Unleashed

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were privileged to get new smartphones. I say privileged because we couldn't afford them, and God sent an unexpected financial blessing for us no more than a day before her phone gave up the ghost; mine waited until the day after I activated my new device; reminds you of those stories you hear about couples who die a few days apart. :)

Long story short; a few days ago, my phone started to sound like a land-line with a bad cord. Conversations became nearly impossible given the static. My wife; knowing that I was buried, had mercy on me, packed up the hobbits and headed to Verizon on the way her destination.

As a result, I have been without a phone for the last six hours or so, and while this morning I was worried about what that might do to my day, I have to tell you... it has been wonderful.

Perhaps I am only speaking for myself (I bet not...) that we seem so busy trying to do everything at once that we end up getting little to nothing done.

Don't kid yourself, even if you have ADHD (in HD), you can only do so many things at a time, and for the most part, by so many things I mean exactly one. Multi-tasking is, by-and-large, a myth. Anytime you give some of yourself to an en devour, you are giving less of yourself to another. For instance, if you are trying to skim this piece while watching YouTube, you are missing the point entirely...

Scientists, psychologists, sociologists, and clergymen are actually approaching collective agreement on something: the perks of mobile technology do not seem to counterbalance the pitfalls.Studies have demonstrated that the copious amounts of screen-time we imbibe are actually changing our brains, and could be contributing to a marked rise in insomnia and anxiety in users.We don't need Morgan Spurlock to check this one out for us, you know its true.

We pick up our phone to snap a picture of our kid's game, only to notice that someone has posted a new photo to social media, then see on there comment feed that it is raining tacos... next thing we know the crowd is on their feet because our kid made a goal... but man, wasn't that a funny video?

It goes beyond the office, or the field, to our very souls.

When is the last time that you gave undivided attention to someone? to your kids, or your spouse? to God? It is nigh impossible to get in any prayer or devotional time when we are consistently being pushed updates, emails, breaking news, snapchats (of which I do not partake) and text messages. Even if we disable these features on our devices, there is still that nagging, addictive draw, like a digital nicotine fit, urging us to check our phones just in case the most hilarious cat video in the universe was uploaded and we missed it. Or, how many people liked our selfie, or the photo of that awesome dessert, or if anyone liked our article about how we should spend less time on our devices?

I am going to get on my laptop and find out...

My Mother's Obituary & Eulogy

Elizabeth “Betty” Wills Williams, (nee McClure), of South Rockwood, died October 24th, 2013 at Oakwood Annapolis Hospital in Wayne, MI surrounded and supported by her loved ones.

She was born in Philadelphia, PA, on September 26th, 1944 to William and Elizabeth McClure.

Betty graduated from Gwinn High School in Gwinn Michigan in 1983, she was married first to Walter “Ace” Nastal, then later to Thomas Williams.

Betty worked several jobs throughout her life. She was a bank teller, store clerk, hotel clerk, briefly worked at the Cadillac factory in Detroit and sold Avon. She was a member of the First United Methodist Church of Altus, OK and while in MI, ND, and OK she helped in various organizations in churches, and through groups like the Officers’ Wives Club.

She is survived by her three children, Betty Reaume, and her husband Scott of South Rockwood, MI; Cheryl Borregard and her husband Bob of Charleston, SC; and her son John-Paul and his wife Vicki of Archie, MO; as well as her sister Billie Jo Plyler of Greenville, SC; and brother Tommy McClure of Gaffney, SC. She had thirteen grandchildren, four great grandchildren, and several nieces and nephews.

A memorial service was held at South Rockwood United Methodist Church, South Rockwood, MI at 2:00 PM on October 26, 2013.

*****

It has been said, “Live in such a way that the preacher doesn’t have to lie about you at your funeral.” I have an obligation to tell the truth, especially on a day like today. So I’m not going to lie.

There is good, bad, and ugly in every story. There is also the beautiful. But let me get the hard part out of the way first.

As for the bad and the ugly. There is no sense pretending that our mother was perfect. Our mother was a person of maddening contradictions. As such, there are some painful memories associated with mom.

I was sitting in the hospital a few days after we came up, and I found myself frustrated. It was the feeling that people who have a “less than ideal” relationship with their loved ones experience around Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. There you are, looking through the cards, trying to find one that you feel honestly expresses your feelings and struggling because you know what you should do, but you find it hard to do.

As a pastor, I spend a little time in ICUs. You can sometimes read a lot into someone’s family life by the expressions on their faces, or what they say, or often times what they do not say. I sat there, closed my eyes, and thought back as far as I could remember, I though to myself, “There has got to be something good that I can remember about my mother.”

What I found was a lot of good that I had overlooked. I remember one day in particular, as clear as if it were today. My mom had to take me to an allergist. They did some testing; probably where I learned to love needles… and then we went to some specialty grocer and bought some chocolate animal cookies that were made out of something else, so they tasted nothing like chocolate. Then we went to Pizza Hut and got some personal pan pizzas (which is the coolest thing in the world when you are five) and then went to the park. It was a clear, breezy Fall day.

My sisters told me about days at the Flat Rock Speedway, and the time that Bozo the Clown came out to the company picnic for the bank; they are pretty sure that it was the real Bozo BTW and not one of his helpers.

We remembered that mom had a heart for the “strays”, it never seemed like I could bring home a person too smelly, or ugly, or strange for her to reach out to in some way. As I recall, she was always working on making someone’s life better, often while neglecting her own. She was giving, which is even reflected in the donation of her body to the University of Michigan, where she hoped something could be learned from her that might help others.  

Our mother was beautiful and was always proud of her appearance. Between her absent mindedness (if she ever lost her glasses, you always asked her to look on her head… or her face…her keys were usually in her hand, or already in the ignition…) and her urge to “paint her face”, it always took her an eternity to get ready even if she was just headed to the gas station or even the mailbox.

When I was about five or six, she entered us into some sort of Officers’ Wives Club fashion show. I think that was her element, being out in front of people, in the center of attention.

There was really never a question if Betty was there. You never had to ask. You could either see her bright red hair blazing, smell her perfume, or hear her talking, laughing, or letting someone know where to go and why.

Another thing that set mom apart, which was both a blessing and a curse, is that you never, ever, had to wonder where you stood with her, or what she thought about something.  Yet in a world that is constantly trying to hide their wrinkles, touch up their photos, and present themselves as perfect; there is something refreshing about someone like her… not matter how hard it could be to take at times.

At one time I believed this sort of absolute, unabashed openness was the highest virtue. But a few life experiences taught me otherwise.

Our mother never, ever, apologized. She was never wrong, and was always right, even if she was wrong and she knew it. She would stop at almost nothing to get what she wanted, even if she didn’t know what it was that she wanted, or why she wanted it.

She was a person who had many good intentions. Her brain was always storming with ideas, with pitches, with projects. In the Google world we live in today, she might have been a mogul. Frenetic paced people like her are what makes the world go around. Perhaps she was a bit ahead of her time.

Our mother’s illnesses did not excuse her behavior, but it softens the blow for me at least to know that she was not always in total control of her actions. We know that you are never hurt any more than by those whom you love most. But even though she never apologized, we can still forgive.  It has been said that you do not hold a grudge, but a grudge holds you.

So, about forgiveness.

When my sisters were young, they went to church with their father and even did some time at the Catholic Schools. We went to church off and on growing up, although I’m not sure how much we paid attention, but it must have done some good… I am after all, a pastor now.  

Mom always used to say, “No rest for the wicked.” Thankfully, I can say that she is wrong.

One of the stories that I remember the most is one from the Gospel of Luke 23. It seems very fitting today. The passage reads:

³³ When they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left. ³⁴ But Jesus was saying, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." And they cast lots, dividing up His garments among themselves. ³⁵ And the people stood by, looking on. And even the rulers were sneering at Him, saying, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if this is the Christ of God, His Chosen One." ³⁶ The soldiers also mocked Him, coming up to Him, offering Him sour wine, ³⁷ and saying, "If You are the King of the Jews, save Yourself!" ³⁸ Now there was also an inscription above Him, "THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS."

³⁹ One of the criminals who were hanged there was hurling abuse at Him, saying, "Are You not the Christ ? Save Yourself and us!" ⁴⁰ But the other answered, and rebuking him said, "Do you not even fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? ⁴¹ "And we indeed are suffering justly, for we are receiving what we deserve for our deeds,; but this man has done nothing wrong." ⁴² And he was saying, "Jesus, remember me when You come in Your kingdom!" ⁴³ And He said to him, "Truly I say to you, today you shall be with Me in Paradise."

There is much that we could say about God’s wrath and his justice, but there is as much, if not more to be said of His grace and mercy.

Over the last fifteen years or so since mom moved back to MI, I talked with her extensively about the grace of God, about the sacrifice of Jesus, and about the need for all of us to make our peace with God by grace through faith and repentance.

One of the worst reputations that Christians have acquired throughout their history is that of having a sense of moral superiority to unbelievers, and even to one another. Sometimes in our search for piety and holiness, we give the impression that we think we are better than everyone else.

Perhaps in a very much unexpected way, my mother’s imperfections highlight the perfect grace of God. That someone prone to relapses, to mistakes, to fear and anxiety, and insecurity, could be redeemed. I believe that it is when God’s grace is extended to those whom we feel least worthy or even likely to receive it; to the strays, to the undesirables, that it is seen in its most perfect state as pure, selfless, love. Love which is patient, love that is kind, that is not jealous, does not brag, is not arrogant, that does not keep a record of wrongs suffered, and that reminds me that sometimes I am so busy trying to follow all the rules, that I forget that the first one is love.

If our mother ever truly called out to Jesus, believing in the power of His resurrection, and turning away from her sin and herself toward Him in faith, that He has received her into His kingdom. Even if it were in her last moments. I just wish I did not have to wait so long to find out.

All of us, at some point and time, will give an account for our lives to the One who gave life to us. What we do, and what we have done, and what we believe are ultimately between us and our Creator.

The best part is this, that for those of us who die in Christ, death is like blowing out a candle before the dawn. A reward awaits us that would be particularly enticing to our mother. A new body, free from sickness, and pain, and confusion. A new home, free from fear, and disarray. Where the treasures stored up are free from mice, and rust, and moth, and where everything that we have ever needed, or wanted, pale in comparison to what we will behold. For eye has not seen, nor has ear heard, nor has it ever entered into the hearts of men what God has prepared for those who love him. Where there is no sorrow, no sickness, and no faith because what has been hoped for has become sight.

In the meantime, let me offer a few thoughts.

I think one of lessons I can learn from mom is that intentions do not nullify consequences. Regardless of what you mean, the outcome is what it is. So be careful what you say, and what you do, because you may not have the chance to make things better, and even if you have the chance, you might not be able to fix things.

Be as good to your family as you are to others if not better. It is easy to give ourselves so much to our work, and our play, that by the time we get home we have nothing left to give to those who matter the most in our lives.

When you think about calling someone, just do it. When you think you should go see someone, you probably should.

Remember birthdays. It dawned on me when the funeral home asked me that I had never committed my parent’s birthdays to memory…

Lastly, don’t feel guilty for feeling relieved when you reach the end of a long, hard journey.

Grief can separate a family, or it can bring them together.

Alvin Straight, was an elderly, World War II veteran. One day he received news that his estranged brother has suffered a stroke. That night, he made up his mind to go visit him and hopefully make amends before he died.

Unfortunately, Alvin's legs and eyes were too impaired for him to drive, and his daughter was mentally handicapped. So, he cashed in his paycheck, purchased a thirty year-old John Deere 110 Lawn tractor, hitched a trailer packed with camping gear and a cooler and sets off on the 240-mile journey from Laurens, Iowa to Mount Zion, Wisconsin at the break neck speed of five miles per hour.

During his six week journey, he is heckled by passers by, meets helpful strangers, and in my favorite episode of the story meets a runaway teen.

Offering her a place by the fire, he listens to the girl talk about why she hit the road. Then lifting a stack of twigs, takes one out and breaks it. “See,” he said, “If you take them out one at a time, they break easily… but if you bundle them together, they are harder to break. That’s family.”

My hope, and prayer is that everything that we have been through as a family will somehow make us stronger. That it will lead us closer to God, and closer to one another. That we could reconcile with one another wherever necessary, and that ultimately we could all be reconciled to God.

Let us pray.  

Jesus loves me when I'm a jerk too...

So I was a big jerk yesterday. No two ways about it.

There's an old story about a grandfather and grandson. The grandson has a tendency toward harsh words. The grandfather notices this character flaw and decides to work a little cowboy wisdom. Fetching some nails and a hammer from the shed, they head out to pasture where a new corner post has been put in the fence row. The post is of new lumber, barley weathered, untouched except the signs of being hewn and debarked. "Take this...", grandpa says, extending the hammer to the boy, "and drive these nails into that post as hard as you're mad." The young boy begins to furiously hammer nail after nail into the post, teeth grinding, white knuckled, the hammer meeting his thumb and fore finger more than once. "There!" says the boy, somewhere between bewildered and accomplished. Staring at nowhere, grandfather then says, "Now, pull them out." Flabbergasted, the boy shrieks, "All of 'em! But you just...", "Yes. Let's get started..." grandfather interrupts.

One by one, the lad pulls the nails. They were; of course, harder to remove than they were to drive. Then, once finished, the boy stepped back, and the pair examined their handiwork. "Well son, what do you think?" "About what?", asked the boy exhausted and exasperated. "How's that post faring?" "Well..." started the boy, "It looks ugly, full of holes... and I feel bad about that... but I didn't mean to mess it up!" From which the grandfather calmly said, "Just like those nails, that's what words do. Once you drive them in, you can take them back, but the damage is done still the same."

At times, life compresses us. Our responsibilities, our voluntary mandantories, our fears, our collapsed hopes, they push.us to the brink. Jesus taught us that the words of our mouth come from the treasure stored up in our heart. That is to say that when life puts the squeeze on us, whatever is in us comes out. Then, there is no denying it. Salt water doesn't come out of a freshwater spring. The painful truth is that after 18 years of being saved, after all the healing and restoration and renovation God has brought me through, there is still a lot of ugly stuffed down in the cracks and crevaces of my heart.

This makes me thankful for the gracious forgivenss of my family. But also the grace of God through Jesus Christ that washes away my sins.

So, once again, I'm sorry for demonstrating first hand how I am.not holier than thou.

And once again, I'm thankful.