Looking at Life Through the Lenses of Death

The doorbell rang. Larry was there, and welcomed our guest. From my curled up position on our family room couch, I recognized the voice to be Patty’s. Her gentle, sweet words carried like a melody from the foyer. Holding a hanging basket of soft yellow petunias, she greeted me with, “I brought these for you to enjoy all summer. I want them to remind you of your Daddy.”  Unexpected tears…

Then Patty issued an invitation. “I want to take you to lunch and just listen to you talk. I want you to tell me everything that has happened.” Her words reached deep, igniting within my soul the realization of how very much I want to talk.

So, will you allow me to talk?  Right here, right now? I promise not to stay forever on this piece of emotional geography, but for now, I want to talk.

Trust me, I am peacefully joyful and tearful amidst this cauldron of emotions. My heart soars for all I have to be thankful. And yet,

I want to talk, because death is teaching me so much about life.

Looking at life through the lenses of death I see:

Relationships rise like the glow of the morning sun when death comes to call-

My own life paraded before me in the context of Daddy’s death. Relationships of a lifetime surfaced and provided a steady stream of comfort: my boyfriend when I was a 3-year-old, my kindergarten companions, my grammar school classmates, my high school friends, my university relationships, and more…way more. Aunts, uncles, cousins - first, second, third cousins, and friends…make that Friends with a capital F; friends came out of the woodwork. From around the globe, this collection of people coalesced together to teach me the eternal value of our temporal relationships.

Looking at life through the lenses of death I see:

1st Responders are the saints God sends to push away the thunder clouds of sorrow-

Celeste with food, Clare with flowers, adult children with their presence, all dropping life to offer comfort. Near and far (a plant from my Bible study, a floral arrangement from our church group) the ministry of 1st Responders takes my breath away.

Looking at life through the lenses of death I see:

In spite of death, life goes on-

My Mother and I waited for the hospice nurse to arrive, we waited for the coroner to arrive, and we waited for the funeral home director to arrive. Finally, the waiting was over, and for the last time, we walked out the front door of the nursing home to our car. No more waiting.

At 4:00 am the air was warm and the birds were singing. And we were hungry. At her suggestion, Mama and I went through the drive through at McDonald’s.

Should I tell the voice behind the speaker that my Daddy had just gone to heaven? Should I describe the hole in my heart to the worker handing out Egg and Cheese McGriddle’s through the pick up window? I don’t even like Egg and Cheese McGriddle’s. Why did they have to be out of Egg McMuffin's today, of all days, April 21st?

Real life goes on... 

My black pantyhose had a hole.

A snake, a cottonmouth moccasin, was killed at the front door.

A grandchild was sick and needed a doctor.

The children wanted to go swimming when we left the cemetery.

Real life goes on…Even when invaded by death, life beats with a normal pulse.

Looking at life through the lenses of death I see:

Practical suggestions to offer so you can be prepared-

• Have a black dress ready and hanging in your closet. Likely, you won’t have time to shop.
• Prepare an outline for an obituary. You don’t want a stranger writing about the life of the one you know so well.
• Keep your head in the face of your tidal wave of emotions. “I asked the Lord for composure; I wanted to be able to take in everything going on around me.” Mama

Looking at life through the lenses of death I see:

The sacred place of children in the midst of sadness-

After dinner one evening, our four-year-old grandson David climbed into a chair beside his tearful Great Grandmother. With every ounce of his heart, he looked up at her and spoke unrehearsed words of wisdom way beyond his years.

“Great Gammy, don’t be sad. Pappy is in heaven with Jesus, and you will see him again someday. He still loves you, and you are still married to him. Some people just have to die.”

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to Me for such is the kingdom of heaven.” Yes!

So you see, death is teaching me so much about life.  

"It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart." (Ecclesiastes 7:2) Solomon was right. 

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.