Death Archives - call me pasturescott

oh well, noël

The death of a beloved is an amputation.
C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

There’s a 10-foot tall Christmas tree in Tustin, California for families who grieve the loss of their children to addiction. It’s put there yearly by Solace of Hope, a family support group for grieving parents. The tree is filled with ornaments and photos of the many lives lost far too soon to the damnable plague of opioids.

Alan Berkowitz and his wife Kathy lost their 26-year old son to heroin six years ago.

The toughest part for my wife and me is Christmas morning. Now it’s just the two of us. We get up and have coffee. And, well, it’s kind of hollow.”

Sandy and I share that isolating grief with the Berkowitz’s. Our Graham also became an ‘ornament on a tree’ nine Christmases ago at twenty-four. He had just completed a few months in rehab and we were happily working on getting him a flight home from Minnesota. On December 16th, word reached us he would not be coming home.

Our Christmases can still feel hollow for us too. More’s the pity because Sandy loves Christmas like no other day of the year. She can decorate to beat the band and transform any house or apartment into a glowing hearthfire of peace on earth. Fittingly, she’s a Christmas Day baby, but each year her birthday is eclipsed by a lingering shadow of grief.

I was streaming the first episode of a murder mystery which was mostly meh until the chief detective said something I immediately put in my notes app. Offering comfort to the victim’s teenage daughter he said,

“grief is love with no place to go.”

For parents like us who have lost a child at Christmas, we totally get that.

While many associate Christmas with “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” (even better in Linus voice) others are further down in the Luke narrative. There’s the headline we all know and love, but then there’s the fine print:

And Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother, “Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (AND A SWORD WILL PIERCE THROUGH YOUR OWN SOUL ALSO), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed.
Luke 2:34-35 (emphasis mine)

Way to bury the lede, Luke!

Years ago many older hymns were passed down through oral/auditory tradition. The First Noel is one of them, which is why The Cornish Songbook (1929), printed the first stanza as:

O well, O well, the Angels did say
To shepherds there in the fields did lay;
Late in the night a-folding their sheep,
A winter’s night, both cold and bleak.
O well, O well, O well, O well,
Born is the King of Israel.

The season of noël is, for some, a painful ordeal. From the Latin ‘natale,’ meaning “birth,” Noël feels like anything but.

For a myriad of reasons, not only loss, it instills dread and invites depression. Scrooge’s dark night of the soul resonates more deeply than his Christmas morning grace awakening in some.

His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, it will teach him wisdom
—Aragorn, Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, J. R. R. Tolkien

Sandy and I fight the good fight yearly to not get cheated out of Christmas. She still decorates and I still play the music. She wraps gifts in upscale department store fashion and I don’t. We make sure to see the lights, watch White Christmas, and sit graveside with our boy on Christmas Eve.

The two of us have found our safest place to be is with each other. We don’t do big family gatherings on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. We prefer our holidays quieter. It’s worked for us nine straight years and we don’t plan to change.

If the manger means anything, it means the Savior swaddles our sorrows. Slowly, over channels of time, the comforted begin to realize their bandwidth for moving through the hard days has increased. The sword pierces a little less. You can surprise yourself by having the wherewithal to do stuff again.

Jesus, the Resurrection and the Life, our Wisdom from heaven, has gifted us with a deeper Noël. Even in the midst of our bleak midwinter, and as a hurting world moans in unrequited protest, our grief becomes love that suddenly finds a place to go.

Joyeux Noël, beloved.

[tipjarwp mode=”button” link_text=”Click here to buy me a coffee ☕️ Thank you!” open_style=”in_place”]

a letter to a grieving friend questioning his faith

My friend J____,

Your words leave me grasping for words that don’t smack of buttoned-up pietism or following predictable lines. As I mentioned earlier, I believe the Lord has kept me on an essential fast from offering you words that might lose their impact as soon as they touched your device! It’s now the middle of the night and I feel I’m awakened by God with a direction in response to a repeated cry to him for such.

A couple weeks ago I was in the Poconos of Pennsylvania with Sandy where I served as the guest speaker for an audience of disabled folk at their annual July Camp. I try to only preach what the Father burns into my heart (I wish I always succeeded at this, but it is my fervent intent), and, for reasons known only to him, I was given the task of preaching through the book of Ecclesiastes.

I know.

It could *only* be his prompting.

Long story short, it was a marvelous dive that was wonderfully received (praise God!) and His gospel came through each session through the book and I believe he got what he was after through it. That became clearly evident as I counseled many in between the chapel services.

During one of the sessions I went off script and shared my story (which you’ve heard) and was asked afterward by a woman who was there as a volunteer if I’d ever been bitter about the whole ‘satan-meant-it-for-evil-God-intended-it-for-good’ drama of my life. Never hesitating, I said “never, not even once.”

It’s been asked of me dozens or more times in these 38 years, and my response has never wavered. It’s always, “Never, Ever.” I usually go on to explain (as I did that morning with C____) that I prayed for it to happen; that my heart lifted up the offering of my legs to God in an anguished moment of surrender. He took me at face value and, voilà!, I’m a paraplegic. I am often quick to add the disclaimer: in my fevered, youthful zeal, I only meant I was willing to forfeit the ability to walk….and that only temporarily. I had no idea catheters, and pressure sores, and UTI’s, and atrophy, and bowel programs, and a hundred other debilitating, embarrassing, painful, pitiful things would be added into the deal. And for a lifetime. These, my friend – these – I have been known to rail against God about, often with choice words. And these I repent of, for reasons we’ll come to in a bit.

My son, my only child, departed this hard sod in a mean, cruel way. We (Sandy and I) did not fake a Job reaction, we lived it. “The Lord has given, the Lord has taken, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Both of us were wont to expect this would be how the story played out (because of Graham’s addiction roulette), had been waiting for the ‘phone call’ for years, not to mention prepared for it with grieving grace. The controversy with God came when we asked if he couldn’t have intervened and overwritten the genetic code with which our Graham came pre-packaged. Why, God? We accepted his death as a mercy to pull him from the self-cannibalism of addiction but wondered often why he couldn’t have been fixed.

I’m less argumentative today with the rabbi who lost a child, was eventually brought to the conclusion that God cannot be both all loving and all powerful at the same time, and wrote a bestseller about it. The rabbi waved a white flag as an acceptance mechanism that God didn’t head the tragedy off at the pass because he couldn’t, not wouldn’t. He and I part ways at his dreadful conclusion, but I do understand the pain that brought him to it.

God is all-loving, all-suffering, all-powerful, all-in, all-active, all-supportive. These truths keep me from falling away. Suffering on the scale that I have known has made me a mixture of both Arminian and Calvinist. I hold tightly to the theological rung of God‘s sovereignty; but my other hand is equally holding on to the rung of prevenient grace, that God is trusting me to hold to him for all he’s worth even when reason tells me to flee.

I had the opportunity to preach at a black church a week ago (pastored by a beloved friend I’m mentoring) and shared with the congregants the prosperity gospel of Paul. It is found in 2 Corinthians 12 and summed up in the word “weakness.” In the message I declared that my paralysis and all that comes with it, and my daily grieving for our son, has been used of God to heal the deeper afflictions of my soul: my self-godship.

When I take up a “self-pity cross” and rage against God and question his love, each and every time – whether immediately or after a season of soulish pouting – I am lovingly brought to repentance by the kindness of God. He implores me in these mercies to lay that one down and take up the cross of his design, the one for which he gives me grace to carry. I know full well when I am carrying the wrong cross, for those are the times I strive to expose him for the despot I think him to be, and all is vanity and meaninglessness.

I think I have a better grasp on why the Preacher of Ecclesiastes said going to the house of mourning is better than going to the house of feasting. Death – and mourning – have to do with resurrection (life to come), while feasting, as good and wonderful as these times can be, does not teach us we are created for something more but rather occupies us with this world.

My body would prefer my legs, and my soul would prefer my son and having some grandkids, but these fit into the category of “temporal“ things (2 Cor 4:18). Ah, but let’s not put too exact a period there – perhaps an ellipsis would do better – for an all-loving God has grace for temporal things too. It’s just that he has his eyes set on what’s after the temporary blessings of life. And so my heart prefers his plan, trusts his ways, and leans hard into his love. His love conquers all (Rom 8:31-39).

I believe these are the things the Father has awakened me to share with you, and I will trust that they might be an encouragement. Bless you, my brother. I have grieved with you … and all affected by this suffocating tragedy, and have done so nonstop.

I pray to God that none of these words sound Christian-ese, but because God woke me up, I believe they are what is on his heart for you. I remain, as ever, available to listen, to wait, and to understand throughout this process of venting and grieving. Believe me, Sandy and I know this familiar place.

All for Jesus,

Scott

Happy Birthday in Heaven, Son

Spring, 2013

The sun is warming up the day, and my boy sits next to me in our aging van. He’s chattering away like a child on Christmas morning as we bounce along Sweetwater Road. He keeps looking at the piece of paper he holds on his lap, almost reverently, then smiles out the window. I can see the reflection of his delight in the glass. Then I feel him looking at me, studying me. His smile fades.

I’ve been sullen as he’s jibbered away, unresponsive, except for a forced smile here and there along the way. He knows it’s fake. My child reads me like a book.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me, Dad?” he challenges.

He’s now fairly crumpled the paper in his unstrained fist and waving it in my face, but not disrespectfully. He doesn’t want a fight, not today of all days, heavens, and Lord knows neither do I.

“You want to know, Graham, why I’m not thrilled with this news?” I reply. “Truly?”

He doesn’t respond because he already knows.

The folded sheet in his hand is the news our son’s been waiting for. It’s an official letter from his probation office telling him he’s been cleared to move out of Georgia, that he’s to report to his new probation officer in Minnesota by such-and-such a day. Such-and-such a day was too close for my heart to accept, and so, as we took our backway home, I simply couldn’t rejoice with him. His take was I was peeing on his parade.

Perhaps I was.

“Graham,” I continued, attempting to avoid any tone of argumentativeness, “your Mom and I are sad because we may never see you again –“

He stopped me right there.

“But I’ll come back!” he offered. “Birthday, Christmas, whatever…it’s not forever, Dad.”

I pressed in a bit more.

“Son, I’m just not sure it’s necessary for you to move away for you to be safe from drugs. You know as well as I do, they’ll find you wherever you go…”

He sat back and fixed a frustrated glare straight ahead and was silent for a couple ticks. He knew he wouldn’t change my mind. When he looked back at me, there were tears.

“Dad, you just don’t know how bad it is! I can’t stay here, don’t you see? If I don’t get out of Atlanta I’ll die!”

I didn’t know it at the time but this would be one of our final face-to-face, father-son conversations. As we approached the stop sign to turn left onto Lee Road, I told him whatever happens we loved him, and I ended our painful discussion by telling Graham, “We won’t stand in your way, son; and we won’t make this hard for you. If this is what you feel you have to do, we support you.”

I pushed down on the turn signal to go into the turn.

Ironically, a half-mile back, on Graham’s side of the van, we had just passed the very cemetery we’d lay his body to rest – nine months hence – in a cold, driving rainstorm, two days before Christmas.

▪️ ▪️ ▪️ ▪️

Fall, 2015

Today Graham Scott would be 26, making it his second birthday in heaven.

🎉🎈🎂Happy birthday in heaven, son! 🎉🎈🎂

It’s not been a good day down here, however. I don’t think it’s about our son’s passing or not being here, necessarily. It seems it’s just life stuff. Bad days are rare for me. I mean ra-are. But I have them. Today seems to be one. I was outside earlier where and when I meet with the Lord each day, but I wasn’t feeling it.

Being in nature, listening to its distinctive rhythms, watching it unfold and spread its beauty usually does it for me. But today, silence. Birds weren’t showing themselves. Butterflies were too neurotic and preoccupied to light. Gnats and mosquitos wouldn’t stop pestering, and flies were trying to drown in my coffee. My prayers, often so easy and fluid, were limply waving at glory and getting no response.

And the Word. Why, the sure-fire solution to what ails me, kind of plopped like soggy corn flakes on my soul.

What gives, God?

My daily reading told me to read John 1 and 2, and I do what I’m told for the most part. Now, those two chapters are dynamite on steroids any other time. I mean, Jesus coming with grace and truth, grace following grace, taking away the sin of the world? C’mon. That’s the sweet spot for sure.

But today, nothing. Soggy corn flakes.

Then it happened.

Look again, Scott.

I do what I’m told, remember?

Instinctively, I knew where to look. No, not in the scriptures I just read, but to my daily reading schedule. Horror of horrors, I misread my assignment!

It didn’t say,

Jhn 1,2

It said,

Jnh 1,2

I switched the H!

I was supposed to let Father speak to me from Jonah! Not John! (No offense, John)

Okay, I thought, now we’re getting somewhere. I pretty much hurried through chapter one, excitement slowly mounting. It began to ebb a trifle when I finished, untouched yet, but I still had one more chapter to read. It wasn’t a long chapter, however.

God, please say what You’re gonna say in these 10 verses, or today’s gonna have to be chalked off. Please. Speak.

And, boy howdy, did He ever.

You know Jonah. His rebellion, his long run, his far fall. You also know chapter 2 becomes autobiographical; it’s not background or third-party perspective. We’re hearing from the man himself, and he’s describing for us what might very well be his last moments on earth, in the depths of the ocean, in the stomach of a great fish.

Now, may I insert here that I’m completely convinced and at peace – no doubting – that our Gra-Gra is with Jesus. Except for a dream of Graham screaming from the pit of hell a couple days after his death (quickly shaken off; God doesn’t use fear tactics on His broken-hearted children), I’ve swum in the grace-ocean of peace that he’s with His Savior in glory. Sandy too. This is an entirely settled matter for us.

Having said that, it sure was awesome to have God give me a first-hand glimpse into what might have been Graham’s dying moments on earth. Read these words and see if they might not also apply to someone at death’s door, swallowed in the foul waters of overdose, receiving the mercies of Jesus to cry out,

REMEMBER ME, LORD!!

Jonah 2:3-7
…the flood surrounded me;
all your waves and your billows
passed over me.
Then I said, ‘I am driven away
from your sight;
yet I shall again look
upon your holy temple.’
The waters closed in over me to take my life;
the deep surrounded me;
weeds were wrapped about my head
at the roots of the mountains.
I went down to the land
whose bars closed upon me forever;
yet you brought up my life from the pit,
O Lord my God.
When my life was fainting away,
I remembered the Lord,
and my prayer came to you,
into your holy temple.

Was Graham right to move from his only home? I don’t have an answer for that, but I know I can’t question God and I don’t want to second-guess my boy.

All I know is, he’s not in that cemetery we both passed by, and where Sandy and I make a regular stop to ‘talk’ to him. He really is home. He made it. God remembered him in his dying hour.

Happy birthday in heaven, son.

And say thanks to Jonah.