Spencer's Mom

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

Spencersmom.com Turns 10!

 I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3:14

Blog: (noun) a website containing a writer’s or group of writers’ own experiences, observations, opinions, etc.

Blogged, blogging (verb)

 August 2011, ten years ago, I wrote my first blog. I blogged. I looked it up first, and when I saw I could just throw my opinion out there on the World Wide Web, like casting a trawl net into the ocean, I was intrigued. And so it began. Blogging. You can read my first blog here.

It was inspired by a refrigerator magnet that I still have. It says:

Everyone is entitled to my opinion.

 I still think that is hysterical, partly because I believe it’s true. My mother’s nickname for me as a mouthy little girl was “last word Lucy.” My words have gotten me into a world of trouble. Taming my tongue has been hard, even discouraging. But God in His long-suffering mercy is teaching me Grace and Silence too. He has also shown me the power of words that are used for His glory, like an arrow pulled back and steadying its aim.

Spencersmom.com began with those in mind, who like myself, were traveling the hidden path, the hard climb with no map in hand. The loss of a child is unquestionably the worst devastation a life can endure. But I have discovered there are many life experiences that derail a soul. Other losses, betrayals, rejection and loneliness. The craving for hope is as universal as the need for air. So, I’ve taken my words and aimed upward. Through all circumstances, and I’ve blogged through many that would seem “unspiritual,” including the Marathon Bomber, Post Concussive Syndrome and Grumpy Old Men, I can point to a lodestar, a safe harbor – a place of healing and redemption. Same answer always – Jesus Christ. You will find no other on this blog. But you will find an opinion that has been tried. As Job declared:

But he knows the way that I take; when he has tried me, I shall come out as gold. Job 23:10

 We live in a world that’s smothered by opinion. I do recognize that mine is not essential. But it seems to me, (in my opinion) that opinions begin and end in the frontal lobe, conceived through intellect and reasoning. Thought out, but never tried in the adversity of lived life. The bigger the brains, the better the opinion. Eventually, you don’t even need your own perspective or belief set – you can just borrow them from others who seem smarter. The danger of “parroting” opinion is that it bears no weight or value. It’s a two-dimensional hand-me-down. Your “view” is a cheap knock-off of the original, and even the original, for all of its glitz and bling, may be faux gold.

Perhaps the best way to discover what you really believe is to suffer, and suffer hard. The refining furnace of pain has a way of whittling away the endless dross of opinion, peripheral doctrine and beliefs. When I buried my son, I was humbled by the house of cards I had built. The neat stack of principles and policies I had constructed for God imploded immediately. In the smoldering heap of ruin, God in His patience and mercy, helped me rebuild. But this time, there would be no house of cards, no neat set of equations and balancing scales. I found that most of my opinions don’t matter. Weightless fluff.

There is a clarity and discernment that is pure and unblemished, a fearlessness of life or death when you finally come through the furnace. It was just Jesus within the fire and there, waiting, when I emerged – more majestic and mysterious than ever. “Follow me,” was my only direction. All obstacles had been stripped away, and the path was clear, His word a lamp for my feet. I find it is most difficult to follow Jesus on a good day – when the sun is bright and the way seems smooth. C.S. Lewis writes, in Screwtape Letters,

“Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one–the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

Soon we begin to gather those things we at one time surrendered. Our plans, position, our bitterness and self-pity. Sometimes it’s the “blessings” of God that most incumber us. If we’re not careful, we begin to resent God Himself, and His messengers. We are, on this side of heaven, in the flesh and inclined to pitch our tent towards all that dazzles ­and draws our hearts away from the rough climb upward. My son Spencer wrote:

“This life is nothing more than a pilgrimage to heaven. This journey is a journey of the heart.”

 Ah yes! It is more than just a set of footprints. It is a journey of the heart, and that’s why Jesus knew He was handing us enough with just one simple command: Love one another. Ten years goes by in a flash. And in all of my stumbling and fumbling, have I gotten any better at this? I guess others would have to answer that for me. As my words lift into the clamor of opinion, whether spoken, blogged, podcasted or spray-painted, the question is; Do they matter? And most importantly to me– do they glorify God? Have I “walked in love” (Ephesians 5:2)? Have I hit the mark?

 Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person. Colossians 4:6

“Always?” Not me, not yet, but this I still strive for, “pressing towards the mark.”

Thank you, dear friend and reader, for 10 years of following along, or maybe just stopping by once, and sifting my words. Thank you for GRACE. May you find pure gold and words that edify and equip you for this journey – the call upward in Christ Jesus, a “journey of the heart.” And that’s much more than just my opinion. It’s the Way, the Truth and Life. It is the answer.

Ten years later, still on the fridge!

 

The 2021 Spencer Macleod Memorial Three Point Shoot Out

 

The crowd

Bap, bap, bap...the sound of a basketball hitting pavement still gives me a strange sense of comfort. I am transported back to gymnasiums, the squeak of sneakers on the floor, the shriek of a ref’s whistle. Though my eyes never left my child, eventually I learned the 10 rules, and caught on to many of the endless sub-rules, say for dribbling.  No traveling, double-dribbling and watch the clock – you have 5 seconds to pass.

All three of my sons played to some degree. Spencer, the oldest, quit high school and sports with it, but was instrumental in mentoring and encouraging his younger brother Miles through his high school career. Miles played into college. Jake, ten years younger and several inches taller, played into high school but stepped down so he could focus on God’s direction for his life. Many times, I could hear one of them approaching home as daylight faded. Bap…bap…bap. It’s a simple relationship between a boy and his ball.

So it made sense when the Yarmouth police chief introduced the idea of a memorial for Spencer at the Old Town House basketball courts. It was 2004, two years past his murder and all of the court proceedings had finally wrapped up. The Yarmouth police recognized Spencer as a hero, someone who gave his life for another, so plans were made.

I remember it was blustery cold, but the two courts were crowded that day. Police and firemen stood in uniform. Detectives, ex-thugs, my pastor, friends and family, church folks, the assistant DA and Sue O’Leary from the Victim Witness office all mingled together on a chilly fall day. We served cookies and hot cider and a group from church rapped a song Spencer wrote.

“This is a message to my heavenly Father

Who picked me up when I was helpless, broken – I needed shelter.”

As the leaves skittered across the courts and the trees tossed in the wind, God was there, moving among the people, finding just the right place in each heart to press upon. He was there to hold a broken mother, to point up and say “Look!” It was no ordinary celebration. When Jesus is in on it, all heaven will rejoice.

Bap…bap…bap. It’s July 1 2021. I’m sitting on one of the two stone benches that flank the stone memorial for Spencer. Miles and Jake are shooting around on the court, their wives and children are close by. Miles has announced that it is the 2021 Spencer Macleod Memorial Three Point Shoot Out. If you didn’t know, there were 13 of them, each year growing larger and expanding from a few guys passing the hat for the winner, to racks and refs and grand prizes, not to mention free raffle give-a-ways. Last year was a Covid casualty. This year was a combination of a tired director (my husband) and it landing on the edge of everything suddenly opening. Anyway, it wasn’t happening. Until now.

  Flyer from 2018

It’s one of those quirky things in a mom who’s lost a child. Like the shoebox my mom carried for fifty years with my brother’s soldier, Christmas stocking and First Place ribbon he won at a field day right before he died at age nine. I get it now. I carry my own “box,” real (yes, there is a box in the attic now almost 20 years later of Spencer’s things I can’t toss out) and imagined. I imagine he will be always remembered, always a hero, always the gentle young man who loved others the way Jesus does. Grace upon grace.  But people grow up, move, change…even forget. Time has no mercy, but allows us memories, like souvenirs.

I don’t know whether my sons consciously realize it, this sometimes painful processing that I do, although less often now. The quirkiness. They are grown and changed too. Men that still love the game, even though they laugh at their waning endurance on the court. Men that still love their brother.

 

The ball hits the backboard and bounces into the hoop.

“You still have a great shot, Jake,” Miles says. And I know that still means a lot to his not so little brother.

“Okay,” Miles announces as he stands at the three-point line, “for the 2021 Spencer Macleod Three Point Shoot Out, whoever gets the next three-pointer wins.” As he is still speaking, he shoots, and the ball swishes through the basket. I’m pretty sure he did not expect it and we shout and cheer. The grandkids are climbing on the memorial stone and laughter fills the air. Time slows down long enough for me to pull this all in and hold the moment. Did you know that God was right there again? You may even wonder if Jesus likes basketball and I think it could be true. All I know is 2021 may go down as one of the best three-point shootouts ever. But what does a mom know? Except that her kids are the best.

Cousins

 

On The Other Side of the Bed : Six Take-a-Ways From a Nurse Who Became a Patient

My tail is showing!

I held the remote loosely in my hand, respectful of the power within. How many times had I reviewed the colored buttons? The yellow light bulb, green TV in big letters flanked by volume and channel buttons, then the large red button at the top, which for many years had a nurse icon of a woman wearing a hat. “That’s me in the hat.” I’d say. Some laughed, some didn’t.

My thumb moved up to the red button and I drew a breath and pressed. It lit up and I could hear what sounded like a soft “ding…ding…ding” echoing up the hall. Interesting, I thought. It doesn’t sound that quiet at the nurses’ station, where it merges with at least four other alarms at any given time. Once I counted eight.

I had intentionally waited past change-of-shift- report, and in my mind I saw a nurse on the phone or in another patient’s room, a CNA or tech as they were called at this hospital, trying to make her rounds glancing at my light on, and the mental bulletin board that now has one more thing tacked to it. And I also knew that if I tried to get up to the bathroom on my own,  an alarm that must’ve been created by a prison warden would sound, and then a small crowd of harried personnel would descend upon me, part angry, part relieved that I am not splayed across the floor. So I waited.

I thought about my over 30 years of taking care of people like me, wearing oversized johnnies, helpless, grumpy – how sometimes I would see them as broken objects that required multiple tasks and interventions just to keep them alive (ER nursing), or as almost inanimate beings that had been culled apart into varying systems that somehow would become a whole (ICU). I remember my disappointment on my first day as a critical care nurse when I realized that for the most part, none of my patients could respond. They were intubated, surrounded by chirping pumps, flashing numbers and squawking ventilators. For this reason, I have always been drawn back to bedside nursing. Holding the hand of dying man or dancing in the bathroom with an Alzheimer’s patient, finding a place of trust and truth with the addict, or just making someone laugh; I know it’s a gift God gave me.

“Thank you for your care,” an elderly man told me a few weeks ago. “You have a way of taking away my anxiety.” We can’t always fix everyone, but we can make the day a little less daunting. I think I would’ve loved working with Florence Nightingale – the Grand Dame of the bedside. She was tough but compassionate, a zealous advocate for her patients. Maybe I could carry her lamp.

They say nurses make the worst patients. Define “worst.” I’ve cared for sick people for decades  in a huge variety of settings. Nurses don’t normally like the tables turned. Really, we can take care of ourselves. Yet I was humbled during my recent three night stay which was supposed to be just one. Oh, those irritating little complications which just seemed to pop up like a Whack-a-mole game in an arcade. My vison for my surgery was an easy one – hopping away with accolades from the healthcare team. I would overhear someone say, “Isn’t she remarkable, how quickly she was up and running!” Well, no – it didn’t go that way at all, starting in recovery when my blood pressure read 70 then a pesky bleed that required three units of blood, then a night of muscle spasms so intense I begged the nurse to empty the full arsenal of available pain killers into my mouth and veins. My last words to this kind soul were, “Do you think I might stop breathing?” Honestly, I didn’t care. Maybe she didn’t either. I woke up six hours later knowing right away I was not in heaven, but pain free. If you know me well at all, words like Stubborn, Obstinate, Willful might be in your descriptive cache, but I can argue (obstinately) that those are sometimes good traits. Yet as I lay in bed, unable to do anything on my own other than work the remote with the big red button at the top, I was humbled. And grateful.

I did not like being called a hero during the Covid pandemic. Yes, I cared for Covid patients. I became a nurse during the AIDS epidemic, when all anyone knew about it was that it killed. We didn’t know how, we just knew if we got it, we would die. So we wore what looked like Hazmat suits into their rooms, not knowing any better. Eventually we learned the truth, and we could sit next to them and hug them if they needed it. They often did. That’s a hero, looking beyond the disease and loving someone. The nurses on our Covid floor and ICU who went beyond the call of duty to make sure no one had to die alone – that’s a hero. But so is the nurse’s aide who bathes the withdrawing alcoholic from head to toe, shaves him and combs his hair so that some sort of dignity is retained. We are humans with a gift to love the un-loveables and bring mercy and light to those gripped by the sudden unknowns of sickness and injury. Sometimes we heal; sometimes we just hold hands. Or dance.

       Oh yeah! Now for six take-aways in no particular order.

  1. For my peers – every nurse, tech, aide, call bell-answerer – don’t take every patient personally. We are not mad at you! We just found out we’re not in control, and maybe a bit scared. Or grumpy, even sad. No reflection on YOU – just be kind. Smile. Be your beautiful self.
  2. Don’t be a nurse if you don’t care. Or doctor, or PA or NP. The patient can tell and is not wowed by your MENSA IQ, your flip dismissal of their true needs or seeing your name on the bleeping whiteboard.
  3. Patients – past, present and future. Just because your nurse is sitting down doesn’t mean she is shopping on Amazon. He or she could be saving your life by checking your labs, vital signs, meds and orders. If it sounds quiet, it could be because everyone is in another room saving a life, or cleaning up a colossal mess. Short answer; you don’t know.
  4. Your nurse or aide is not your Personal Care Assistant. We are REALLY busy with other patients and families, trying to help the sickest first. Be glad you are NOT the sickest! This is 2021 – resources are scarce, including our time. We are stretched to the outermost. Add this to the “new Normal.”
  5. I pray in the parking lot every morning before work. I ask Jesus to make me more like Him, to be a slice of God’s light in an often dark place. Sometimes, when the light starts to dim, I have to pray again in the bathroom. God doesn’t care. Same for when I was a patient, although my prayer was more like this: Help!!! He likes that one too. So if you don’t know Jesus, you really should. He hears us.
  6. Don’t bring make-up or even a hairbrush to the hospital. Something about those hospital johnnies liberates you from caring one iota about how you look.

I am home and hobbled for a while, but I think about my coworkers more than I thought I would. I work with an amazing team of nurses, CNA’s, NPs, docs and housekeepers. And an amazing manager. Pandemic or not, they are my heroes. And this is coming from a nurse who just crossed over into the bed. And was humbled.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” — Psalm 73:26

 

Home!

 

 

 

 

Seeking the Cross – Finding a Garden

These are them!

 

It was pathetic – but also kind of sweet, like an ugly puppy. There we were, staring at the cold dirt, two signs of spring – a smatter of purple crocuses and two next door neighbors talking to each other. Really, this is Cape Cod. It draws people who can’t run any farther away from the rest of the world. We’re okay with social distance. But there we were, huddled over a small patch of dirt that bordered our property line, transfixed with goofy grins as the sun set and the damp chill began to wrap its icy fingers around us. Spring in New England, especially the coast, is more symbolic than substance.

It’s always seemed fair to me that Easter arrives in the midst of this not-so-attractive time of year. I know other places in the country enjoy lilies and bonnets and picnics in the park, but here an easter egg hunt must be fast, like most folks hope their church service is. When I was a girl, it meant I had to stay in a dress way too long. Somehow the cross was buried beneath the hard ground. “He is risen!” the priest would exclaim. From what? I was curious. It sounded like a hat trick. Now you see him, now you don’t. The cross was etched across hot cross buns and forgotten. The connection was broken.

In the place where He was crucified there was a garden. John 19:41

Amy Carmichael wrote: “This is my Easter word for you. You will find your garden very near to the place where you will be crucified.” Then this –

 But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair;  persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.2 Corinthians 4:7-10

A coworker asked me to tell her about Jesus last week. As we sat on her couch cradling our coffee mugs, I said something like this:

There is nothing on earth to compare to the joy, the peace, the complete undeserved and immeasurable love of God. Then we get heaven!

But first you have to die.

Alone. This is not a big selling point.

In the place…there was a garden.

 In that very place where we die there is good soil. I have planted seeds of forgiveness, small seeds of faith, sprinkled seeds of grace. Then waited…

Three days must’ve seemed like a lifetime to Jesus’ disciples. Time enough to doubt, to turn back, to go fishing. Three days of darkness – enough time to die.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asked Peter three times, after he had risen. Love has more gravity after you die.  It’s a robust, rugged God-love that waters and tends the garden. Just when you think nothing at all could ever grow, the craziest things spring up. Restoration, healing, joy unspeakable and full of glory. And the God-love never runs out, as long as we keep sowing the seed, rain or shine.

It is hope when all seems hopeless. That’s a promise.

Take up your cross daily and follow me – Jesus (Luke 9:23)

Daily? That’s also a hard selling point. Right after that he tells the crowd that if you really want to find your life, (Ah! Now he’s talking!) you must lose it. (What?)

Some days I don’t want to pick up my cross. I am too busy living my best life now, with its perks and petty offenses. I want things my way. It seems so…right. But the garden suffers horribly. Nothing can grow except bit fat weeds.

When we look at the cross this Easter, let’s not just remember Jesus and His death. We must carry His death, His humility, His suffering before we can carry His life and resurrection power. His treasure in these ordinary jars of clay. Amazing.

Bob (my neighbor) and I went back into our houses, leaving the brave little crocuses to huddle above the barren earth as the night covered them in frost. And they were there this morning, waving to me as I pulled out of the driveway, an almost extravagant display of color against a gray and barren landscape. That’s my God, I thought as I drove off. Hope. And it’s all worth waiting for.

 

I AM THEY: Christ Be Magnified

https://youtu.be/kxqY2KihKbQ

For Those Who Can’t Forget

Mija Quigley of Princeton Junction, New Jersey, embraces the name of son Patrick Quigley at the 9/11 Memorial on September 11.

Mija Quigley of Princeton Junction, New Jersey, embraces the name of son Patrick Quigley at the 9/11 Memorial on September 11.

***** This is intentionally reposted the day after the day we all remember. Originally posted September 2014. For those whose 9/12 is just as hard as 9/11.

 

He heals the brokenhearted
 and binds up their wounds.

He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.

Psalm 147:3,4 (ESV)

Rosie and I resumed our walks around the pond this week. Summertime we are banned (well, dogs are) which is fine because I don’t like the woods in the summer. Inchworms and ticks and mosquitos…yuk.

Early this morning the cool air had settled across the pond, creating a thin layer of white mist, like a small cloud hovering over the still water and as I stood on the beach staring into it, I remembered it was September 11. I cry when I think of other people who have lost their children, even if those children are 40 or 50, so I stood there looking at the mist and then the perfect blue sky, just like that day 13 years ago, and I wept for them out of that place in my own heart that still cries.

The “We will never forget” that America vowed after that horrid day is an embarrassment now, like so many campaign promises. We did forget, except for this day, which has become mostly a soppy media event, where we again are subjected to smashing planes and burning towers and somber speeches. Then September 12th, we can forget again. But for thousands of families out there, they don’t forget. Their lives imploded, just like those two towers that came crashing down in smoke and rubble.

Someone once said that grief is not a process; grief is love. If you’ve ever read about the five stages of grief, I might add another stage; where you realize that 99% of the books written about grief, like the five stages one, are garbage, unless you’re grieving over your pet hamster. Grief is gritty but intangible, just like love. In fact as I stood there this morning, watching the mist curl upward like smoke, thinking of the horror of 911, and how many lives were forever changed in an instant, I thought this: Love stinks.

It stinks when you’re lying awake at night wondering where your prodigal child is, trying to rein in the wild and dark imagery of your child in trouble or danger, or worse… The phone rings and your heart flops over like someone just put paddles to it. You’re so mad at that kid, you could kill him. Truthfully, I remember catching myself being angry at Spence for dying. That’s what love does. I tell people with school age kids to just kick back and enjoy. And rest up. Even if the teen years go well, you still have to let go. Yes, let them go; uncurl your little mommy claws from their coattails and release. Like I said, love stinks sometimes.

My son was still alive on September 11th, 2011, but only for about four more months. I remember him saying he would go, he would fight. That’s when America said we would never forget. He had a soldier’s heart, the same heart that put him between a knife and a friend. Like Job, for many months, I cursed the day I was born. I wanted to lie down next to Spence and let the cool earth cover me. But instead I walked around with this gaping hole where my heart was, trying to smile, hiding to cry.

But here’s the thing; love is also the only thing on this crazy planet that gives our existence meaning, shape or purpose. That makes sense, because God is love. He is the ONLY one who can mend that sad little shattered heart, can rebuild the rubble piece by piece, stronger and better than before. It’s a simple equation and easy to remember; God=Love. No matter what.

We do have an option. We can choose to just not love at all. It’s safe and secure, like savings bonds. But unless you’re made of plywood, I’m sure you will spend your whole life knowing you missed it, the one thing that matters most, more than Emmy awards and Nobel Peace prizes or being cool. I remember holding a sobbing woman who was my age after a doctor told her she was going to die from liver disease. She cried with me because I was the only one who could love her. Angry, alcoholic, a life of loving a bottle first, she knew she might have to die alone. That really stinks.

Nellie was one of my patients yesterday. She was 93, almost deaf and about four and a half feet tall. No matter what I said, she thought she was in a hotel and she kept trying to buy me lunch. “No thanks,” I had to yell at her. She smiled, gesturing to the couch in her room for me to sit. Her son was a retired teacher, she said, and I felt a bond with her because one of my sons teaches also. She asked how many children I had and I told her, again having to holler, that I had lost a child, but had two left. Her little wrinkled face creased into a sad frown.

“Oh I’m so sorry! How did he die?”

I couldn’t see myself yelling, “He was murdered!” so I simply yelled,

“It was 12 years ago.” And she nodded, accepting it as not a real answer to her question, but the one I wanted to give. Her smile was grace.

I think that’s how God is when we say, “Love stinks!” It’s not the right answer. But He knows there are no five easy steps, and then you’re done. We will never forget, whether your insides are hanging out and you are gasping for breath, or the pain has settled like an old friend in your favorite chair. The grieving really do want to move forward, to love again, instead of clinging to creepy altars, lighting candles. But we are changed, limping and frail, unfamiliar with ourselves.

Yet God, who refuses to remember our sins after we repent, can remember the name of each star. He does not forget our pain. Almighty Father, Jehovah Rapha – the Lord who heals, leans down and says, “Show me where it hurts.” And He presses His hand right there, in that place. And we love again. That comforts me today, as I think of so many broken hearts.

Love becomes grace, which turns back into praise; the right answer.

And every day, He is worthy of our praise.

Great is our Lord, and abundant in power. His understanding is beyond measure.    Psalm 147-5 ESV

 

A Father’s Perfect Love

*** Dear friends- in the beautiful but sometimes perplexing spirit of Father’s Day, I am reposting this from 2017.  I pray it will bless and minister to someone!

My dad —circa 1962

Pawwwwwt Chestah!!

I can still hear the conductor holler over the clack and rattle of the train and the steady kachuk kachuk kachuk of the wheels on the rails. Port Chester, Rye, Harrison. Back then, in the 60’s, it wasn’t an odd thing for a little girl to ride the train alone. The conductors that strode like drunk men up and down the swaying cars knew my dad, knew that he worked in New York City like most men from Riverside, Connecticut and that he would be there, at Grand Central Station, watching for the wave of the conductor as he would signal me to go.

“There he is!” they would call out, as I ran from the train to my father.

New Rochelle! These places didn’t look much different to me until we reached Harlem.

“One hundred and twenty fifth Street!” I learned that was the final call before the last stop. The station was filled with people that were strange to me, dark-skinned with ragged clothes. But it was more than the way they looked, or didn’t look. They moved slower, like they had no where to get to, like trains and time didn’t matter much, not like my town, where men in crisp suits and new briefcases often ran to catch the train..

The seats were soft blue velvet and smelled like my dad, cigarettes and shaving cream. I liked to pull up the window so I could feel the air rush in and hear the tracks beat out their rhythm…kachuk, kachuk, faster and faster as we pulled away from each station. I could smell the air change as we pressed forward, farther and farther from the salt air of Long Island Sound and the heavy perfume of tall maple and elm trees, into the colorless exhaust of Harlem. It was different in so many ways.

My father took me to Radio City Music Hall several times — Nutcracker Suite, the Rockettes — all the things he knew a girl would love. I remember gawking at the bare legs flying up in the air in unison, because these women must be the “chorus girls” my mother made reference to when I behaved in a coarse way, like belching or chewing gum. But what I loved the best was going to his office, high above Manhattan, being “Bob’s little girl” and the pride he showed as he smiled down at me while people filtered through. I knew that I, his big desk and the view over New York City, made him feel special, like he did something right, and I loved sharing that moment.

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

I never thought of this Father too much growing up, the one in church. For one, heaven seemed very far away, so this Father must be too. My sister thought they were saying, Harold be thy name instead of Hallowed which made more sense because we had an Uncle Harold. Who ever heard of someone named Hallowed? Anyway, I had a father, right here and he was the daddy of the big desk and the Rockettes and whisky breath, the bedtime stories that would take you to castles with swords and knights and knaves, the scratchy kiss good-night from the thick stubble on his nighttime face. I can still see him waiting for me, outside the train, smiling like a big kid waiting for a friend to come out to play.

The visits changed. One day my mother called me outside, to the porch where she shook a glass filled with ice and bourbon.

“Your father lost his job,” she said. I was 12, I couldn’t grasp the full meaning of what that meant, nor did she try to explain. But I knew that things had changed, just like when my brother died four years before. The wind was turning around again. I looked at my feet and turned away.

The next time I met my dad at Grand Central station, he took me to a bar. Everyone there knew him, just like when he took me to his office.

He ordered a drink, and took out his cigarettes, shaking the pack and offering me one.

“I know you smoke. You steal my cigarettes all the time, so I’m giving you one now.”

I took it and put it between my lips.

“Always wait for a man to give you a light,” he instructed me, as he pulled his lighter out of his jacket and flipped it open with a swift shake. He reached across the table and waited for me to draw smoke, then lit his own. I don’t remember if we ate.

There was no Radio City Music Hall that night. We got on a subway beneath Grand Central Station, sitting in the front, near the conductor, so we could see the tracks ahead, the stations appearing bleak and dirty as we stopped along the way, the doors sliding open to swallow the rancid air. Finally the subway reached the end, then jerked backwards, sending us back again. We stayed in our seats, watching the tracks disappear into the dark, not saying much.

Even after I met Jesus, at age 31, years after the subway ride and watching the daddy I loved slide into a deep pit of failure and despair, I still didn’t trust this new Father. I was grateful though. I knew He had rescued me from the same snare that caught my dad, I knew He had had somehow fixed what was broken. The mess that teachers and cops and therapists had just scratched their heads at, God reached down into my heart and in a flash – it was like new. But love? I doubted it.

My father died at age 56, when I was pregnant with my second son. He had been sober for seven years and in an awkward dance of reconciliation, we tried to build a bridge over years of my pain and his shame. I wrote letters because it was safer, describing the raw beauty of the lower Cape, and he lived within the fierce gales and the unrestrained sea. He liked that the gulls kept flying, even though they couldn’t get ahead. Cancer took him away from me for good in 1981.

Forgive your father, my new Father spoke to me. I argued a bit — we had made amends. He’s dead anyway.

Forgive your father, He insisted. So I did. And a strange thing happened. I could love again. My old dad, and my new Dad too.

This Father’s day, love your father if you can. And if you can’t, I suggest you meet the new One. And forgive.

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6 NIV

No one. That seems a little exclusive, I know, but you are all invited.

It’s funny — when I remember my dad, I remember the dad who loved me, the dad who sat through the Nutcracker Suite, smiling, who showed me off to his friends. He was a good dad. But I am even more grateful to my real Father, the one who gave me life, who poured His love out into my heart – a heart that quit love, quit hope, like those people a little girl on a train looked out at in Harlem 50 years ago. I couldn’t name it Despair then, but I would come to know it well.

Thank you, Father, for your love that is pure and boundless and never fails. And for Jesus, who made a way for me to find you. Your name is not Harold, it is Love. Perfect love.

 

 

**** A beautiful song “How Deep the Father’s Love For Us” sung by Selah. Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKDujmtyAVk