Missing Home

     Some of the greatest joys are also filled with sadness.  Case in point is the extended family meals we share on Friday evenings.  It is a custom that began over 20 years ago with my wife's grandparents.  It was a standing invitation for their daughter, son-in-law, their children and their families to gather in love, laughter, encouragement and support of one another.  To one who grew up in very a dysfunctional setting, those Friday night meals have been a great joy to me. Grandma and Grandpa have gone on to be with the Lord but the tradition continues with 10-12 of us gathering on an almost weekly basis.

     While I can't think of a better way to culminate a week than sitting around a table filled with so much love and laughter, there are times (thankfully few) when it is a struggle for me.  When the family begins to share -as they inevitably do - the memories that evoke uproarious laughter and adamant denials of deeds done, I often begin to feel a touch of loneliness.  In listening to them re-tell stories that someone either denies ever happened or, with great laughter, blames on one of the others, it dawns on me that, even though I am counted as a full member of the family, I am still an outsider when it comes to these moments.  I cannot share fully in the experience because I was not there when they occurred; the memories and everything associated with them are mine to share only abstractly - and that is a far cry from reliving them with the loved ones who were there when they happened. 

     It is true, because of these wonderful evenings together, that I periodically long to return to the town of my birth, to gather around those with whom I can share the experience of laughing at stories that begin with "and remember when.." Sometimes the longing to be with those who shared such experiences with me is almost overpowering. Be it with family or those from the neighborhood with whom I shared so much, sometimes I feel compelled to return to them, to look upon their faces and share laughter and remembrances.  It is called missing home.
     Yet, that is not the only time I miss home.  Often, as I read the pages of Scripture, I find myself feeling incredibly homesick. As I read the wonderful descriptions of that place that awaits me when this world we now inhabit ceases to be and, though I have yet to spend any time there, I find myself longing with my entire being to be found there. I find myself homesick for that place where evil, pain, heartache and discouragement do not exist. A place where neither young nor old suffer from abuse, hunger, or debilitating disease and every individual is seen as prized and highly valued.  I long to be in the presence of the One whose love is so unconditional and full that, though He knows me fully (warts and all, as the saying goes), He could love even me.
     Yes, some days I miss home. Until my time here is finished, there is nothing I can do about missing my Heavenly home. I am, however, going to make a visit to my hometown soon!

Slow-motion Suicide

           I don’t know if other countries do it or not, but here in the USA we take a day each year to honor fathers.  We extol their virtues, we reflect upon their hard work and dedication to always provide for the family.  In other words, we honor them.  But what if your dad wasn’t a man of great virtue?  What if your dad didn’t sacrifice himself for the good of his family?  What if your dad was a man with major flaws and was so disappointed with life that, over the course of many years, he committed what I call slow-motion suicide?

If your dad was this kind of man, take heart (if you can) in the fact that you are not alone.  I speak from experience. My dad was one of those who committed slow-motion suicide.  It took over 50 years for the cigarettes, alcohol and depression to take its toll, but almost 7 years ago it did finally catch up to him.  While I could easily describe the things which others chastised him for, the rebellious attitude he so often displayed, and the anger he showed during his times of drunkenness, I will not.  They were not entirely his fault. 

Part of the blame for my dad’s undoing rests squarely upon the Church he attended when he married.  You see, my dad loved the Lord as a young man.  He married young and had 2 sons by the time he was nineteen.  Then, due to a host of things no one in the family is completely sure about (at least they will not speak to me about it), dad and mom divorced.  This was the beginning of dad’s long slow journey downhill.

You are probably asking where the Church fits into this, after all, many people have gotten divorced.  How is the Church at fault?  Wasn’t he afforded over the years the opportunity to hear the Truth of God’s Word and change the direction of his life? I am sure that he was most likely given those opportunities.  However, I believe the Church holds a portion of responsibility in that, after the divorce, dad sought out the counsel of those he believed to be wise and Godly men.  Unfortunately, they informed him that because of his divorce he had lost his place in the Kingdom of God.  Needless to say, he was devastated.  Thus began his downward cycle of self-destruction.  The joy of life was gone and he became persuaded it would not – could not – return.  He became thoroughly convinced of his eternal condemnation and began to live accordingly.

None of this is to say that my dad did not have good qualities or that I did not learn valuable life lessons from him.  Indeed, he loved children; when he worked he worked extremely hard and on those rare occasions when he laughed, it was the type of laughter that brought joy to those who heard it.  He understood what it meant to be a true friend and would do anything for his friends – unfortunately, they were very few in number.

There is so much of life that he missed, and so much of him that the world missed, because someone in the Church said some irresponsible (and un-Biblical) things to a young man already in pain from a divorce.  I have no idea how many people have committed, or are in the midst of committing, slow motion suicide.  Even one is a tragedy. 

Even with all that he was, I miss my dad this Father’s Day.  Even more, I miss all that my dad should have been.   

Wrong Side of the Hill

As far as this part of the country goes, it was a great morning for a run.  The sun was preparing to make its presence known on the eastern horizon as I got out of my car and began to stretch (at my age, you just don't rush into anything - especially physical activity!) The air was still cool and the humidity, in spite of recent rains, was relatively low. I felt good and had high hopes for my run.  Of course, it has only been a few weeks since I began meeting the day with miles. Still, I have been making progress and enjoying the feeling of having my body active again.  

I started as I always do - slow! It wasn't long, however, that I began to feel the pace increasing...and it felt good!  I surprised some deer on the verge of the road and was reminded of the joy that running in nature brings. I had chosen a route that allowed me views of the sunrise, prairie grass and the morning dew on wildflowers. As often happens, my mind began to wander and I found myself reflecting back to my days in college when running fast was one my greatest joys. And for a couple of miles that is exactly what I was doing (at least it was fast for my station of life).  I was infused with great joy and happiness!

Then it happened.  I realized that I had forgotten to take one of the cut-offs I had planned.  No, I wasn't lost. But I was in a place I hadn't intended to be.  You see, up until this point I had managed to stay on relatively flat terrain.  Now I found myself on the wrong side a hill that must be traversed if I were to make it back to the car at my appointed time.  Not what I had hoped for. Seeing the hill looming large before me, I realized I had been pushing myself much harder than intended; indeed, harder than had I pushed myself in a number of years. I felt spent and began to wonder if I had what it would take to make it up that very long climb.

Isn't this how life sometimes goes?  Don't we often find ourselves moving along at a pace that brings us joy, partaking all the pleasures that surround us - feeling good about where we are and what we are doing - and then, BAM! We find ourselves on the wrong side of the hill. Only then do we realize that we must expend resources we no longer have available if we are to overcome the obstacle in front of us.  

Such are the times when we must take inventory of ourselves. Such are the times when we discover what we truly are made of. Admittedly, lacking the resources to meet the needs of life (be they emotional, relational, physical or financial issues)  is a far different situation than needing to run up a hill.  No matter what  the cause, finding yourself on the wrong side of one of those hills can be a debilitating, humbling and frightening experience.  But the options are the same as I encountered at the bottom of my hill: admit defeat and allow the circumstances to overtake us; or find a source of strength beyond ourselves to help us overcome.

Which will you choose?

As for me, I began to recall verses of Scripture that encouraged me not to give up hope; this enabled me to set my sights on top of the hill, ignore the pain and discomfort, and keep moving up. I can't say my pace would shatter any records - even for my age group - but I made it to the top.  And there is great joy in having scaled your way up the wrong side of the hill.

Let us run with endurance the race set before us. [Hebrews 12:1b]