Frankly, sorrow has never seemed sweet. Parting in such sweet sorrow has always seemed a strange saying. And yet, it has grown on me. For there is a time when parting is sweet though it carries sorrow. When parting means the end of earthly pain in someone's life.........the end of a fight with cancer, the end of fighting to take a breath, the end of not being able to walk or go to the bathroom or feed themselves.
And while it doesn't make it one bit easier for those of us left here, the sweetness lies in the memories. It lies in knowing that we loved dearly and were loved in return. The sweetness does not diminish the sorrow, the grief. As a matter of fact, I feel like it makes it even a deeper sorrow. But the sorrow is balanced by those memories, by the knowledge that we walked closely with another human being until the very end.
Dick Bunger's funeral was today. Many of you don't even know him. I can't claim to know him as some did. But he behaved as if he knew me. He acted as if I was of value. He gave me time. He listened when the world fell apart. At one point he listened to me as I spoke of how unfair life was. And he didn't say that he wasn't. He knew that I just had to express it. And he took me into his little office and let me. Gave me some water. Gave me hugs. Reminded me to love. And that I was loved. That he was there.
Another time I was getting he and Lauretta ready to have a garage sale of which they were giving proceeds to a team of families going to Alaska to minister to the Wilsons. I was nervous. I had to spend a lot of time at their house with my very young five children. I shouldn't have been so nervous. They were both dear. I remember how Dick reached out to Isaiah. Isaiah didn't like hardly anyone at that point. But Dick pursued him. He made him smile. He talked to all of them. He chased them in the yard. He PLAYED. The pastor played. With my kids. And gave them soda.
He was amazing. Always willing to do work. Always willing to hug. Always willing to be available. Always visiting those in the hospital.
So, today is a sweet sorrow day. Knowing that this side of heaven there will be no new memories with Mr. Bunger. Only old ones to remember. Old challenges to finish up.
I can totally see him being a greeter at the gate of heaven for all of those who have known him...the crowd will be immense and he will greet them as if they were expected and waited for. With a sly little smile. And a heart full of love.
Thanks be to God for allowing Dick Bunger to enter into our lives!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Pull up those boot straps.......whatever that means
My grandma was the queen of stoicism. When my grandfather died, she quipped, "he's better off," when I tried to tell her how sorry I was that she was alone. No emotion allowed. No depression. No grief. It was considered grown up and mature to be thus. And I was pretty good at it for many years. Not much could rock me. I had come up through a rough life, and I was adept at adapting and going on.
However, for me, when my grandfather died, I came face to face with horrible grief. I shudder even now to think of it. But, I did a pretty good job of stuffing it. Going on. Making do. Taking care of grandma. Taking care of the family. Talking about how he was in a better place. All of the christianeze. But I broke inside. And I couldn't be made right. Not then.
Fast forward five years. My grandmother died. I became, overnight, the matriarch of my line of the family. My mother died when I was young, now my grandmother. No more people above me being the prayer warriors and watch dogs of the family. Wow. It was as intense of an emotion as I had ever experienced. But this time, I was ready for grief. I stopped. I grieved. I felt like I heard God tell me to just experience it. Feel it. Cry. Laugh. Went to the ocean. Walked for hours. Collected shells. Listened. Experienced the power of the waves and the tide. And breathed. Took for real deep breaths. I think that a lot of people walk around breathing shallowly, always afraid that one big breath is going to cause them to explode. My grandma's death was particularly hard because she had not told me that she loved me. I had always been a disappointment to her. Never stylish. Never creative. Never the hostess she thought that I should be. My dishes were inadequate, my cooking perhaps moreso. And I grieved the loss of the opportunity to ever hear that she finally thought that I was good just as I was.
And now, I know something. Grieving. Hurting. Going through what we are actually going through without stuffing it or minimizing it is what really allows us to grow and change and mature. The stuffing of circumstances does not allow us to learn the lessons that we need to. Instead we learn how to hide. How to keep our pride intact. I believe that therapists call it engaging the moment. Being fully engaged in pain HURTS. Duh. Of course it does. It is supposed to. But hurting is not always bad. It's ok to walk through hurt. As long as you keep on walking. And sometimes you have to stop as you are walking and really experience it. You have to let yourself actually feel the emotions that you were created with and that is terrifying. The depth of loss that we can actually experience can knock us off our feet. It can put us to bed. It can drive us to a time of unproductiveness. And, horror of horrors, I'm going to say it, heresy......that's just fine. Stopping is good. Being crushed and living through it allows us to walk uniquely and honestly with others. When you have faced the big things, the world is not such a scary place anymore. There is something about facing your fears and surviving that makes you stronger. If you always avoid your fears, they just keep building up until one day, they debilitate you.
I am not one of those people who walks around all negative. Quite the opposite. I like being positive. I like finding solutions. However, sometimes, the only solution is to stop and engage the present pain or anger or heartache. Funny how we feel so badly about allowing ourselves to do so. Perhaps especially with anger. But once faced, those feelings lose their hold on our lives.
So, perhaps you need a trip to the beach. Or a mountain top. Or the desert. Or the garden. Or a cabin in the woods. Or the lake. Or wherever it is that stops you. That makes you look around. That brings you hope. A place where you can hear the still small voice that says, "I am still here, and I love you. I'm sorry that you hurt." And in that hearing, you can heal.
love you.
blessings,
rhonda
However, for me, when my grandfather died, I came face to face with horrible grief. I shudder even now to think of it. But, I did a pretty good job of stuffing it. Going on. Making do. Taking care of grandma. Taking care of the family. Talking about how he was in a better place. All of the christianeze. But I broke inside. And I couldn't be made right. Not then.
Fast forward five years. My grandmother died. I became, overnight, the matriarch of my line of the family. My mother died when I was young, now my grandmother. No more people above me being the prayer warriors and watch dogs of the family. Wow. It was as intense of an emotion as I had ever experienced. But this time, I was ready for grief. I stopped. I grieved. I felt like I heard God tell me to just experience it. Feel it. Cry. Laugh. Went to the ocean. Walked for hours. Collected shells. Listened. Experienced the power of the waves and the tide. And breathed. Took for real deep breaths. I think that a lot of people walk around breathing shallowly, always afraid that one big breath is going to cause them to explode. My grandma's death was particularly hard because she had not told me that she loved me. I had always been a disappointment to her. Never stylish. Never creative. Never the hostess she thought that I should be. My dishes were inadequate, my cooking perhaps moreso. And I grieved the loss of the opportunity to ever hear that she finally thought that I was good just as I was.
And now, I know something. Grieving. Hurting. Going through what we are actually going through without stuffing it or minimizing it is what really allows us to grow and change and mature. The stuffing of circumstances does not allow us to learn the lessons that we need to. Instead we learn how to hide. How to keep our pride intact. I believe that therapists call it engaging the moment. Being fully engaged in pain HURTS. Duh. Of course it does. It is supposed to. But hurting is not always bad. It's ok to walk through hurt. As long as you keep on walking. And sometimes you have to stop as you are walking and really experience it. You have to let yourself actually feel the emotions that you were created with and that is terrifying. The depth of loss that we can actually experience can knock us off our feet. It can put us to bed. It can drive us to a time of unproductiveness. And, horror of horrors, I'm going to say it, heresy......that's just fine. Stopping is good. Being crushed and living through it allows us to walk uniquely and honestly with others. When you have faced the big things, the world is not such a scary place anymore. There is something about facing your fears and surviving that makes you stronger. If you always avoid your fears, they just keep building up until one day, they debilitate you.
I am not one of those people who walks around all negative. Quite the opposite. I like being positive. I like finding solutions. However, sometimes, the only solution is to stop and engage the present pain or anger or heartache. Funny how we feel so badly about allowing ourselves to do so. Perhaps especially with anger. But once faced, those feelings lose their hold on our lives.
So, perhaps you need a trip to the beach. Or a mountain top. Or the desert. Or the garden. Or a cabin in the woods. Or the lake. Or wherever it is that stops you. That makes you look around. That brings you hope. A place where you can hear the still small voice that says, "I am still here, and I love you. I'm sorry that you hurt." And in that hearing, you can heal.
love you.
blessings,
rhonda
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Fog!!!
This morning was a strange Colorado morning. A heavy, misty fog lay over our yard and drive. The windows were completely frozen up on the van. I went out and cleaned the windows and warmed up the van. Then my son and I took off for his school about seven miles away. And the fog got deeper. Seeing became difficult. The windows were clear, but the clouds were thick on the ground. Thankfully, we drive all of the way on a state highway with no turns. About two miles from the school, we suddenly drove out of the fog. And I told my son that it's like that in life sometimes. When the fog seems deepest it's important not to turn away; not to turn back. You never know when it's going to be bright and sunshiney.
But you know, the thing about my morning is that I have to turn around, go back home and then do it all over again with my next three kids. When I reentered the foggy area, I was stunned. The fog was deeper and thicker and visibility was even lower than before. I lost sense of where I was within the five miles. Completely never saw the one stoplight on my way home. Squinting. Looking. Searching for the way home. I missed my turn. I realized it after I missed the second turn and came to a light and knew I was past my house. I turned to go around the block and come in the neighborhood the other way. I missed that turn too. The fog was just too thick to see the road to take a left turn onto it. So, I turned around. Went back to the light. Set myself up to be taking a right hand turn because it would be closer to my road. Creeped along. And just as I was on it, I saw the sign and took the turn. Relief. Headed home. I had persevered.
And I thought of all of the people that I see that are that lost. That hopeless. That tired of looking. Scared. Unable to see the way. Not knowing which way to turn. And my heart broke. So many. Lost in the fog of abuse. or physical pain. or addiction. or grief. or loss. But, I realized that I can be the sun. Because though that fog was thick, the sun was rising. And within just a short time the roads were clear, the sun was shining and everything looked different. I want to be the one who helps to burn off the fog. Who stays. Who hopes for the hopeless. Though I might shiver a bit, I don't want them to be lost alone.
blessings,
rhonda
But you know, the thing about my morning is that I have to turn around, go back home and then do it all over again with my next three kids. When I reentered the foggy area, I was stunned. The fog was deeper and thicker and visibility was even lower than before. I lost sense of where I was within the five miles. Completely never saw the one stoplight on my way home. Squinting. Looking. Searching for the way home. I missed my turn. I realized it after I missed the second turn and came to a light and knew I was past my house. I turned to go around the block and come in the neighborhood the other way. I missed that turn too. The fog was just too thick to see the road to take a left turn onto it. So, I turned around. Went back to the light. Set myself up to be taking a right hand turn because it would be closer to my road. Creeped along. And just as I was on it, I saw the sign and took the turn. Relief. Headed home. I had persevered.
And I thought of all of the people that I see that are that lost. That hopeless. That tired of looking. Scared. Unable to see the way. Not knowing which way to turn. And my heart broke. So many. Lost in the fog of abuse. or physical pain. or addiction. or grief. or loss. But, I realized that I can be the sun. Because though that fog was thick, the sun was rising. And within just a short time the roads were clear, the sun was shining and everything looked different. I want to be the one who helps to burn off the fog. Who stays. Who hopes for the hopeless. Though I might shiver a bit, I don't want them to be lost alone.
blessings,
rhonda
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