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Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

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September 26, 2013

An Irish Take-Away (or What I Learned From People I Wanted To Teach)

 Cohb, Ireland Looking towards the harbor

Cohb, Ireland
Looking towards the harbor

From the hill where I stood looking down at the small city of Cohb, Ireland (pronounced Cove) I could just make out the harbor and the sea, which was a light green, spattered with a few small boats. It was Irish weather, a fine mist gave the colorful town an opaque appearance, almost mystical and it was easy to squint my eyes and imagine a sailing ship tied up at the dock, or even the Titanic.

Cobh attracts a mish-mash of tourists with its unique history. The Lusitania, an ocean liner with 1900 people aboard, was torpedoed and sank off the coast here in 1915, with over 1100 drowned. And the Titanic made her last stop in this port before meeting its tragic fate. Cobh was also the port for 2.5 million emigrants fleeing the country during the Potato Famine of the 1840’s and 50’s.

We separated from the tour guide at the Emigration Museum, where photos and faces of the past stared at me. It was called the Great Potato Famine. But many will disagree. Some Irish call it  “the Starvation,” as goods, including beef and grains, were exported in abundance from the Irish soil to the English table. To this day, the word genocide drifts through the debate over the past. Well, we didn’t really want to murder them all, defenders say. But it was beneficial to let 1,000,000 or so die.

So some of the starving Irish began walking to these parts, like Cohb, where ships sailed to America, a land of promise, if you could survive the four to six week trip. Many didn’t. Those who did sent enough money home to bring one more over. By the 1860’s, the Irish made up to one third of some cities like Boston, New York and Philadelphia. But others died on the road to Cohb, their skeletal remains found on the road with grass in their teeth.  Children and the elderly were the most fragile and the first to go. Disease took down as many that starved. The poverty was indescribable.

I was extremely moved as I read their stories. Something in me felt bowed down with a great sadness as I looked far down the sloping roofs towards the water. The brightly colored homes leaning up against each other as the street dropped to the waters edge looked like something out of Mary Poppins. But there was an undercurrent of sorrow and suffering mixed with great courage that stirred me.

A statue of a young girl with her arm around her two little brothers, one of them pointing out to sea, sits on the dock. She is Annie Moore, age 14 and the first immigrant to be processed at the new Ellis Island in 1892. Her face is brave, but also soft. That’s the Irish. It was palpable, not only in Cohb, but everywhere we went. Yet the Irish people struck me as being buoyant and cheerful, engaging towards strangers, and secure in their identity. And they love to talk.

I was with a team from my church of about 14 people. We stayed in Cork, and were blessed with the amazing hospitality of Pastor Keith and Kerri Sullivan, who are missionaries there. It sounds funny, in a land that has been whipped and torn by religion for generations, that we would send missionaries. But most people there have never heard the gospel and who Jesus really is.  You can see the perplexed expression when you just say, “Jesus really loves you.” That was obviously overlooked.

Some of our group were doing some street drama when a man, perhaps in his late sixties caught my attention. He had an Irish tweed flat cap on, and a plain overcoat, and he was staring intently at the actors.

I moved next to him and asked what he thought of the play, and in a way the Irish have that was becoming predictable, he turned my questions back to me.  Who was “your God,” he wanted to know? They were good questions and I was thrown off a bit by his jousting and quick mind. He stayed respectful, even kind, but I could tell he was getting ready to drive his point home, that my God, whom he felt was pretty shallow, was not the one he was looking for. I was losing him. Then I pulled out a flyer.

On the front, in large print, it said ”The Power of Forgiveness”. It caught his eye.  I slowly turned it over and showed him the back.

“That’s my son, “ I said, pointing to a small photo of Spence when he was in Africa. “He was murdered in 2002.”

I watched his face transform. The anger drained away and a softness and sadness filled his eyes.

“I don’t know everything, sir.  But I do know who God is. And you are looking for him and He is here. He loves you so much.”

He stared at the flyer. “You forgave?” he asked in almost a whisper.

“I did. God helped me.” Then he opened the door.

“I was abused by a priest when I was a boy. There were many of us, “he explained. He did not give details. He didn’t have to. But he told me that he had forgiven also, in person.
“Then I knelt with him and prayed.”

The priest died and was buried with only a black cross over his grave. It was then the man told me that he had bought flowers to plant there, only two weeks ago. He hadn’t told anyone this. I took his hand.

“That, “ I said, “is true forgiveness. God loves that.”

He smiled at me and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a smooth black stone.

“Can you do something just for me?” he asked, the charm returning.

“Sure, “ I said, although I was holding my breath a bit because the Catholics have some pretty bizarre practices.

“When you get back to America, can you put this stone on your son’s grave? “

I must’ve paused and looked a little hesitant.

“It’s Irish. It’s a way I can give honor to your son.”

“OK. I’ll do it.” He pressed the warm stone into my hand and we parted ways. I smiled as I walked away. Deep calls unto deep. Somehow, I felt the door to this man’s heart cracked open just enough to allow God to touch that place, the hidden place, that is searching for healing, for His love. I felt good.

This morning I drove down to Spencer’s grave and took the smooth black stone out of my pocket. It had some reddish brown strands running through it and I thought about how much Spence would love the stone and the whole story behind it.  A few leaves had fallen onto the grave and I placed the stone beneath the scripture engraved under his name. “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of the Lord.”

I still get sadder when the summer turns to fall. I miss my son. Actually I am a little mad at him for entering into the joy of the Lord before me. But I remembered the face of the man in the square, the honor of sharing his pain, and thought of the young girl of Cobh with her two little brothers waiting for a ship, waiting to go someplace better. Suffering and courage are inseparable it seems. I want to be brave, to bring the light of hope through Jesus Christ that can pierce the terrible darkness. And for my brothers and sisters, I want to help you to not be afraid of the unknown journey ahead. Thank you, Ireland, for making me feel so at home. I am humbled by your grace.

An Irish prayer as I close:

May you see God’s light on the path ahead

When the road you walk is dark.

May you always hear,

Even in your hour of sorrow,

The gentle singing of the lark.

When times are hard may hardness

Never turn your heart to stone,

May you always remember

when the shadows fall—

You do not walk alone.

Filed Under: Hope, Loss, Redemption Tagged: cohb, forgiveness, ireland
4 Comments

February 9, 2013

The Visit

david

Jermaine was running late. He had forgotten his wallet and had to backtrack. I sat in the prison parking lot and weighed my options. It was cold out, and I was nervous. Sitting in my car looking at my phone would be a poor way to kill time. I watched as yet another young woman ducked from her car with a toddler on her shoulder, still asleep from the trip, hurrying into the building.

The Lord is my shepherd….

What am I so afraid of? Well, it was a state prison, imposing in size, with a tall cement wall running around it, topped with barbed wire. It was obviously old. Small details, like a cupola on the main building, are never seen in modern design. I had just driven for several miles through undisturbed country. Rolling fields and thick woods, like out of Walden’s Pond, lined the road. Then, coming around a curve…Norfolk MCI, the state’s largest prison. But that’s not what I’m most afraid of.

I was invited to meet with Dave Myland, one of the three men convicted in my son’s murder, serving a second-degree murder sentence; life with a chance of parole after twenty years. It’s been eleven years since Spence died, and ten years since I saw David last. After two days of paneling a jury, a plea bargain was negotiated. They had been charged with first-degree murder, and had just watched their friend get sent away for life, without parole. Second degree looked like the better choice.

I had faced these two men that now lived inside this prison 10 years ago as I read a quickly written Victim Impact Statement. I was surprised then to look up and see that they were both staring at me, and listening. I said I forgave them. I said God loved them. Then I cried as they were led away in cuffs.

Now, exactly eleven years from the day I buried my son, I had agreed to a request from David to meet him. Having Jermaine with me was part of the deal. As it turns out, that part worked out well. Jermaine and Dave had been talking on the phone and two weeks ago, I got a call from Jermaine. David had prayed with him over the phone. He wanted what we had, complete forgiveness, to know the grace of a loving Savior. He surrendered.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

I got out of the car and walked towards the main entrance, following a woman in front of me, with two little girls skipping behind her, about my granddaughters’ ages. Once inside, I stood in a large crowded room, feeling conspicuous, the white middle aged lady with the deer-in-the-headlights look. A kind woman handed me a bright yellow form to fill out, with a pen. Windows lined the opposite wall where I could see prison officials shuffling papers behind thick plexi-glass and bars.

Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me.

Jermaine finally arrived and we still had a lot of time to talk as we waited to hear our number called. I’m not sure why everything that has to do with the government needs to take so long, but here there was no exception. As a large steel door slid open, we were quickly pushed through and I took my cues from a little girl before me who had thrust out her bare arm to an expressionless female guard with a big rubber stamp.

The Lord is my shepherd, I have all that I need.

After being searched and moved through two more steel doors, I was surprised to be outside again, cold without my coat, then led into another building, sort of octagonal shaped. Once inside I found myself in a huge open room that reminded me of a waiting room in a train station, loud and echo-y, with vending machines everywhere and kids with lots of energy. I was expecting something different, like a small smoky room with rigid chairs and tense guards, maybe speaking through phones like in the movies.

I shall fear no evil, for You are close beside me.

I watched Jermaine as he scanned the room, realizing I didn’t really remember much about how David looked that one day years before. Jermaine smiled and I turned to see a young man in jeans and a gray sweat-shirt walking towards us, first greeting Jermaine then turning to me. Dave was bigger than I remembered, and perhaps looking a bit older than thirty but his eyes were gentle and it was easy to take his hand. Then I realized I wanted to give him a hug because it just seemed like the right thing to do. We stood there smiling and a little awkward while David looked for seats.

Driving up there, I couldn’t imagine what I’d say. There were things I didn’t want to talk about and I wondered what any of us had to say. But sitting there with these two young men, our conversation flowed naturally into a depth and openness that is rare in life, a sharing of hearts and hopes that was understood, an unspoken link between us. Not one of us would ever be the same after January 26th 2002. A prisoner, a pastor and a mother somehow connecting lives in a way that can only be orchestrated through the power of a loving God. Three sinners, equally precious to Jesus; forgiven, redeemed, restored. I don’t think God separates us on this level. The world does, the law does and that’s how it has to be here. But from a heavenly perspective, we are all desperate; prisoners and guards, judges and junkies. As the setting sun turned the chaotic din of the visiting room into a soft sepia hue, a guard shouted , “Visiting time is up! Say goodbye!”

Daddies kissed their little ones goodbye, girlfriends promised things in low voices and a few brave mothers, weary looking, hugged their sons and slowly moved towards the door. I was glad it was so simple and easy to love David, to want to embrace him and really pray for him. Jermaine and I walked out together to our cars, smiling, knowing that we were on holy ground, that God was again moving in unsearchable ways, glorious and mysterious.

I can’t explain any of this very well, because God can do things in a human heart that are absolutely impossible left to our own, and I understand His ways less now than ever. But as I drove the long way home that day, I knew I had again glimpsed a bit of heaven on earth, right in the middle of that prison. If you know Jesus this shouldn’t surprise you. And I felt both privileged and in awe.

 He restores my soul.

The gray February sky stretched out before me over the highway, the clouds dark and almost obscuring the setting sun, allowing just a few rays to reach the frozen ground. I wasn’t sure whether I would sing or cry. I decided to sing.

Surely goodness and unfailing love shall follow me all the days of my life.

*All scripture from Psalm 23, NLT.

 

Filed Under: Loss, Love, Redemption Tagged: forgiveness, murder, prison
3 Comments

January 31, 2012

Power of Forgiveness

Jermaine and Murph prior to event

Last Friday night, “The Power of Forgiveness” was held at my church. The flyer said it would be an unforgettable event and it surpassed that for me. I have to start by saying that this whole idea started on 9/11/11. We watched a video at church about a young man who died in the World Trade Centers and I became emotional and left. I get that way when I think about other mothers losing their sons. Dave Murphy Jr. saw me bolt out the door and he followed a few minutes later, finding me weeping in my car.

Dave was one of several young men that came to know Christ shortly after Spence died. He and a few others let me mother them, cook for them and I’m sure at times even correct them and there is a closeness we have that just comes from walking a road that has seen the worst and best of times. My tears dried and we began to talk about Spence and how it was coming up on ten years since he died and Dave said, “Let’s do something to celebrate all God has done!” It cheered me up but later I thought maybe he said that just to make me happy. Yet a seed was planted and the vision grew.

He laughs at himself and calls himself a “control freak” because he has a standard of excellence and knows the way he wants things done. He admits at times he goes a little over the top. But the spirit of excellence was so evident last week during this event. And most importantly, God showed up and stayed the whole time, drawing people together from every element and walk of life on Cape Cod and from local churches in Tiverton and Providence.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at old headlines announcing Spencer’s murder without feeling my heart jump. I’ve told my story dozens of times yet I still find my voice changing, my heart racing as I recall that night in the ER. But as I looked out over the fellowship hall and saw all the faces of people I’ve come to know and love within the confines of the most painful ten years of my life, I can do nothing but praise an ever- loving and merciful Father in heaven, whose power to heal, to redeem and transform is boundless.

I couldn’t sleep that night, although exhausted and spent. Jermaine told me he couldn’t either and then I talked to Dasia, Murph’s wife and she laughed and said he didn’t either. The wonder of God does that. A month ago, when I asked Murph what I could do to help, he just looked at me and said “Nothing. I just want you to be blessed.” Well done, Dave, well done.

View “Power of Forgiveness” video by One Way Pics:

http://www.youtube.com/user/onewaypics

 

 

Filed Under: Loss, Redemption Tagged: forgiveness, hope, murder
2 Comments

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