Archive for the 'Megan' Category

11 Years . . . and counting

Published
by
Mike
on November 21, 2005
in Megan, grief and memories
. 21 Comments

Every school day now, Chris is at 7th grade basketball practice early in the morning at Lincoln Middle School.

Eleven years ago today, that’s exactly where Matt was when I went to pick him up. I found one of the coaches and said, “Matt’s sister is going to die in the next few hours, so I need to take him up to the hospital.” He and I drove to Hendrick together as I explained that this was going to be Megan’s last day.

And at 10:16 that morning, she took her last breath.

Here’s what I wrote on this blog two years ago (changing only the number of years):

Megan Diane Cope died eleven years ago today. Who — in our success-driven world — would want her genetic make-up? She was, after all, mentally retarded.

And yet . . . she changed our worlds. She was a quiet, loving witness to the gospel. She was an incarnation of God’s love. She received whatever gifts of service we offered to her without expecting more. She embodied the truth of 2 Corinthians 4:7: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”

Her ten years here were too short. So today, again, we grieve her absence, and we look forward to seeing her again to thank her for helping to set our worlds right.

Dear Megan

Published
by
Mike
on August 25, 2005
in Megan and family
. 54 Comments

My Dear Megan,

Tomorrow you would have been 21. Every year since your death we’ve continued to have a birthday cake on August 26 and to tell “Megan stories.”

Last week when I was looking for your old percussor, Mom said, “It may be in Megan’s toy box.” Without thinking, I began digging through the box, and then it overwhelmed me. I was immersed in you: your shoes, a couple of your favorite blouses, the stuffed cat you loved, etc. I could smell you, hear you, even feel you there.

All that to say that I’ve never stopped missing you. It’s been ten years and nine months; but in grief-years it’s been so much less in some ways and so much more in other ways.

You rocked my world, my precious daughter. You didn’t enter this world with a bright intellect like your brothers did. You were, we eventually learned, “mentally handicapped.”

Big deal. There were so many other ways in which you were so precocious: in love, in forgiveness, and in joy. The only full sentence I ever heard you say in ten years was “I’m Megan”–and yet you became my minister who led me further along the way of Christ. Without even intending to, you exposed the shallowness of this world–a world obsessed with externals.

You were a jar of clay.

It’s hard to picture you at age 21. You have remained ten in our minds.

Since you died, life has in some ways been easier. You never wasted much of your short time sleeping! Easier . . . yet sadder. We would gladly go without sleep to be able to hold you and sing with you. (”I may never march in the infantry . . .”; “This is a song that doesn’t end . . . .”; “Jesus loves me . . . .”)

We would have loved seeing your joy at Matt and Jenna’s wedding. (You never got to meet her, but I think she would be your best friend.) And I imagined you there in ICU patting Christopher’s broken and bruised body after the wreck.

Your simple faith still guides us. Your love overwhelms and empowers us.

Soon and very soon, my dear . . . .

Love, Dad

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.”

Limping Along in the Lord’s Army

Published
by
Mike
on August 26, 2004
in Megan and friends
. 12 Comments

I can’t believe it, but Megan would have been 20 today. She was born August 26, 1984 in Wilmington, NC, and died on November 21, 1994.

These words are taken from a piece written by our friend Thom Lemmons called “Limping Along in the Lord’s Army”:

“One of our friends once characterized Megan as a minister of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and, the more I reflect on that description, the more apt it becomes. Megan was a living proclamation; not, like her father, by means of artful words and powerful phrases nor, like her mother, in visions and a spirit of discernment and prayer. Rather, Megan proclaimed her message in her life. She was a walking icon of Christ’s admonition to take no thought for tomorrow, but simply, in faith, to let each day unfold on its own. I doubt it ever occurred to Megan to make long-range plans or to fear what the next five minutes might bring. Megan, like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, trusted in the Creator, through his human agents, to supply whatever requirements she might have. She knew no other way to live. And in that respect, she sits in judgment on us all, and leads us toward a more primitive and perfect trust. Megan was a flesh-and-blood display of the topsy-turvey economy of the kingdom of heaven. She was one of the least of us, yet she occupied the apex of our care, absorbing all the loving service we could offer, and able to absorb still more. Without any ‘thank you,’ without any false reticence, without even seeming to notice, she took all that we could give her, and still we were left with the sense that it was not enough. And yet, to anyone who held her down for a breathing treatment, or marched with her through the church parking lot, singing ‘I’m in the Lord’s Ar-my, Yes, Sir!’, or changed her soiled undergarments, or tried in vain to rescue some semi-edible artifact from her unbelievably quick hands, or held her as she gasped for breath–to anyone who ever poured a minute’s worth of love down the bottomless pit that was Megan, the blessing which followed beggared any other reward. Megan taught us all the difference in value between receiving and giving. We only wished we could have done more: there was no question of doing less. And all the while, we were the ones being made over by her innocent carelessness and her shattering need into a closer imitation of the one who poured out his life as a ransom for many.”

Happy birthday, Meg. You are deeply, deeply missed.

Challenger League

Published
by
Mike
on May 29, 2004
in Baseball and Megan
. 10 Comments

Yes, yes, last night went very well. We won first place (8-4) and get to enter the area tournament as Key City team #1.

This morning I was back at the field for a while helping with some cleaning to get ready for hosting tournament games. I got to clean to the best background “music” possible. We always have the best tunes there–including many of the songs nominated on this site a few days ago.

But this morning I cleaned with the sound of cheers behind me. It was a game in the Challenger League. All the children playing were handicapped. Most had parents right next to them, helping them bat, assisting them as they fielded.

Every time someone is announced coming up to the plate, every person in the stands cheers. Every time they swing (whether they hit it or not), everyone cheers.

All right, so the game is “rigged.” Everyone swings until they hit the ball. And when they hit the ball, they’re going to be safe at first. There were wheelchairs flying around the bases. I spoke to one of the adults who told me that one of the girls playing had woken up early that morning and was giddy with excitement about the game.

No one makes an out. No one is embarrassed. No one gets yelled at. No one gets nailed with an error. Everyone hits; everyone gets on base; everyone scores.

I like this game. I think Megan (our daughter who was mentally and physically handicapped, for those blog readers who don’t know us) would have enjoyed it, too.

Megan . . . Jenna . . . Diane

Published
by
Mike
on May 11, 2004
in Megan and marriage
. 3 Comments

A dad’s reflections.

Matt’s been blessed with some nice honors. (To fast forward past parental bragging, go to next paragraph.) This weekend he received the ACU “honor man” award, and the Lemoine Lewis Alpha Chi award (for a 4.0 average).

But much of his character was molded by a frail younger sister who never spoke a full sentence. In his first years, he often waited for his turn while we cared for Megan. He dealt with the embarrassment of being at restaurants when she was loud–to say nothing of her propensity for throwing food that she didn’t want. And yet in her life and death, he experienced what we did: a profound sense of the meaning of the kingdom.

As we count down to the wedding (one month and one day), of all the things I could say about my future daughter-in-law, this is perhaps the most insightful: Megan would have absolutely loved her!

In Christopher De Vinck’s incredible book The Power of the Powerless, he writes about his mentally-handicapped brother, Oliver. He tells about two girls he brought home with him. (Trust me, had Megan lived longer, Jenna would have been just like the second girl in the story.)

When I was in my early twenties I met a girl and I fell in love. After a few months I brought her home for dinner to meet my family. After the introductions, the small talk, my mother went to the kitchen to check the meal, and I asked the girl, “Would you like to see Oliver?” for I had, of course, told her about my brother.

“No,” she answered. She did not want to see him. It was as if she slapped me in the face, yet I just said something polite and walked to the dining room.

Soon after, I met Roe, Rosemary, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, lovely girl. She asked me the names of my brothers and sisters. She bought me a copy of The Little Prince. She loved children. I thought she was wonderful.

I brought her home after a few months to meet my family. The introductions. The small talk. We ate dinner; then it was time for me to feed Oliver.

I walked into the kitchen, reached for the red bowl and the egg and the cereal and the milk and the banana and prepared Oliver’s meal. Then, I remember, I sheepishly asked Roe if she’d like to come upstairs and see Oliver. “Sure,” she said, and up the stairs we went.

I sat at Oliver’s bedside as Roe stood and watched over my shoulder. I gave him his first spoonful, his second. “Can I do that?” Roe asked. “Can I do that?” she asked with ease, with freedom, with compassion, so I gave her the bowl, and she fed Oliver one spoonful at a time.

The power of the powerless. Which girl would you marry? Today Roe and I have three children.

The post is already long today. So why quit now? . . .

This story makes me really thankful today, on my 26th anniversary, for the love of my life. When I first saw her in the fall of 1976, I melted before that beautiful face, those Caribbean-blue eyes, the Farrah Fawcett hair, and a smile that made you glad you’re alive just to see it.

But who knows what lurks behind such a beautiful exterior? In this case, time has proven that behind all that beauty is a woman of great strength, great courage, and great faith.

I just came across something I wrote from Africa a year or two ago. (Stop reading here if your tolerance for middle-schoolish romance prose is low today.)

I sit here at an isolated balcony table at Gately of Jinja, surrounded by African beauty: Lake Victoria, surging trees, secretary birds, full-bloomed flowers, an azure sky, and colorful bushes. Plus, there is an easy wind off the lake.

The moment is nearly perfect, as I prepare for the East Africa Men’s Retreat. But not quite perfect.

For I’m nine time zones away from Diane. Humor is only half funny if she isn’t there to laugh. Beauty is a bit unformed if she isn’t around to enjoy it. Her blue eyes are the prism through which all beauty and joy come fully alive for me.

Tomorrow, I promise to return to my normal mindless observations about world issues like guacamole and little league baseball.

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?

Meg

Published
by
Mike
on August 26, 2003
in Megan and family
. 0 Comments

Nineteen years ago today, an OB-GYN in Wilmington, NC, placed a tiny girl into my arms. We named her Megan Diane Cope. We had no idea that day of the joys, challenges, and sorrows that were ahead.

For ten years she blessed our lives and the lives of people in Searcy and Abilene. Even since her death, her witness of simple love-in-brokenness has continued (at least in part through opportunities God has given me to speak and write about her).

Tonight our little family will gather for cake to remember her life of love and to anticipate a day of joy in the future. Maranatha.