I figure it must be time to check in with everyone whenever
I hear my good friend Kris, who sees me as often as anyone, ask me how I’ve
been doing. So here goes…
A few weeks back, a bunch of my closest friends decided to
join a men’s small group/Bible study hosted at our church on Friday mornings at
6 AM. The early wakeup call has proven
challenging for everyone, but not nearly as challenging as some of the questions
and ideas raised in the study. I am used
to getting up early with most of these fellows, but it’s always been part of
some outdoor pursuit – in a duck blind or fishing boat –never to ponder deep,
meaningful “life questions.”
We’re studying the book of James. I’ve always loved this book - the matter of
fact way that James challenges everyone to toughen up, and the way he distills
the concept of religion into such straightforward notions as charitable work
and self-purification: “Religion that God our Father accepts as
pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans
and widows in their distress and
to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
Somehow, though, in all the times I’ve read this book I’ve
zipped right past that opening instruction: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers,
whenever you face trials of many kinds.”
Sure, trials lead to perseverance, perseverance to maturity and
completion. But “pure joy?” I admitted it there and then, in that first
group meeting – I just don’t get it. “I’m not feelin’ it, James.” And while I’m certainly not the only one
among this group to have faced adversity, almost all of these men were close to
Kelly, and so what vexes them when I question this instruction is much more
than just empathy for me. They weren’t
biting their tongues – they’re as confused as I am about how to be joyful in
the face of such terrible loss.
So there – I admit it.
I’m not “purely joyful.” If you
thought you’d keep reading until you witnessed me squeezing wisdom out of this
conundrum like juice from a ripe orange, well I hate to disappoint. It’s just not that simple to me – not that
easy. For now I continue to ebb and
flow, lie down and rise with each new sunset and sunrise, trying not to
withdraw totally into memory, trying to live
in and out of my home, with my family and friends, rather than slide into the
easy habit of curating a museum where she once lived. But for now, each of my new days still begins
with waking in my bed alone after sharing it with the same lover for 18
years. And that’s where I start. And, until I fall I asleep at night, not one
minute goes by where she is not in my thoughts.
Along the way I do experience
frequent joy – I am blessed with four wonderful children, and I have to remind
myself (although I shouldn’t) just how many great friends I have. I have family close by, Kel’s and my
own. And together – the kids, my
friends, and my family – we try to keep our arms around this crazy life of
ours. There are so many that lift me up
in their prayers, and so many that were there for Kelly and me and the kids who
are still there for me and the kids now.
(See these two old posts -
Buena Gente; One Year Ago Today)
I have something else, too.
Not long ago, Carol reminded many of us about a blog post that included
a lengthy text message Kelly had written in the middle of one of the innumerable
long sleepless nights toward the end of her battle. You can revisit it here:
Text From Kelly.
Whenever I find myself faltering, I remember the nights like this. From February to May of 2013, Kelly was
suffering a constant upper abdominal pain that prevented her from lying down
comfortably, and despite dozens of different approaches to pain management, we
never found anything that provided relief enough to allow for regular
sleep. So most nights she sat upright on
the sofa, sleeping little and fitfully at that.
Not knowing what else to do, I curled up beside her. I wanted in some way to share her suffering,
but often found that, like the disciples who accompanied Jesus in Gethsemane
only to fall asleep while he went off to pray, I proved unfaithful in even this
paltry gesture. Those close to me know I
am cursed (blessed?) to be able to fall asleep anywhere at any time. So it was during just such a night that she
arose, no doubt annoyed by my peaceful slumber, to write this text.
This image of her is burned into my mind, imprinted there
forever. She was just so brave. She never thought of herself that way. It’s hard to overstate the number of times
she faced terrible news head-on, and just how terrible that news often was. She faced it while biting the inside of her
lip, slightly puckering as she fought off tears, and rubbing her hands together
above her lap like she was trying to clean off some permanent filth. You see, whatever “Kelly” means to you, she
is no symbol, no super hero taking on and beating pancreatic cancer, no miracle
working saint. She was just like you and me, scared to death
of how bad it might hurt, how bad she’d look and feel, and most importantly, how you and
I and everyone else would get along without her. But once she understood and accepted each
step she had to take, she would still find it in her to think about and pray
for everyone else.
So like her, I try to turn my attention outward, to a world
that is broken and hurting. And so much
of James’s message is clearer from this perspective. There are so many people that need our
prayers, and more importantly need our hands and feet and resources at work in
their lives. And yes, I am in need. And yes, so many of you have been at work in
my life, and in my kids’ lives. And in
each other’s lives. I see that when I
look outward as Kelly reminds me to.
I saw it in Younglife Roundup Sunday night, as I was
reminded of the great examples so many of you set each day for my kids. Thank you Eric, Cody and Darrell, and thank
you Jack, Grady and Joe (and so many others I don’t even know).
I saw it in our men’s group – we all sat around
the other morning trying to think of all the ways that we needed to put our
faith into action, and it dawned on me later that day that all of you had been
putting your faith into action for me and my family for the last year and a
half.
I saw it for sixteen months in the form of angels like Lee
Miller, who almost daily hand delivered to our mailbox cards of encouragement
for Kelly, until the end, then cards of consolation and shared grief, then
cards of encouragement for me and the kids.
In fact, I see it around me everywhere. The housecleaner I’ve hired “miraculously”
finding money in her account and letting me know I don’t need to pay her for the
next couple of weeks. The moms of my
kids’ teammates getting them to and from practices and games all over God’s
creation. And of course the closest
friends just reminding me they still want to know I’m doing OK.
At church this past Sunday I got to experience one of my
favorite things: a bunch of new Christians getting baptized. Among these new brothers and sisters were two
young friends of ours, 10 year old twins Katie and Libby. Both, before their profession of faith,
declared that among others who influenced them and helped bring them to this
point was their mom’s best friend Miss
Kelly. Maybe watching this is as
close as I can come to experiencing pure joy, knowing how Kelly’s example of
friendship in life and bravery facing death changed the lives of so many around
her, including these new two sisters in Christ.
I know I am blessed.
For all the friends and family around me. For a great Savior, because I am indeed a
great sinner. Yes I am blessed. Pure joy?
Not sure about that. Pray for me,
so that maybe I can understand that, and so that my family and I can experience
that.
And like Kelly, let’s all continue to look outward to our
friends and our community for those that need not just our prayers but our
hands and feet at work in their lives. Among
so many others, continue to pray for and lift up my friend Katy Stockard, her
husband Greg, and their children Sam, Drake, and Sally, as Katy continues her
battle with cancer and chemotherapy. FIGHT LIKE KEL, Katy!
God bless!
-Jason
