In a Barn

An acquaintance of ours died recently. 

Though I couldn’t attend the funeral, I spoke with her daughter a few weeks later. She told me that at first, the family decided they weren’t going to have a public service. Just the family. Six or eight people. But as they were leaving the funeral home after making the arrangements, both sisters had the sinking feeling they’d made the wrong choice. They went back inside and changed their plans to include whoever wanted to come. To their surprise, over a hundred people signed the guest book. From those guests, they heard stories of love and appreciation they’d never have heard otherwise.

“We would have cheated ourselves of so much,” she said. “But we would have cheated a whole bunch of other people, too.”

Her words cinched it for me. A few days later, on our drive to our grandsons’ Christmas band concert, I replayed the conversation for my husband.

“When it’s my turn to go, I want a big party,” I told him. “Why is it so hard for people to understand that these types of gatherings are for the living? The love, support, and stories can provide healing as we cry and laugh together. I hope there are gales of laughter at my funeral, but I don’t believe in saying ‘Don’t cry over me,’ either. It’s an honor to think my friends might cry for me, just as I will honor them with my tears if they go first. Tears are healing. They acknowledge our humanity and they value the person’s life.

“Well, there, now you know my views on this.” I ended my rant, we reached the school, and we enjoyed the concert.

Afterward, we stopped at our son’s home briefly. The boys changed out of their concert clothes and the middle one, Allistar, went out to take care of his chores. Within minutes, he returned with the news that he’d found their cat, Scamper, dead under a heat lamp in the barn. This was not unexpected, since the old tom had become disinterested in food. Still, I’m sure it was a shock for Allistar. His brothers went out to see for themselves and returned shortly to the house.

I put on my boots and coat and headed for the barn. I found Allistar kneeling in the hay, stroking the dead cat. Overhead, the guinea fowl roosted on their perch, adding soft sounds of life and warmth to the otherwise forlorn setting.

As though God had granted me our driving time for rehearsal, I voiced the same thoughts for the second time that evening. “It’s okay to cry,” I told Allistar. “Your tears honor Scamper’s life.” I talked about how good it was to know the cat had died warm and safe and how he wouldn’t have to endure another cold winter. How appropriate that Allistar had been the one to find him since he cared the most.

Then I kept my mouth shut and simply cried with him. My tears had far less to do with the death of a barn cat than with the pain in my grandson’s heart. Less about this fresh grief, and more about the distressing losses and upheaval he’s had to work through in recent years. More about my helplessness to fix any of it, as much as I wanted to.

After his dad came to sit with him, his grandpa and I drove away, a far quieter ride than the previous one. Somehow those few heart-rending minutes in the barn with my grieving grandson became a defining moment for my Christmas this year. I received a profound reminder of the way God came to us in a stable, in all our dirt and squalor, pain and tears. He came not only to give us life but to grant us peace in our pain, comfort in our sorrows, and healing for our broken hearts.

My prayer for you this Christmas is that, by God’s grace, that baby in a manger will meet you in a profound way, wherever you are—turning grief to joy, brokenness to healing, and despair to hope. Merry Christmas!

 

 

Strange Place for a Song of Thanks

When my father passed away in 1986, we knew it was coming. Dad had been struggling with the pain of pancreatic cancer far too long. The initial sense of relief, knowing he was finally free from his suffering and home with Jesus, was probably what enabled my sister Shanon and me to sing a duet at his funeral. He and Mom had chosen the song ahead of time, and Sis and I had begun practicing even before Dad left us. We deeply wanted to honor him in this way, and we reached the end of the hymn without tears.

Friends and relatives remarked about the strength we displayed that day. I can’t speak for my sister, but in the weeks that followed, I could not have repeated it for the world. I couldn’t even sing from the congregation on Sunday morning, too deep in grief, anger, and disappointment. I’d sit at my piano and try to sing through the song we’d shared with such confidence, only to choke before the second verse.

One line mocked me every time: “Thanks for what thou dost deny.” 

That’s old English for “thanks for nothing.” Or at least that’s how it felt in my loss. We’d prayed and begged God to heal Dad, but our pleas had been denied. How could I carry on without my daddy? I wanted our children to know him the way I had—healthy and fun. Now another little one was on the way who wouldn’t get to meet him at all.

I don’t believe time heals all wounds. If it did, we’d see a lot fewer wounded people walking around. I think God heals all wounds…over time…when we take them to him. Countless joys and sorrows have passed through my life in the 35 years my father’s been gone. And certainly, these past two years have left us all reeling, haven’t they? Another Thanksgiving season is upon us. Are you finding it hard to feel grateful?

I’ve matured enough to know it’s possible to give thanks, “even when.” Even when I don’t feel like it, even when I’m afraid or angry or disappointed, even when circumstances look grim.

The old hymn Shanon and I shared that day is called simply, Thanks to God, written by August Ludvig Storm (1862-1914) and translated from Swedish by Carl E. Backstrom. Stricken with a serious back disorder, Storm nevertheless penned these words of thanks. I’m so glad the song has been around long enough to be in public domain because that frees me to share the lyrics with you here. I hope they bless you. Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanks to God for my Redeemer,

Thanks for all Thou dost provide.
Thanks for times now but a memory,
Thanks for Jesus by my side!
Thanks for pleasant, balmy springtime,
Thanks for dark and stormy fall.
Thanks for tears by now forgotten,
Thanks for peace within my soul!

Thanks for prayers that Thou hast answered,
Thanks for what Thou dost deny.
Thanks for storms that I have weathered,
Thanks for all Thou dost supply.
Thanks for pain, and thanks for pleasure,
Thanks for comfort in despair.
Thanks for grace that none can measure,
Thanks for love beyond compare!

Thanks for roses by the wayside,
Thanks for thorns their stems contain.
Thanks for home and thanks for fireside,
Thanks for hope, that sweet refrain.
Thanks for joy and thanks for sorrow,
Thanks for tears that bring release.

Thanks for hope in the tomorrow,
Thanks for everlasting peace.

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18.)

Will you come to my funeral if I go to yours?

Do you read obituaries? Have you observed that more people opt for no funeral these days? Ever wonder why? I have my theories. One is that fewer people include a traditional faith experience into their lives, so it might seem incongruous to end such a life in a church with prayers and hymns.

Another theory is that people hate attending funerals and don’t want to inflict the same discomfort on their friends. 

Or they view their own funeral as being “on stage,” one of the top fears for many, topping the fear of death itself. Although it’s not likely they’ll be asked to speak.

Or maybe deep down, people fear no one will show up. The ultimate rejection.

I’ve heard people say, “Don’t cry when I’m gone.” That’s not healthy, folks! I don’t want my loved ones paralyzed by grief when I die, but tears are a necessary and healing part of the journey. So is laughter. I hope there is plenty of both at my funeral.

“Don’t make a big fuss when I pass, just stick me in the ground and be done with it,” is another line I’ve heard. A statement like that is usually made out of genuine humbleness, but what these folks may be forgetting is that their funeral isn’t for them. It’s for those they leave behind. I found it wonderfully comforting as a grieving daughter to receive the embraces of friends and relatives, to hear my cousins share their memories of my dad, and to hear how much he meant to his friends. I would have felt the loss far more keenly if Dad had declared he didn’t want a funeral.

I think pre-arranging your funeral is similar. Some say, “I won’t care at that point, so do whatever you want.” Again, it’s not for you. Pre-planning spares others from a hundred decisions, some of them costly, at a time when emotions run high and energy and focus are at an all-time low. How much better to not have to purchase a burial plot, choose a casket, name a charity, and all those details because they’re already decided?

I’m beginning to sound like an ad for a funeral home. I promise, no kickbacks were solicited or received in the writing of this post.

I used to think it would be better to return to the pioneer days where the men of the community gathered to build a box and dig a hole. The women brought food and the pastor said a few words. Death wasn’t a billion-dollar business then, and folks didn’t go into debt to give their loved ones a “decent” burial. But I came to appreciate funeral home directors when my father died. I understood better the service they provided and the professionalism with which they delivered it.

Maybe I’m a control freak, but I’ve been planning my own funeral songs since my thirties. As different songs become more meaningful in any given year, I change my playlist accordingly. You might think that’s morbid, but these songs burst with such victory I don’t see how anyone will return home afterward feeling anything other than hope. You see, I firmly believe it’s not so much that life continues after death, but that it finally, truly begins. 

More next week, when we celebrate the reason for this glorious hope.