stretcher somewhere on I-20 Sunday afternoon. With his neck brace and his back brace, he slid into his wheelchair. Then we went for a private meeting of Los Tres Amigos — the three 6th grade boys from Highland who have been at Cook’s together. They were all in ICU together; and now they’re in regular rooms near each other. I’d have loved to have heard that conversation.

How can we ever begin to say thanks for all the prayers, cards, comments, etc.? The Burleson Church of Christ, which I think I know nothing about, has provided dinner for everyone the last couple nights. People from Highland have been unbelievable. Dr. Jim? What can I say? You cared for our children in Hendrick ER and then came over with us to watch over their broken bodies for two nights (or maybe three — the days are running together) — letting the Cook’s people do their thing, but becoming our translator and encourager. You were minister, pastor, and physician. We — I — will never ever forget it.

Our road ahead will be long. After the others are gone, we’ll be here for a while. But eventually we’ll be back at home — to share the joy and grief of others.

Begging for Your Prayers

Published
by
Mike
on January 16, 2005
in family, grief, prayer and the wreck
. 158 Comments

I stop only long enough to plead for prayers.

My son and some friends were being driven back from Winterfest this afternoon in a Suburban that flipped. Chris has been intubated and is about to be flown to a children’s hospital in the metroplex. My little boy was beaten black and blue. They’re saying he’s stable. CT scans showed no head injuries inside. The boy next to him died. I grieve horribly for the family. But I’m off. Diane is flying with Chris.

I only pause because I beg you to pray for my son.

By Their Scars You Shall Know Them

Published
by
Mike
on November 12, 2004
in Megan and grief
. 14 Comments

A note to Highland readers:

One year after Megan died, I talked about the year of grief. I was hoping that it would help give words to others who live with grief of one sort or another. And it seemed to. Then, the five-year anniversary fell on a Sunday, so in 1999 I reported again. I described it as being a scout coming back to report on what the trail ahead is like.

This year the ten-year anniversary also falls on a Sunday, but that day (Nov. 21) is our annual food offering, one of the best days of the year at Highland. Diane and I are going to quietly slip out of town for the weekend.

So this Sunday, I’m going to talk about grief. I’ll again try to make sure this isn’t just about us and our story. (I’m still hoping Diane will share a testimony and offer part of her perspective, but so far she’s not inclined to. As I mentioned, November isn’t her favorite month.)

I mention this here, because some of you have friends and neighbors who have experienced loss and grief who might be able to identify. Please see if they’ll come with you. I’ll stay up front after both services to visit as long as people want to.

The title of the message is “By Their Scars You Shall Know Them.”

Only Grievers Move On

Published
by
Mike
on September 9, 2004
in grief
. 4 Comments

This addendum to last night’s message:

Jeremiah, faithful to Moses, understood what numb people will never know, that only grievers can experience their experiences and move on. I used to think it curious that when having to quote Scripture on demand someone would inevitably say, “Jesus wept.” But now I understand. Jesus knew what we numb ones must always learn again: (a) that weeping must be real because endings are real and (b) that weeping permits newness. His weeping permits the kingdom to come. Such weeping is a radical criticism, a fearful dismantling, because it means the end of all machismo; weeping is something kings rarely do without losing their thrones. Yet the loss of thrones is precisely what is called for in radical criticism.
- Walter Brueggemann

Two Missing from the Wedding

Published
by
Mike
on June 16, 2004
in family and grief
. 5 Comments

Tonight before I retire, I want to remember on this blog my nephew, Jantsen Barrett Cope. He was a kind, faith-filled, make-you-fall-on-the-floor-laughing kid.

His life was too short. It ended suddenly with heart failure five years ago today at the age of 15 shortly after he’d lifted weights with his football team.

His absence was on our minds this weekend. We all knew that he should have been up there as one of Matt’s groomsmen.

These words from Nicholas Wolterstorff (following his own son’s death), after this weekend, seem so appropriate: “When we gather now there’s always someone missing, his absence as present as our presence, his silence as loud as our speech. Still five children, but one always gone. When we’re all together, we’re not all together.”

So, yes. It was a very big wedding. But it wasn’t full. Two were missing. This evening I have both a tear and a smile as I remember the one who made me so proud to be his uncle.

He Is Risen Indeed

Published
by
Mike
on April 11, 2004
in Megan, faith, family and grief
. 1 Comment

This morning was our 10th Easter morning to gather at Megan’s grave. I could not have survived the past years since my daughter’s death without belief in the Resurrection of Christ.

This morning I read to those gathered with us the blessing I wrote the day before she died. A couple dozen of us gathered in her pediatric ICU room, and these words were spoken over her–words that reflected her love for the children’s song “I’m in the Lord’s Army.” (As I recall, I tried to read it but couldn’t, and Darryl Tippens finished for me.)

Megan,

You have been a blessing from God for ten years. You have worn us out–but much more you have taught us about the deeper meanings of life. With your joy, your love, and your pure spirit, you have challenged our petty complaints about life.

Just as you have lived with great joy, may you die with the joy and peace of the Lord upon you. You have always wanted to march in the Lord’s Army. Your mother, your brothers, these friends, and I all release you into his hands. Please save a place in the ranks for us, for we will always look forward to seeing you again.

May the Lord bless you and keep you;
May the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
May the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.

Christ is risen — he is risen indeed! This morning a choir at church sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” as powerfully as I’ve ever heard it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought, How would we survive without the hope that Easter assures?

Making Loss Matter

Published
by
Mike
on September 26, 2003
in Books, faith and grief
. 1 Comment

Today, a quote from David Wolpe’s wonderful book Making Loss Matter:

“My deepest prayer to God used to be to spare me from the pains of life that I so dreaded. Now I see that that is the prayer of a child. As a man I do not pray for a life without pain. Instead I pray: ‘Dear God, I know that there will be pain in my life, and sadness, and loss. Please give me the strength to create a life, together with those whom I love, where loss will not be empty, where pain will not be purposeless. Help me find the faith to make loss matter. Amen.’“