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Listening to Lace

She was sitting all alone in the classroom. A small woman with fiery red hair and big brown eyes. I breezed in--barely a minute before our scheduled start time--my usual manic-talking, charge-taking self, and walked straight pst her to the back of the room

"Sorry I kept you waiting, and blah, blah, blah..." I tossed the chit-chat over my shoulder.

The woman replied, but her words were lost. I would learn later that she had a cleft palate, and her speech was severly impaired. Meanwhile, I hemmed and hawed and nodded, digging around in the cupboard for the class supplies. When I finally found the clipboard with the roster, I learned her name was Carol.

Carol and I would spend the next four weeks together in our church's New Members Class. Over the course of our time together we would discuss the meaning of salvation, the ordinances of the church, the hierarchy of the staff--all those things that make a Baptist a good Baptist. Part of my job was to hear Carol's testimony, to ascertain that her profession of faith was true and sincere. After our first few mintues of conversation, I had no idea how I would make that happen.

See, when most people speak, words flow out of their mouths like ribbon. With Carol, it's more like lace. Sometimes entire syllables are lost. It's not enough to hear her voice; I need to see her face, watch her lips, read her eyes. I cannot look away. I cannot flip through my notes trying to figure out what I'm going to say next. I cannot keep one ear tuned to the sound of the children in the hall. If I want Carol's message to have meaning, I have to listen hard.

So I did, and within the first five mintues, I learned how to hear her. And I never missed another word.

Normally when I teach this class, I teach the class. I mean, it's all me. Talk, talk, anecdote, talk, talk, read scripture, talk, talk, prayer Amen. Oh, and there are also a couple of short videos. But during my four weeks with Carol, she taught me. Instead of talking, I listened--and it's amazing just how much you can learn about yourself by listening to somebody else. And by listening through the tiny silences in her speech, I learned a lot. When she talked about living in an abusive environment, I learned what it truly meant to be lost. When she talked about coming to live here with her neice, I learned about the sacrifice of salvation. When she talked about dinner at Spaghetti Warehouse and a day trip to Fredricksburg, I learned just what Jesus meant when He said he wanted us not only to live, but to live abundantly. When she talked about helping others at the Senior Citizens center, I learned what it truly meant to serve. And when she showed me her offering envelope, I learned what it truly meant to give.

And when I saw her, 60+ years old, in the baptismal waters, I learned just a little more about love.

 

April 27, 2008 | 3 Comments | View or add comments

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Happy, Healthy and Home

This year, our family celebrated Easter in a very personal, very different way. There were absolutely no baskets, bunnies, candy or ham. The boys did have new clothes, but they weren't pastel sportshirts and khaki slacks, they wore dark suits, black shoes and ties. You see, this Easter was marked by the passing of my mother-in-law, Jean Pittman, who went to be with her Lord on good Friday, leaving her battle with cancer behind. As in all times like these, we can look back and see God's hands preparing us for this time. Our family had one last chance to gather together when she was alive--just two weeks before her passing--when we all descended on the tiny church in Rochelle, Texas, to see her husband, Wayne, baptized. Yes, the Lord brought Wayne to a gracious knowledge of Him just when Wayne would need it most.

I think of our family's gathering over this Easter weekend as a true celebration of the holiday. After all, if at Easter we recognize the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and the miracle of His resurrection, what better picture of it could we have had when we stood together in that hospital hallway knowing our beloved matriarch was--that very instant--in the presence of the Lord because of her belief in the promise of that very first Resurrection? During those hours, we went through our very own Easter Cantata, the mourning and rejoicing; crying and laughing. We saw, when her spirit passed, that her body was nothing more than an empty shell. An abandoned tomb. Those of us who weren't in the room for her final breath filed in one by one to pay some sort of tribute, but I could imagine the voices of angels saying, "Why do you seek her here? She is risen!" And our tear-filled eyes knew it was true, and somewhere deep inside our hearts smiled.

The memorial service was like a reading of Jean's gospel--the good news about her life. Rather than a formal eulogy, the pastor instead read stories written by Jean's three sons and grandchildren, and all who gathered got to know her as we had known her--through first-hand accounts of her grace, elegance, humor, love, and devotion. From my little Charlie's sweet story about a day spent skipping rocks on the little lake by her home, to her oldest son Ken's tale of her impact on his co-wokers and friends, the little church rang out with words of wisdom, truth and evidence of a life lived on this earth.

After reading the family letters, Pastor Kenneth Barr delivered a short sermon, emphasizing that Jean is now Happy, Healthy and Home. Indeed, she was all of that the second God released her spirit. Happy beyond comprehension to be in the presence of Jesus. Healthy in a way she hadn't been in years--running around in a body that will never again know pain, discomfort or fatigue. Most of all...Home. Who wouldn't want more than that.

My own mother and I often have this conversation that boils down to the fact that I sometimes feel guilty for not longing for Heaven the way I think I should. I mean, I'm pretty happy here--I love my husband and my kids, I'm wild about my job, I look forward to all the Lord has planned for me in this life. Is it really so awful for me to be less concerned about what's coming in the next one?

Then, Thursday night, as I lay alone in bed while my husband sat at his mother's side in a hospital room 75 miles away, I thought about all that was waiting for Jean. She was such a good and loving grandmother to my children, and I thought about the child Mike and I miscarried about a year before the twins were born. She will hold that child just as she did all my others, and I felt such longing. Jean loved being the mother of three grown sons--all such accomplished men, and I though about my brother--just their age when he died. Chris will take her in his big arms just as her own sons did everytime we visited. He'll say "How's it goin'?" just like Ken or Terry or Mike would...and I felt such longing. I thought about my grandfather--my Pop Pops, Roy Ogg--who died just weeks before Mike and I got married. She never met him in life...and oh, how she would have loved him. He was larger than life when he was alive--tall and robust and funny. She's with him now, sharing stories about what it's like to marshall a family, and oh, the longing...

Hours before she died, I sat by Jean's side, held her hand and told her about what I'd been thinking about all night. She couldn't speak--she was fighting for every breath--but she could hear every word. As I spoke, a tear ran down her face, and I knew she, too, felt such longing. Such longing...until finally, God be praised, she was Home.

March 29, 2008 | 1 Comment | View or add comments

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