Remembering Through Touch by Michael

Josiah holding baby Stacia

The power of human touch is stunning. Let me take you back to when you first brushed the hand of someone you were attracted to. Giddy sensations - almost electric - coursed through your being. Perhaps you remember holding the hand of that person for the first time. It was as if something had come alive inside of you that you did not know even existed. Time has passed and you are holding your first-born child. It changes you forever. Holding that little bundle of joy is like experiencing the Garden of Eden for just a moment. It is a celebration of that first touch so long before, but there is a depth to it, a maturity in comparison to the giddy sensations of that first touch.

One of my favorite games with the kids as they were growing up was "tickle little kids." It was a free-for-all tickle session. Honestly, these were exhausting because I expended much more energy keeping my kids safe than I did actually tickling the kids. The usual course of the game was I would catch one of them and announce, "tickle little kids." They would each hurl themselves at me, and I would tickle them, and then they would run away. There were many opportunities for heads to bonk the floor or heads to bonk the next ticklee, but this seldom happened. I was tired at the end of these sessions and so were the kids - tired and happy. I remember vividly the enthusiasm the kids had for this game. I would have to catch them mid-flight as they would come zipping in at full speed. I would set them down and tickle them. They each, in turn, would squirm away, get a running start, and then I would have to catch them in mid-flight, again. As the years went by, the kids would out-grow "tickle little kids" for the simple reasons that I could not keep them safe, and they were growing up. They were just too big. The power of the tickle in those younger years was amazing. 

There are other times when touch, well, touches something deep within. Hugging someone when saying goodbye and hugging that same someone when saying hello are both different than when hugging your spouse  or a dear friend goodbye or in greeting. I remember best the hugs of returning from deployment. That last touch as we are separated for four to eight months is, as Shakespeare would say, a sweet sorrow, but that touch of reuniting is sweet joy. There is a unique power in greeting another man (I speak as a man) with that firm handshake of manhood as your father taught you or that gentle handshake you receive from a woman. There have been quite a few times I have shaken someone's hand or hugged them thinking it may be the last time to do so. On a few of these occasions, I have been correct. There are other times I did not know it was going to be my last chance to hug someone or shake their hand.

I can remember a few occasions where I have inadvertently touched someone's hand or arm and immediately known that a line, even inadvertently, had been crossed and an apology was is in order. Such is the power of touch.

These days, touch is very important. I find myself walking past Josiah's 4Runner, and I cannot help but run my hands across the surface of his car. Even when temps were below zero, I would take off my gloves just to touch something of him. 

We were over at Carrie's this past weekend. The deadbolt on the front door was really loose. I needed some tools. Josiah's tools were still in the garage where he had left them so many months ago. I found myself touching them, caressing them, clutching them close to my chest because they reminded me of him. I remember him telling me about purchasing some of them. He found them at a great price, and they would serve him well. I was proud of him. Now, they are touchpoints. They are a way of touching something material that for even a moment transcends into another dimension to allow me to be close to him whom I can no longer hold.

It is not enough to see. I must touch. There is something powerful in the tactile sensation of touching something that was his or reminds me of him.

I have gone to various cemeteries over the years. One in particular always draws me to it. It is in Hardin, MT. We were the associate pastors there for about four years and lived in the town a couple of more years. One of my responsibilities as the associate pastor was to visit the older members of the congregation. They shared many memories of life. They became very dear friends. Now, when I return to Hardin, I find myself visiting them at the cemetery. I even find myself compelled to touch those engraved marble stones. Etched with the names of old friends, I cannot help but touch them. It is a place of good memories, good conversations, good friendships. On the last time through, I found more friends there - friends I was able to  talk to the time before.

Oh, my heart. Remembering is good because I know there is much more behind me than there is before me. Touch, though, is a powerful way to allow my heart to remember. Remember?, yes, and  even more so to walk through this season of tears. We continue to embrace the joy and grief, laughter and tears, celebrations and sorrows of our journey here and now until the day we meet again those who have gone before us.

How Am I Doing? - Michael

 

How are you doing? 

Such a simple question, but so very difficult to answer. How am I doing?

Some days, I am doing OK. My mind is dealing with life as it now is. My heart has a manageable level of pain. I am able to put one foot in front of the other and make a dent in the days responsibilities and tasks.

Some days, I am doing less than OK. My mind is reeling with life as it now is. My heart aches and hurts. Putting one foot in front of the other is a feat that defies every known law of physics and making a dent in the day's tasks and responsibilities is more akin to slogging my way up Mt Everest.

Some days, though, are worse...

I have never been one that cries. Oh sure, let Lassie save Timmy from the rabid grizzly bear, and I will find my eyes leaking a bit.  Let the underdog hero save a bus load of orphans and puppies from falling into a raging river, and I may find a tear streaming down my cheek, but we are talking orphans and puppies...

These days, I find myself in an odd place when I am doing less than OK. There are times I will stare into the middle-distance and want to scream like a banshee or whimper like a lost puppy dog. If I could do both at the same time, I would, but I can't so I end up doing neither. Instead, I stare into the middle-distance as a waterfall of pain and hurt pummels my soul.

How am I doing? Some days, I just do not know. I can't get a bearing on me. Lost in thoughts of the could-haves and if-onlies; I find myself wishing for I do not know what... Just something different from where I am, from the road I am on, from the heartache I feel, from the dizzying confusion of reality as it has become.

How am I doing? Some moments, I am blissfully engaged in doing and/or thinking on something else. These are mere moments because fairly quickly a red SUV will drive by or I will catch a glimpse of something that reminds me of the son I can no longer hold, and suddenly, I am wrestling again with this monster that has taken his place and has become a most unwelcome companion. I never wanted, never asked for this thing to be in my life, and yet there it is lurking, stealing, haunting, mocking in the shadows ready to snatch me away from moments of peace and thrust me again into the tumult and confusion.

How am I doing? Some days it is all of the above with a dark kaleidoscope of variations - just for fun.

How am I doing? I honestly am bewildered by the question. It seems so full of expectations on the part of the one presenting the query. I remember reading an anecdote some years ago. A man from Africa came to an American university to study. Walking across the campus, he passed a man who said, "How's it going?" Not realizing that this was a mere greeting on the part of the other, this newcomer to American life told the man all about his recent experiences because to not answer such a kind question concerning his welfare would be rude and impolite, but the other man was busy and just wanted to say something to acknowledge the African man's existence. The expectation was "fine;" "I am doing fine; how are you..?" That is all. Is this what people are asking? How are you doing? Fine, I am doing fine; how are you? Just a quick acknowledgement of my/our existence and no more.

I am concerned that there may be other expectations regarding this question. My fear is this inquiry is merely to find out if I am ready to let this grieving thing go and get on with life. Forty days was all they did in the Bible, right? That should be good enough for you, as well - this is the suspected motive. The Bible speaks of mourning for forty days, but grieving is different. (Future post coming from DeEtta.)

What I really want to know is this; is there earnestness in the question?

How are you doing? Are there burdens I can carry for you? May I quietly sit with you and let you ramble awhile about whatever it is you are wrestling with today? Do you need a shoulder to cry on? I am reminded of the scene from Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King. Frodo and Sam are trudging their way up Mt Doom. Sam, ever wanting to  help his friend, realizes he cannot take the burden of the ring from Frodo - it was not his to bear, but Sam could carry Frodo. This is the essence of bearing someone's grief. 

How am I doing? It depends. This is a lawyer's answer, but there is truth in it. Most days, it depends on when you ask during the day. Some days, it does not matter; it is just a bad day. Most days, though, the answer is "decent," but that depends on other things... 

Club, Box or Something Else - Michael

 I now belong to something I have never wanted to belong to. I have been on the outside of this thing, but I have spent a lot of time listening to the brokenhearted describe this reality. I have counselled many people who do belong - who exist moment-by-moment on the inside. Husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends and many others belong to this thing, but I was only able to listen and speak to them through a veil that separated me from them. I did not belong; I was outside trying to understand the inside, but I could never actually understand, and, truthfully, as much as I desired to be able to minister to those on the inside, the only way to understand requires that I, too, pass through that terrible veil to the inside. As much as I wanted a solid point of contact, to be empathetic, to minister to those on the inside, I could never be on the inside of this thing. 

On 23 October, 2023, this changed, forever. I am now on the inside. I, along with my family whom I desperately wished to protect from the emotional, psychological and spiritual ravages of the inside, have also passed through "the veil." Life will never be the same. Some may say this is a bit dramatic - I may have said the same at some earlier point in my life, but I realize these are the voices of those who are on the outside of this thing. They do not and cannot understand because only those on the inside truly "get it."

The tow truck driver brought Josiah's car to our place a couple of weeks ago. He knew Josiah. "Big Daddy J" was his nickname around the apartment complex. The tow truck driver had towed a lot of vehicles out of different apartment complexes for Josiah. Then he said he understood what we were going through. I could feel questions rising up within me. "What do you mean you understand?" my inner voice shouted. He went on to tell his own story. It was a truly horrendous story of profound loss, pain and grief - it was of the same substance as nightmares. My heart melted. He indeed did understand. He truly did belong. He was on the inside.

We have run into countless others who have walked through the evil of humanity, the brokenness of the world, the ravages of events beyond one's control; they have been forced to march through the darkest moments imaginable; they, too, have passed through the veil, this rite of passage to the inside which truly changes a person. No one ever says they are "over it and ready to get on with life." It is a thing that haunts your steps, visits your dreams, startles you in the midst of a mundane moment, casts it ominous shadow during a casual conversation and invades moments of forgetfulness with images, voices and memories of "the veil."

I have struggled with what to call this thing. I have described the rite of passage as a veil which gives only blurry images to those outside of the veil, but how do I characterize or describe those who have gone through this rite of passage? Certainly, not a a like civic club - there is an implicit understanding that these clubs are either for fun or for a purpose - maybe both, but this is neither. Not a fraternity either. A fraternity can be joined by going through a rite of passage - some sort of an initiation ceremony, but one can elect to leave or to fail the test, the rite of passage and, thereby, be excluded from the fraternity. So, not a club nor a fraternity. 

Maybe it is like a support group. Those involved in support groups have something in common with which they are wrestling, but this cannot be it either because these groups gather together by choice after a defining event or because of a common denominator of some sort. Generally, these groups have someone leading it who may or may not have walked down this same path. More than that, those in support groups go to these meetings because they are seeking answers or help or fellowship. The support group is a response to a trauma rather than the source of the trauma. Not all who are on the inside are pursuing such goals, but the rite of passage is ubiquitous to all who are on the inside. I do not discount the value of support groups at all; I am merely saying they do not characterize the larger group.

Perhaps it is more like a box, a box with transparent sides where all of life can be seen, but no, this is entirely inadequate because there is no separation between those inside and those outside except that those who have passed through the veil bear a mark. 

A mark. Yes, this, I think, is the answer. It is a mark upon the soul. Those who have passed through the veil are marked by the veil. They are marked by a deep sorrow that fills lonely moments with unattainable longing and with pain deep inside of the soul for which there is no relief. They, we, I travel about this world and in moments cross paths with others who bear this same mark of grief, of loss, of a life ripped out of fellowship from us, of a beloved one whose voice is silenced and whose life was cut short in a moment of time. This mark is seared, as if by a red-hot branding iron, by the veil, but this mark is generally not visible to the eye.

I will tell you there are many without this mark, who are outside. Some of these call to those with this mark and declare that they understand - they do not. Unless you have passed through the veil, unless you bear the mark of this devastation in your life, you can never truly understand. I know there are those who stand outside with a genuine desire to help, but to their credit, they realize they are, in fact, on the outside - without the mark on their souls, and they should never wish to fully understand because to truly understand means to pass through the veil themselves.

There are others who call to those who bear this mark of grief and loss to just forget about the pain and get on with life - IT DOES NOT WORK THAT WAY!. The only way out is to finish the journey. There is no turning back unless one were to deny this new reality and do violence to one's own psyche. There is no turning to the left or to the right. There is only going through... Psalm 23 reminds us of this - it is only on the other side of the valley of the shadow of death - after we have passed through the valley - that there is a cure for the soul. This remedy can only be found in the presence of the living God, gathered together, dwelling in His house forever where pain and sorrow are no more. Healing for a wounded soul is only found in eternity.

IF or WHY Are you Doing THIS?

If you feel De'Etta pulling away from teaching Bible studies, serving coffee, or leading women's ministry is pulling away from God, you are wrong. 

If you think Michael moving away from leading men's ministry, giving announcements, our service in prayer on Sunday morning, or stepping away from leading a LifeGroup is us pulling away from God, you are wrong. 

If you think our leaving our church in the valley to be with our children at their church in this season is the same as "running from God," again, you are wrong. 

Know we were in 100% agreement when Holy Spirit led us to "step back from ministry, focus on family and attend church with Josiah's girls and the kids in this season."  This is "self-care" - for now.  We have no idea how long "now" will last.  Satan attempted to sow seeds of devastation and bitterness into our family. We are in spiritual warfare, and we are listening and following to the best of our ability. 

Our hearts ache at losing the community we have poured ourselves into for the past six years. We have discovered true community continues through ups and downs and changes, and while we may lose some friendships, most are still praying, still loving, and still dropping by.  We understand some feel hurt and do not understand. I've shared GG is in that boat. We are sorry for that. However, we can't stop following where Jesus has led us.  We have not forced our girls to follow us, we've encouraged them to follow where God leads them. GG is stuck with us because he can't be alone in our home for an afternoon. We are working towards solutions for him. 

It's hard to tell from what you observe where another's heart is with God. Certainly, if we were SINNING, you may be able to assume we'd pulled away from God or that God was punishing us - we remind our LifeGroup of our study through the book of Job.

But, really, are any of the things mentioned above a sin? Is it possible when we say God led us to do these things that HE has? That these very things are signs we are following CLOSE after our Shepherd. 

I, De'Etta,  have never been closer or more dependent on God than I am in this season. I wake up early and stumble to the bathroom where I stay in prayer for as long as it takes before I am assured, clothed in Jesus, clothed in His full armor, and able to walk out of the bathroom to face another day of grief. 

We have never appreciated the people (who are the church) more than we do in this season. 

We have been, by position and by gifting, pastor/teachers - those gifts haven't gone away. We will continue to shepherd and teach. We have no idea how or where, but it is who we are.  For this season, though, those gifts are directed mostly to caring for our grieving family. 

Rest assured we are not isolating - we are intentionally seeking out community. We are not avoiding the church scattered or gathered. This gift of time and margin has been a lifeline as we process through the events of the last six weeks. We have spent decades pouring out. In this season we NEED and CRAVE solitary time with Jesus. He is tending our souls and pouring back into us in ways we cannot explain. It's deeply painful; but God is with us.  Our lives have focused much on doing for God; now we simply focus on being with God. 

A friend asked De'Etta, last week what her word is for 2023. Honestly, her brain has dumped many things she once thought important. She told her she didn't have a word, but she knew in September "grace" would be the word for 2024. Since the conversation she was thumbing through her Bible and there in the margin saw her word - highlighted in passages, in her journal - "transformation/transformed." Yes, transformation, intentional prayer this year has focused on being transformed into His image. Transformation in so many areas of life. We believe this season of simply being with Jesus in a season of deep pain and confusion is transforming us. We can't tell you how just now. We recognize and sense the transforming process. And we are giving ourselves and others grace to not fully understand how or why it looks like THIS. 

If you read this and are questioning our actions, we hope this helps you reach a measure of understanding.  We realize you may not understand, but then do we ever truly understand another's faith walk?  

Reflections from a Moonlit Night - Michael

This has been a hard day. I am not the one who usually writes these posts, but this night - actually, this morning - I need to write. I have many, many questions. This has been a day when it is just plain hard to breathe, at times. There is a void, an emptiness inside of me that will not be filled. There is a pain in my soul that cannot find comfort. There are questions for which there are no answers. 

It is very late. I stood outside and looked up into the emptiness of the night. There were stars and a moon that bathed the mountain above our home with its sharp radiance. The trees softly reflected this same light of our lunar companion. The snow sparkled and glistened in its own way, but I hurt. I was drawn outside by the faint promise of Northern Lights. I found solitude and an odd loneliness - a deep longing for something beyond my reach. I called out into the vastness of the night sky for a sign, a word, a message - something, but there was only the darkness of the night, the twinkling of stars, the stark glow of the moon and an ever so faint hint of an aurora. 

"What do you want?" came the question to my heart. 

The question seemed ludicrous. I want Josiah back. I want one more conversation with him. I want to go fishing with him again, I want to hear his voice. I want to hold him again. I want to talk through the issues of life. At the very least, I want to hear from him and that he is ok. I yearned to know he is at peace. 

"And then what?" came a second question.

And then I will be ok..., but an image plagued my mind. I would have a simplistic proof, a simpleton's answer. I could see myself walking about as one who is devoid of the depth of a faith tested and proven in the midst of trial. I could see myself as one who dishes out the platitudes and cliches I have learned to deeply despise. I could see myself becoming what I now abhor - having a Polly Anna faith that is sickly sweet and a half inch deep.

Deep faith is not found in shallow wells.

A life without issue or trouble brings a fragility of the soul that will shatter at the falling of a leaf. 

Comfort does not produce resilience anymore than a tree sheltered from the wind produces a strong and beautiful tree that is able stand against the storms of life.

No, it is in the trial that faith grows strong. It is in walking through the valley of the shadow of death with nothing more than knowing that the Lord is with me. It is the act of holding in an open hand the questions that badger my mind and heart. It is in simple trust. It is in keeping my eyes set on the Light even as the winds blow and the waves crash against me. It is in the stillness of a starry night with the moon bathing the land and just the faintest hint of aurora. This is where faith grows strong. 

Do I want that conversation with Josiah? Desperately!

Would I trade that for the hard work of walking, believing, trusting, growing in faith? No, I would not trade, but I do want both, but only one door is available; only one path can be traveled; only one ticket can be selected. With a heart that is still writhing in agony and in the depths of pain and loss, I still choose the more difficult journey - so help me God.

-Michael

Up, Up and Away

 Jamin and Michael went paragliding today. Jamin had tried to talk others into going, but Michael is the only one who took him up on it. It must be said here, by Michael, y'all missed out.

The meet up point was Summit Lake at Hatcher Pass. To launch from Summit Lake requires a walk of 100 feet, and that is it. For those familiar with adventures with Jamin, a "forced march" is required. The winds had been perfect all day long at Summit Lake until 20 minutes before we arrived. At that time, it shifted. The Summit Lake launch point was no longer usable because the winds were now contrary. It is necessary to launch into the wind. Tail winds just do not work for this kind of flying. So, this necessitated a different launch point. The next available launch point was at the end of a death march. It is almost like the winds and the mountains knew.

The "other" launch point turned out to be way up on the side of a mountain with many of the characteristics of the Matterhorn. "It is only a 30–35-minute hike to the other launch point," said our fearless leader," and the pack only weighs about 20 pounds." He lied, he lied and more on this point.

We moved to the other spot, but to my dismay, it required driving way, way back down the mountain. For those in the know, our new parking spot was completely off of the dirt road and further down the mountain to a little dirt parking spot. We got out, and he pointed to an itty-bitty windsock way up the side of the Matterhorn or whatever its real name is. It reminded me of Mt Fuji. I sucked down a bunch of water, hoisted the pack that felt considerably heavier than 20 pounds and set off on our death march to the launch point. Yup, 100-foot walk to death march in mere moments of time - Jamin assured me that this was just an unfortunate occurrence because of the winds shifting, but there are theories out there about this phenomenon. Just sayin'...

In hindsight, do as the veterans do. They each brought a water bottle and a snack. There was good cause for both. I am not sure why I neglected this old bit of wisdom (doing as the veterans do, that is), but it certainly would have been wise to have a snack and water before embarking on a death march.

We began our trek up the Cliffs of Insanity (Jamin's descriptor, not mine) with the high hopes of arriving at the new launch point in the previously predicted 30-35 minutes. We arrived in something more like an hour which for death marches, hikes up the Matterhorn and climbing the Cliffs of Insanity is a rather reasonable amount of time. At our last stop, I watched the video that I, apparently, was supposed to have watched beforehand. It was about how to launch, fly and land a paraglider when flying tandem. All of it was just as I had imagined it to be - no surprises, but I could definitely tell that I was dehydrated and low on energy. I was very glad that the trip down the hill would be far easier than the hike up the hill. 

At the top, Scott hooked Jamin into his harness while Chris and I watched. Jamin had the GO-Pro camera strapped to his helmet. With just a couple of steps, they were floating gracefully through the air. Now, it was my turn. It was surprisingly simple to attach everything. With a short bit of instruction from Chris, we began our run down the hill and in just a few steps, we, too, were off and soaring through the air with a breeze in our face and an amazing landscape sprawling out beneath us. This is flying at its very simplest and most raw. No engine to drown out the sound of the wind. The only controls were two handles dangling down from the canopy. I think about eagles soaring through the air (we did see one way above us), and I can't help but think they have a certain justifiable smugness about their place in the heavens. Sweeping through the air, riding the updrafts from the wind as it pushed its way up the side of that now far smaller mountain, I could sense a faint kindred spirit with the eagle. 

There was a point in the flight when Chris asked if I would like to fly. Well, yes, indeed! it was fairly easy to control. You only had to pull on the handle in the direction you wanted to go and let up a bit on the other one. Oh, Chris also mentioned to not turn toward the mountain - always turn away from it. This sounds like wise words to keep one alive. There were many other paragliders in the air at the time. It was a constant adventure to keep them in sight, and, as in all flying affairs, Chris also mentioned to look before you turn. Also, words to live by. 

It took quite a while for us to get to the top of the mountain whereas Jamin and Scott made it up there rather quickly. I think we found a gravity hot spot where we were flying. No other explanation made sense to me.

After about 30 or more minutes of flying, we watched as Jamin and Scott descended to the LZ, landing zone. It was very near to where we had parked - very convenient and no death march to get back to the truck. In just a few minutes, we were also descending to the LZ. We were still a bit high and needed to bleed off some altitude. Chris had taken the controls back by this time. "Do you want a gentle approach or carnival?" he asked. Naturally, I was curious about the carnival approach. It definitely lived up to its billing. More than that, I was totally unprepared for the kinesthetics of the "carnival approach." Nothing flying regular airplanes prepared me for this part of the flight. Positive to negative to positive g's in seconds with a radical change of momentum mixed in just for fun. Truthfully, the g's were negligible, but that sudden change of momentum nearly got me. I am happy to say that no cookies were tossed at any point of this flight nor at its conclusion, but it did take a few minutes for my head to clear after we landed.

At this point, we undid clips, stepped out of the harness and stuffed the equipment back into their backpacks. Once done, Chris had me carry the other backpack. This one held the actual paragliding canopy; this backpack weighed the aforementioned 20 pounds. The other one held the two harnesses and was far heavier. Now, I know... 

Let me conclude by saying, Jamin, thank you very much. This really was a fun adventure. We will have to look into doing this again in the future - forced marches aside, of course. Well, actually, now that I know which backpack is 20 pounds and which one has the harnesses and that I need to bring water and a snack (and warm gloves), I could brave another death march. Let's see if we can bring some others along... 

Give it a Try

The end of the movie “Castaway” features the main actor, Tom Hanks, standing in the center of a four-
way intersection in a rural part of America. He is pondering his future which looks nothing like the one
he envisioned before being stranded on an island in the Pacific. I find myself in a similar place pondering
memories of the past, but I do not have four roads leading away from my intersection; instead, I have
dozens upon dozens of roads each leading to memories of camping trips in Rocky Mountain meadows,
fishing trips over Music Pass, spelunking in old caves in the Sangre De Cristo mountains, bicycle rides
through the Redwoods in the black of night, spearfishing expeditions for the dreaded white-nose
sturgeon, raging rivers at the edge of flood stage, accepting the challenge of swimming White Horse
rapids through its savage currents and unseen dangers hidden its churning, foaming roar, flashlight wars
and rowboat wars, rock-skipping contests, a porcupine and a bear and a dog with far more fight in him
than size, campfires and stars, the thundering crash of falling Redwood trees, wind storms and rain
storms, thunder and hail, flash floods and the sweet scent of rain-cleansed air… Where to begin? What
to say?

I think I will need to change the prompt slightly. This is “a” fond memory growing up. To begin with, this
will be a short event but full of the life of the family.

I have two older sisters. The one closest to my age was always, well, precocious. My oldest sister is what
we now call “special needs.” This is an odd little title intended to be more genial, but it is also much less
descriptive of the person’s real struggles. There is nothing defined except that the person with the title
is wrestling with some sort of life problem, but we, now in this enlightened age, don’t care enough
about the person to give them a label that is descriptive enough to be helpful. Inevitably, to be helpful
to the person, more questions must be asked with the lingering awkwardness as the person has to now
explain what use to be plain by the now much-maligned terms of the past, but I digress. Even more than
that, my oldest sister does not even play a part in this story. So, where was I?

Sometime in mid-1972, my next oldest sister, Rebecca, had received a new three-speed bicycle. This is
an odd invention to add some gears to a bike without actually adding gears to the bike. The entire
mechanism for the gears is encased inside the hub of the rear tire. There was a cable than ran from the
shifter – usually a twisting kind of contraption built into one of the handles – directly into the hub. When
the cable pulled on that hub mechanism, it would change gears allowing the rider to either go faster or
ride up a steep hill in a lower gear. The now ubiquitous 10, 15, 18, 21, 465 geared bicycles were just
beginning to show up in the consumer market. This three-speed was a transition between single speed
bicycles with coaster brakes and the now multi-geared bike with caliper brakes. Coaster brakes operated
through the rear hub of the bicycle. You merely had to “pedal backward” to stop the bike. Actually,
there was only a little bit of pedaling before the pedal stopped and you were actively braking. This was
standard on all bikes since the dawn of, well, my time. Apparently, this was standard for many, many
years prior to this, but with the advent of the three-speed hub, the brakes had to move to the handles.
Like modern multi-geared bicycles, pedaling backward does nothing on this new-fangled bike of my
sister than to fan the air.

My father was an absolutely amazing man. Gregarious and joy-filled, he made friends as easily as
nightingales sing. He was pleased as punch that he was able to give Rebecca this new-fangled bicycle.
She rode it to the top of Cadillac Ave to give it a try. Cadillac Ave was located in what was then a newer
subdivision of Colorado Springs. Our house was about half-way down the hill. Cadillac Ave was steep.

The street ended at the bottom with Constitution Blvd running left and right. Constitution was and is a
major traffic thoroughfare in the part of the city. The other side of Constitution brought you to a curb, a
ditch and railroad tracks – in that order. If you did not stop before the bottom of Cadillac, you,
therefore, had cars, curbs, a ditch and railroad tracks to contend with. None of these was in any way
appealing. As I said, Rebecca rode the bicycle up the hill and then rode it down the hill neatly braking
with the caliper brakes and coming to a smooth stop in our driveway. My father was intrigued with the
bike. He wanted to “give it a try.” So, he pushed it, as my memory recalls, up the hill for his ride on the
new bike.

The ride down appeared to be exhilarating and accelerating. Rebecca and I were wondering why he
wasn’t slowing down. Just trying to show off, I suppose, but the look of terror on his face and the fact
that he was frantically pedaling backward made us think otherwise. Without a single drop of
gregariousness and a total lack of joy, he shouted to us as he was racing past, “WHERE’S THE BRAKES?”
It is amazing how quickly the mind works when there is a rush of adrenalin in the system. No doubt, his
mind, as was ours, was contemplating the conclusion of the ride which would shortly bring cars, curb,
ditch and railroad tracks into his life at a time when he only wanted to give this new bike “a try.” In that
flash of a moment as he zipped past us, it dawned on both of us that he had never heard of caliper
brakes on the handles. Apparently, we had neglected this bit of the pre-flight check. It also occurred to
us that he should have realized that there could be no coaster brakes because the shifting mechanism
occupied the hub, but maybe he was so caught up in the new-fangledness of the bike that the
importance of this detail got lost in the excitement of the moment – which is ironic considering the
excitement coming in the next moment. We were both struck by the humor of the situation, umm, my
sister and I, that is. My dad was not interested in humor at that moment nor any moment involving that
bicycle until the day it left our home, but we fully grasped the humor. Shrieking past us, furiously
pedaling backward, face gaunt with the terror of car, curb, ditch and railroad tracks – “WHERE’S THE
BRAKES?” Well, we almost started laughing too soon. “They’re on the handles,” we yelled as the blur
that was father and bicycle disappeared on down the hill.

It was a few minutes later that he came pushing the bicycle back up the hill and into the driveway. We
had plenty of time to get the last of our giggles out before he arrived. This was probably for the better.
The bike appeared to be in good working order. It did not appear to have had any encounters with cars,
curb, ditch or railroad tracks. He gave the bike back to Rebecca, kind of staggered and teetered his way
back to the house, and, to the best of my recollection, never rode another bicycle for the rest of his life.

For Father's Day this year JaRissa purchased a subscription to Story Worth for Michael. Each week he receives a prompt and writes a story. It is sent back to JaRissa. He suggested I may want to post them in the family journal as well. This was one of my favorite stories to hear Dad G - Earl tell! 

USAF, Retired!

By Michael

I have wondered what retirement would be like.  I have wondered what it would be like to not have to be in the office at 0730.  I have wondered what it would be like to not have to show up at 0600 for a "Fun Run" that really was not much fun.  I have wondered what it would be like to not have suspenses (deadlines), CBT's (computer-based training), or exercises (large-scale training events). I have wondered what it would be like to not be facing deployments to places I would never choose to go to in the first place (with the exceptions of Hungary and Korea - I would go back in a heartbeat).

Deployment Skype

 I have wondered what it would be like to not be on-call at all hours of the night.  I have wondered what it would be like to pick out my own clothes every day of the week.  I have wondered what it would be like to not have to go to mandatory PT, mandatory staff meetings, or mandatory briefings.  I have wondered what it would be like to not have to deal with the myriad of morale-enhancing meetings, events, programs and/or issues some desperate do-gooder thought would be "helpful."  That day is here, and I am not sure what I think about it right now.  I think about the phrase from Pinocchio's song: "there are no strings on me."  I think about the freedom to do and go without needing to take leave time nor to ask permission.  Part of me jumps with joy, but another part is in mourning.  This has been my life for 20 years and my life's pursuit for significantly longer.  How can I just walk away?

 

I thoroughly enjoyed leading airmen and others to Christ.  I thoroughly enjoyed preaching the Word of God and leading congregations into the presence of God through prayer and worship.  I thoroughly enjoyed helping people work through their various issues - particularly directing them to the "Problem-Solver."  I thoroughly enjoyed actually wearing the uniform.  I thoroughly enjoyed the esprit de corps of the military.  Some of my fondest memories and favorite stories are from dining-ins and dining-outs - especially the "combat" variety (I will explain in another post).  I have said goodbye more times than I can count, but I have met up with dear friends in very odd places - deployments and TDY's are great for this.  I have seen great people respond to great tragedy with amazing dedication and sacrifice.  I have seen boldness, wisdom and professionalism in the lives of amazing leaders who fearlessly stepped up and stepped out in the face of challenges that could easily paralyze one with confusion and trepidation.  I have been to places almost from around the globe. (On one deployment I was only 3,ooo miles away from home, but I could not go 3,000 miles to home, oh no; I had to travel some 18,000 miles the other way.)  But here I am adding a new appendage to my name - USAF, Retired.

C 130 ride into Kabul, Afghanistan

 
I have seen the ravages of war and the cruelties of one person toward another with the innocent, the weak and the vulnerable caught in the middle.



With SSgt B while giving out humanitarian aid in Afghanistan

 I have seen amazing beauty - glaciers and Northern Lights in Alaska, Spring cherry blossoms in Japan, and brilliant sunrises and sunsets all over the world to name but a few.  I have witnessed world events in the making - things most saw as "Breaking News" on Fox News or CNN. 



Cleaning up a beach after the 2011 earthquake and tsunami in Japan

I have rubbed shoulders with every branch of the military - to include the Coast Guard - in very diverse places.  I have been to Persian Gulf oil platforms, European medieval castles, Hawaiian beaches, Hiroshima A-bomb memorials, and remote Alaskan radar sites.  I have climbed Mt Fuji, rafted the Matanuska river, and walked along the River Walk in San Antonio, Texas. 

At the top of Mt Fuji with Jared and Nolan

 I have flown over Alaskan wilderness in a small twin-engine aircraft, across the mountains of Austria in the thunderous C-130 and rode on a most-memorable midnight ride in a sleek, new C-17 into Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. (It was 0200-ish and pitch-black.  As we approached, the flight crew put the aircraft into a dozen or so very steep turns and dives - some of the dives seemed nearly vertical.  The aircraft's reverse thrusters were screaming outside, the women over on the other side of the aircraft were screaming on the inside, and people were getting sick when it came to an abrupt end with a squeaky-smooth landing.)  I have visited Airmen, Sailors, Marines and Soldiers in missile launch control capsules, flightlines, M-1A1 tanks, guard houses, bomb dumps, patrol boats and, of course, briefing rooms.  I have served in deployed locations with military members of 50+ nations.  I have ridden on giant Navy LCAC's and lowly Kuwaiti camels.


Alternative Transportation in Kuwait

I have been honored to have presided at memorial services for all branches of the service (my most memorable ones were for Canadian troops while deployed to Kabul, Afghanistan) and the occasional wedding. I have baptized people in lakes in Northern Japan, swimming pools in San Antonio, TX and improvised baptisteries in Kabul, Afghanistan.





Baptizing Arielle and Nolan in Lake Ogawara, Japan

 

I remember TDY's, in-residence schools, and deployment reintegration retreats with friends and colleagues - professionals every one.  I have watched F-15's and F-16's light up the night sky with afterburners burning bright.  I watched an SR-71 do touch and go's and then disappear into the afternoon sky with an unbelievable roar leaving in its wake a diminutive F-18 ostensibly there to fly chase on this magnificent aircraft.  I have listened to the stories of gray-headed men as they remember the awesome power of this Mach 3+ airplane whilst it was in its heyday (some say it was buried alive - I would agree).  I have ridden along on a KC-135 aerial refueling mission and AWACS airborne radar aircraft during a multinational air-to-air exercise. 

 I have met people, seen things and done things  I would never have believed  I would have the honor and privilege, and I must admit  it has been quite a ride.  I find it hard to believe  the ride is over, but I think I am ready to do something different - I think...

Farewell to a Brother

It was only a few months ago that my brother, Mike, collapsed on the golf course with no apparent warning.  In the subsequent medical evaluations, it was discovered  he had an inoperable brain tumor.  The doctors reckoned that he would have 6 weeks on the short side to three months on the far side.  He used up every bit of the three months and then some.  My brother, Mike...  I should explain.  My father was married and divorced before he met my  mother.  This woman, Rella, already had two children, Robin and Mike, from a previous marriage.  My father, Earl, spent a great deal of time raising Robin and Mike.  Earl and Rella had two children, Earl Jr. and Kathy.  In the break up of their marriage, Earl Jr. and Kathy went to Rella.  My two sisters and I came along from my dad, Earl, and my mother, Mary.  I learned in later years that my name is a bridge between these generations in the family - Michael Earl...  So, Mike was Big Mike, and I was Little Mike - until that generated more questions than was helpful in ID'ing us since I became the taller of the two of us.  The new name was Mike the Elder and Mike the Younger.  All that is to say, my brother, Mike, truly fit the title "Mike the Elder."  He was a rock in the family.  He was wise and gracious in his relationships.  I enjoyed spending time with him and his pretty wife, Paula.  Mike was also a retired Chief Master Sergeant.  You could see this in his bearing and in his speech.  He always had a confidence and a level of professionalism that I truly respected and admired.

Earl Jr., Mike the Younger and Mike the Elder in CO a couple of years ago

 

When Earl Jr. called to let me know that Mike had passed away, I knew I needed to go out to bid him farewell.  It took a bit of time to get everyone together for the funeral (Mike's son, Mike Jr. was in the middle east), but I headed out of town on 28 December for the vigil service that evening, a funeral service on 29 December and a graveside service on 30 December.   There is no doubt - I will miss my brother, Mike.

It was a very cold day.  Temps were hovering around 0 F.  The contrast between the life Mike led and day's weather is stark, but even so, the honor he deserved for a life well-lived transcended the day's  very cold weather.

 

This is one of the Pavilions at Ft Logan, Colorado where the "graveside" ceremonies take place.  As it turned out, it was the same one that we used 2 years ago at my father's graveside service.  Here, an Air Force Honor Guard folds the flag.  After this, Taps was played and then the flag was presented to Paula, Mike's wife.  The emotions of the moment is hard to describe.  There is a finality to it that takes your breath away.  It is the final farewell.

 

 

A Navy Chaplain from Buckley AFB conducted the majority of the graveside ceremony.  I was given the opportunity to share a few words and close with a word of prayer.  I definitely appreciated it.  "Well done, good and faithful servant."  You will be missed...

Once the ceremony is complete, everyone is ushered out of the pavilion.  The staff at the cemetery take the casket to its actual burial site.

 

Earl and I spent a few minutes with our father, Earl F.  He is buried at the same cemetery as Mike - not too far away either.  The emotions of the moment are a bit overwhelming.  It was the first time I had been there since my father's funeral in 2012.  The sight of the grave stone brought a flood memories.  I really have missed being able to talk with him. 

An added bonus to the trip was spending time with many family members I had not seen in quite a while.  I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with my brother, Earl, his wife, Mary and their son, Jerome.  I also got to see Crystal and Jennie, Earl and Mary's daughters, Dominic, Crystal's son, John, Jennie's husband and even my sister, Rebecca.  Come to think of it, I got to touch base with a huge number of family members.  There was Paula and four of her children, Joanna, Kathy, Debbie and Mike.  There was my sister, Kathy and her three children, Kim, Brian and Kurt. There was also Sierra, Kim's daughter and Robin, Mike's sister and her son, Randy.  It really was a who's who of family relationships. 

 

Kathy and Earl Jr.

Mary, Earl Jr's wife, and Rebecca, my sister

Crystal, Earl and Mary's first daughter 

John and Jennie - Jennie is Earl and Mary's second daughter.  I looked through all of my pics and noted that I had missed Jerome as well as a few others.  I will be ready to catch those the next time around.

Two of Mike's daughter's, Joanna and Debbie.  Debbie came to support the family when my Father passed away 2 years ago.  I enjoyed touching base with her.

 

Crystal's son, Dominic, deserves a post of his own.  He is a walking miracle.  He fell off of a second floor balcony onto concrete.  He was hospitalized with some very severe injuries.  People from around the world began praying for him even as some very talented medical folks worked diligently to save his life.  It was good to see him up and around.  There is a long journey ahead, but hopefully, the worst is behind him...

 

Later that evening, we had a time of reminiscing.  I found myself wishing family had been closer in those growing up years.  There was so much life that I just missed.  Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed my growing up years, but there could have been so much more family in those years.  I am over half a century old and am trying to catch up on life and family.  How does this happen?

Michael - the Younger...

By Grace!
©2015 M.E.G.
~Coram Deo~
Living all of life before the face of God...

An Observation From Easter Morning

As I read through the  accounts of the crucifixion and the resurrection, one thing consistently showed up

Via Google Images

between the varying accounts.  When the women returned from the empty tomb trying to tell all of the disciples what they had seen, there was much confusion - the men regarded what they had to say as nonsense (Luke 24:11) but not all of the men.  Peter and John took off almost immediately to check this out.  The two of them found the tomb empty.  Peter went in and looked everything over very carefully.  Peter did not understand as of yet what this all meant, but in John 20:8, John saw and believed. 

There were two different groups of disciples that day: the first group was stuck in the paralysis of analysis.  They all stayed behind and hid in their upper room hiding place,  fearful of even their shadows, trying to understand what had happened; the second group was Peter and John - they heard the report of the women and went to check it out.  Merely reasoning it out in their minds would not suffice.  They had to see. 

I wonder how many times we get stuck in the same paralysis of analysis instead of "checking it out."  It was Peter and John that saw the stone rolled away- not the nine that stayed behind.  It was the two that saw rolled up grave linens - not the nine.  It was these two that saw the empty tomb - not the nine.  They had the joy of bringing the news of the risen savior back confirming what the women had said earlier. 

Just wondering...

By Grace
Michael
©2014 D.R.G.
~Coram Deo~
Living all of life before the face of God...

Easter Thoughts

I just finished reading "More Than a Carpenter" by Josh McDowell. I knew it was good, but I had never read it. It was a very abbreviated version of Josh's "Evidence that Demands a Verdict." The punch was still there, though. Everything he wrote centered around Jesus - his identity and his deeds. It caused me to do some thinking about how we treat Easter. In Josh's book, the coming of Jesus as God in the flesh and His death and resurrection are the central events in all of history. Jesus can only be a liar, a lunatic of the LORD. Many have come teaching lots of things, but the swirl of controversy around Jesus was constantly not so much His teaching but His identity. Telling a group of Jewish religious leaders "before Abraham was, I AM..." is a direct claim to being God in the flesh. The religious leaders of the day understood very clearly what Jesus was claiming, and fully intended to have him put to death because of it. Even at Jesus' trial, the charges were about His identity not His deeds. As far as His deeds were concerned, He was found blameless.

The crucifixion was accomplished with the full force of Roman efficiency and brutality. No one but Johnny-come-latelys bringing their revisionist delusions would/ could believe anything except that Jesus died on the cross.

Then comes the resurrection. There are too many aspects of this to ennumerate all of them - not even in a lifetime, but one I want to mention is the radical change in the disciples. They were transformed from shrinking, hiding, fearful men to men of whom it was said in Acts 17:6 they had turned the world upside down. What, besides the resurrection, could account for this radical transformation? This singular event in history changed everything. Think of it. One man, three year's of ministry, a horrific death by crucifixion at the hands of jealous men, and an empty tomb on the third day. From this spectacularly humble yet inscrutable beginning, hope and light has entered the world, and all of history is divided into B.C. and A.D.

So, how have we gotten to the place where Easter is about an egg-laying rabbit (how weird is that anyway - what do rabbits have to do with eggs?)? Where did the train of history get off the tracks? What can I/ we do to remember Easter for what it truly is and to tell others the same?

By Grace
MEG
©2012 D.R.G.
~Coram Deo~
Living all of life before the face of God...

In Sickness and in Health

It is good to be home. I have an unbelievably wonderful wife. Every day and every night, she was by my side. For those who have been there, there is nothing better than to see the love of your life as you come through the bewildering, confusing moments when the anesthesia is wearing off. Sweetness to the eyes, and comfort for the soul. This whole thing has me thinking about the phrase "in sickness and in health..." As a pastor, you are expected to be the "expert" on these sort of things, but the truth is the experts are those couples who have been married 40, 50, 60+ years and still holding hands. The expert is the man who is sitting by the bed of his alzheimer-stricken wife unrecognized but still in love. The expert is the wife who lays awake at night listening for sound of her husband's breathing to change... Although this past week has brought me a bit closer to the answer to what this means, the more I think about it, the less I know.


By Grace
Posted By MEG©2012 D.R.G.

~Coram Deo~
 Living all of life before the face of God...

Michael's Musings

I got an email from my sister, Rebecca, a couple of days ago.  She wrote to say that Dad was in the hospital.  I contacted the hospital (2AM their time) and was able to talk to the night nurse.  Dad is not doing well.  His 94 years are really catching up with him. 

I began doing some thinking about life, the aging process and death.  For the last ten years or so, the media has been producing a constant mantra saying that death is a natural part of life.  At the same time, the purveyors of this message are fighting like wild men and wild women to not get old.  Therein lies the rub.  If death is so natural, why is this generation paranoid about getting old?  Shouldn't aging be as "natural" as death?  Considering the billions upon billions spent on anti-aging creams, cosmetic surgery, anti-balding cures, hair dyes and etc, etc, etc, there is no way to reconcile the contradiction of aging being bad but death being natural.  If death is truly "natural", aging should also be "natural."  Instead, we are treated to near-hysteria as the world is locked in a perpetual search for the fountain of youth.

As I have been reflecting on this, I am wondering if the real answer lies elsewhere.  According to Genesis 2, we have been created in the image of God.  It was a short time after we were created that we "fell" into sin.  But what happened to the image of God?  Did it suddenly disappear also?  And what exactly was this "image of God?"

As I have considered these questions, I go back to CS Lewis.  Towards the end of the Magician's Nephew, Digory brought back to our world an apple for his ailing mother.  After she had eaten the apple and recovered from her illness, he planted the seeds from the apple in the backyard.  In the story, it said that over the years there were occasions when this tree swayed back and forth on its own accord as if it was swaying in a violent, unseen wind storm.  It was as if the tree never forgot that it was from a different world. 

I think that this is true of us as well.  Somewhere within us, we truthfully find aging revolting and death as something that is actually "unnatural" in spite of being bombarded by the media with a contrary message.  This image of God strives against the fallen world around us.  There must be some latent seeds of immortality within each of us that rightfully is repulsed by the concept of death and, to a certain extent, aging.  Within each of us, is a yearning for immortality because the image of God, buried deep within each of us, will not let us forget that we are immortal beings just like our heavenly Father who made us and placed his image within us.

I was thinking, too, of something written by Philip Yancey.  How is it that an infinite, creative God could be content creating a daffodill over and over and over and never being bored with His creation?  The problem, according to Yancey, is not God; it is us.  Somewhere within a child's nature there is something of God's nature.  You can read a child a favorite story and immediately the child will say, "read it again."  You have already read it; you do not want to read it again, but the child is insistent.  The problem is not the child; it is us.  The child enjoys something in common with God - an unbounding sense of newness and an untainted purity, but we have sinned and grown old...

I do not have anything more to pass along concerning my Father at this time, but your prayers are appreciated as we walk these next weeks and months out.

-Michael

Choosing Joy!
©2012 D.R.G.
~Coram Deo~
Living all of life before the face of God...