Death Has Come

Since I last wrote, I have buried my father. Standing at his bedside I said, “Daddy, thank you. I love you.” In a short time, the Angels came to take him Home. 

Fifteen years ago, on my 50th birthday in the year 2000, I wrote a tribute to him. Today, in his honor, I share the tribute with you.

Dear Daddy,

Today is my 50th birthday, and my heart is overflowing with joy and thanksgiving. When I count my blessings, I begin by acknowledging that you are my Daddy. No doubt, I owe my life to you, and I want to thank you. Long before I was conscious of the reality, you loved me, cared for me, and sacrificed for me. 

Thank you for always choosing to spend time with me. When it would have been so much easier to do a job alone, you elected to have me at your side. In those times, you taught me volumes of valuable lessons and life skills. From you I learned life’s richest treasures cannot be purchased. You taught me the honor and discipline of hard work, the joy and satisfaction in a job well done.

You conveyed a love for nature, and a deep appreciation for God’s vast Handiwork. Caring for little lambs paved the way for me to meet The Lamb of God. Thank you. Even today, my heart is warmed to remember waking up as a 5 year old after my tonsillectomy to fine you sitting beside my hospital bed. You were holding a gift for me, a picture puzzle from the Bible of David the shepherd boy. 

Daddy, thank you for always taking me to church, for it was there I first heard the Gospel. You faithfully modeled obedience to the Lord in honoring Sunday as a Day of Rest. I cherish your godly example. And I know, beyond a doubt, my love for the hymns of the faith comes from the appreciation you gave me for those “milk shed specials.”

The hours spent in the barn, in the woods, in the saddle, or in the truck all made me feel I was loved, and I was of great worth to you. Being your daughter, you took great care to teach me the intricate differences between hunting ducks, hunting quail, and hunting deer. The memory of hearing you say, “Get your gun and let’s go to the woods,” still makes me smile. 

I have the sweetest collection of memories: going on road trips to Texas, attending rodeos and livestock shows, taking vacations to Florida, traveling Out West, cheering side-by-side at Mississippi State football games, building our model battleship together. And you were always available to help me with my school projects, whether it was a collection of tree bark, a display of Native American relics, or presentation of insects. 

Respect for authority has served me well. I learned this first from you. Thank you for instilling in me the importance of going out of one’s way to speak to people, the significance of calling people by name, the value of smiling and looking an individual in the eye. The commitment of keeping one’s word was of utmost importance to you. Though it seems to be a lost principle in today’s world, it is alive in me, thanks to you.

I am grateful, Daddy, that you served our country in World War II to insure that my world would be free. After all these years of living and working as a missionary in Eastern Europe and Russia, I am moved beyond expression to value our freedom.

Yes, it is my 50th birthday, but it is to you that I say, “Thank you.” James 1:17 states, “Every good and perfect gift comes from above.” No doubt, one of my greatest gifts in life is the blessing of being your daughter. Thank you for loving me, providing for me, and for always making me so proud to say, “This is my Daddy.”

                                                            In loving memory 

                                                        Harold Louis Coleman,Sr.

                                                  October 24, 1925 - April 21, 2016

What If ?

What if?! What if they run out before I make it to the front of the line?

Bananas hold a position of honor in my diet. Living in a Communist economy is to blame for my obsession, and I will never be able to consume enough. That’s what doing without will do to you. 

And, doing without will make a monkey out of a mother standing in line, waiting for the rare to opportunity to purchase this tropical treasure.

“What if they run out before I make it to the front of the line?” This piercing question gripped me as I stood and waited my turn to purchase Bananas. I was desperate to reach the front, and I made no attempt to conceal my urgency. Under normal circumstances these citizens of Krakow, Poland were probably nice people. But right now, every person ahead of me in line was a threat. I know. A missionary is not supposed to have such thoughts, but this one did. No telling how long it would be before we would see another Banana, and this opportunity took on disproportionate dimensions. 

The hulk of a gray truck lumbered like a 3-ton elephant over the uneven curb and onto the sidewalk in front of the grocery store - Communist, of course. Business would take place right out the back of the transport. When the  heavy steel doors of the behemoth vehicle creaked open, 20 people were already standing in a queue, thankful for the privilege of purchasing a few Bananas. 

And few it was. Always. The Bananas were placed bunch by bunch to rest upon ancient scales. One kilo per person. NO MORE. Each customer patiently waited while the transaction was calculated and the price was announced. Once the sale was completed, the grateful buyer re-entered life, reverentially holding the precious rationed parcel. 

My place in line inched forward, and to my great relief, I reached the front before the supply ended. Yes! There were enough for me. That evening, laughter was lighter in the second floor apartment of the home we shared with a Polish family. Our heads bowed, and we gave heartfelt thanks for our special treat, Bananas.

Decades later, as I pulled out my Banana in the Romanian train station of Targu Mures, I did so with reverence and respect. The memories of standing in line, the memories of behaving poorly, the memories of scarcity were still too raw.

One bite at a time, I savored the sweetness of the delicacy. The train station was hot and quiet on this late Sunday evening. We were returning home, now home was Budapest, after a fantastic church festival commemorating the anniversary of the Jesus Film in the nation of Romania. 

I hardly noticed the young boy sharing the waiting room with us. He was not clean, and his attire made it obvious that he was not traveling. He was simply curious about the travelers. 

Soon, I felt awkward that I had a Banana and he did not; I had the oddest feeling that he was hungry. Through sign language, I managed to ask if he, too, would enjoy a Banana. His response became his answer. He actually came to sit beside me as I reached into my tote bag to provide a Banana for him, a homeless preteen.

Suddenly, the Holy Spirit intervened and arrested my attention: if we could speak Banana, we could speak Jesus. At once, physical food served as an entrée for spiritual food.

Using the same remedial communication, the booklet containing the Gospel in Romanian became our focus. He knowingly nodded his head as the turning of each page brought us closer and closer to The Cross. I marveled that Sunday evening when he bowed his head, and invited Jesus into his heart. 

And to think, it all started with a Banana. He did not need to stand in line; he did not need to fear the supply would run out before he reached The Front. There is Plenty of Grace at the Foot of The Cross.

One of My Greatest Regrets as a Parent

“I need to hear this; this is good stuff. Debby, this needs to be your next blog post. No, I’m serious; I need to hear this.” 

I was on the phone with a young, energetic, hardworking, doing-it-right Mom. Her love for Jesus, her selfless devotion to her family, her involvement in the lives of others make her “shine like stars in the universe." (Philippians 2:15)

Yet, as I listened, I could tell all was not well.

Holding my phone to my ear, I leaned against my sink and looked out my kitchen window. A beautiful blanket of pristine snow carpeted my lawn. A bright red cardinal was sitting alone in the naked branches of the tree. Winter. Every detail spoke winter.

But my mind didn’t stay gazing out the window. Rather, my mind carried my heart to a wintery feeling in my own past and my own parenting. 

I could relate to what my precious friend was sharing. She is dear to me, and I felt deeply the disappointment of the current scenario she and I were discussing: a child, a disappointment, a broken heart, a shattered dream, and an uncertain outcome. The tone in her voice let me know the depth of her sadness.

Embracing her Mother’s pain, I offered, “____," and I called her by name, "one of my greatest regrets as a parent is I did not teach my children how to navigate suffering.” 

When I elaborated, my sweet friend stopped me mid-sentence and said, “I need to hear this. This is good stuff. This needs to be your next blog post. No, I’m serious. I need to hear this.” 

At her insistence, I will share our phone conversation with you.

One of my greatest regrets as a parent is I did not teach my children how to navigate suffering.

Here is what I did wrong:

•    I tried too hard to protect them from suffering. I worked desperately at rescuing my children from life’s pain. I saw myself, unconsciously, as The Great Mother Warrior standing between my children and the oncoming forces of life. I wanted so badly to shield my dear ones from injury, illness, insult, and pain. However, these are inevitable ingredients of human existence, and cannot be avoided.

•    I attempted to rewrite the script, trying to create a less painful experience than the one they were facing. Hello! You can’t rewrite the script. Life is consistently punctuated by disappointment, hurt, and heartache. Right? Editing and re-editing these realities do not make them go away.

Here is what I would do differently: 

•    The adjustment would start with me. I would release an impossible goal. I would stop pouring my energy into to trying to erase their pain. Pain is very real. I do not possess the power to erase it. A mother can comfort, a mother can come alongside; a mother cannot erase pain.

•    I would release the futile attempt to rewrite the script that edits out the pain. This promotes an unrealistic view of life. 

•    I would pray for wisdom, and strive to find that blessed sweet place where reality and comfort, walking hand in hand, gently lead to God and to growth. 

And this is the key:

•    I would spend more time teaching my children life skills of walking with suffering, not seeking to eliminate suffering. A child needs inspiring interpretation skills to prepare them for facing difficulty. A godly interpretation, not an elimination tactic, is a life skill that will serve a child well. 

Life skills training would look like this:

• Acknowledge their pain; it is real

• Acknowledge what is true, both for them and for you

• Smother them with authentic, heartfelt comfort

• Guide them through the situation with an invaluable, supernatural set of lenses. Help them navigate the situation at hand while preparing them for life’s obstacle course ahead. Such life skills will provide bedrock stability when the waves of suffering threaten to destroy. 

I invite you to listen and learn from Jody, another young woman in my life. I have known her since she was a little girl. Now she is Mom to a suffering little boy, and her heart and words reveal wisdom beyond her years. With Jody's permission, I share her recent letter to her son, whose name has been changed.

Dear Landon,

 It’s another big day for you.
Another big month.

No sugar coating necessary, we all know there is nothing fun about this. 

We know you are scared.
In an instant, your Dad and I would take your place.

To our great heartbreak, we cannot take this from you.

To our great frustration, way too often the only answer we can give is “I don’t know.”

We can’t take this from you. We can’t create an alternate, less-painful route for you. We can’t answer why.

But here’s what we can do. We can promise you this:

You will not be alone.

We will climb this mountain, we will fight this battle, we will hold your hand for as long as this takes. For the duration of our lives if you need us that long.

We are so, so proud of you. You are stronger than you know.

Let’s make this count, shall we?

Every ounce of our love, 
Mom and Dad

Thank you Jody; thank you for guiding us down a better path.

Back to the phone conversation at my kitchen sink…

As I reflect, I realize something: Fear of suffering prevents us from being prepared for suffering. I still have much to learn. Looking back sometimes helps in looking ahead.

Question: What about you? How have you as a parent prepared your children for the inevitability of suffering?