One

11/25/21  Dad with Grady

Dad died one year ago today.

I know, I was there. We often tie our grief to the calendar. It always seems to find us. 

Remembering Dad's death, at least this year, this first year, is a bit muddled because the 25th last year was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Any of you whose losses are at, on, or around holidays understand how conflicted that can be. As little as a month ago, I was pretty certain that the Saturday after Thanksgiving is what I'd "feel" like when he died because, well, that's when it was a year ago. And now? No doubt, it's the 25th, regardless of where Thanksgiving falls. 

How do I know? Up at 4 a.m. with some thoughts spinning. Boy, is that ever a "Jerry" move? Despite all the ways I have tried to demonstrate that I wasn't, I am most assuredly "Jerry's kid." 

So, Dad, it's been a year. It took us all a while to get out of the rhythm of being constantly on call for something you might need. 

Mom's doing ok. She's had moments, but haven't we all? I'm keeping watch as I promised. Don't worry. 

I'd say I miss you, which I do, but in this year of you being gone, I'm aware of how present I feel you, hear you, think about you. Sometimes I laugh, and yes, sometimes it pisses me off (which is how I know it's you). 

Our last couple of years in a caregiving/care-receiving relationship were hard and exhausting. But without that time, some truths would have never been spoken, and unconditional love that never would have been known. It seemed we both needed that from each other. 

I miss making your breakfast to order. You know cooking is one of my love languages. For a few years, I pretty much stopped. I'm back at it, and I'm grateful. 

As for singing? Still not there. Not sure if I'll ever be. We'll see. 

I think of you when I put horseradish on my sausage biscuit. And a confession: when you wanted me to put a pinch of salt in your coffee, I didn't because I thought it was stupid. You never seemed to notice. 

There's so much about those last weeks/months I shouldn't miss, but I do. You told us how you wanted things to go in your death, and we all tried to honor that. I think we did. 

One year on, and we still don't have what's left of you from Genesis. Surely, someday soon, we will, and there's one more service to have at Ridgecrest, not too far from where we buried Jimmy. 

I'll probably cry a little then. I'll probably cry a little today. And I'm good with that.

Open Hearts, Minds, and Doors Now?

It’s hard to hold something as real when it occurs even though you were convinced it never could, never would. And yet by the light of a new day the stories of the work of the 2020 General Conference (held in May 2024, I know) hasn’t dimmed as if it were wishful thinking.  

The fight for inclusion of LGBTQIA+ people started in ‘72 with the first language of exclusion.  

I was 8.  I’m now two months from 60.  

It’s a lifetime. 

And while there will be much said about this General Conference by those who were there, today I’m thinking of those along the way to liberation who were victims of exclusion. 

I’m thinking about those whose Spirit inspired calls to fruitful and life changing ministries were squelched by all the phobias and -isms cloaked in the the “hate the sin, love the sinner” bullshit, all which broke the first General Rule of The United Societies of the people called Methodists, “do no harm.” 

My God, so much harm. 

I think of those in ministry I’ve known who lived publicly with a persona that belied who God made them to be just so that they could minister. I think of those publicly shamed because of “the rules of the church.” 

I think of those living with the inward torture of locking away their true selves because of others’ expectations. 

Over 50 years of harm, of being discounted and discarded, it’s all a bit much. 

The list is long and winding, but if you’ve been in this work over the past decades, you know and love someone left on the battlefield of spiritual orthodoxy because of who they are.  

While The United Methodist Church in this new reality is unfolding and cause for celebration, there’s something that needs to happen first:  confession, repentance, and repair. 

Turns out making amends and seeking repair is life-long work. It’s a lesson I’m still learning.  It’s a spiritual practice I recommend The United Methodist Church take up. 

For those who’ve prayed for, worked for, fought for inclusion, I celebrate with you.  It’s been a long time coming.  But let’s do so with humility. 

The language of the Book of Discipline has changed.  Truly, I never thought I’d see the day. Although, changes in language and changes in the heart don’t always align. 

Even now, as memes celebrating the death of “incompatible” circulate, there are other messages emerging from the offices of bishops, superintendents, and pastors emphasizing that no church has to receive a gay pastor and no church has to host same sex weddings.  

So maybe “liberation-lite?”

Ask women in ministry.  Ask people of color in ministry.  The work is not done. It never will be this side of the eschaton. 

One thing’s for sure, there will always be “the other,” and the invitation to draw the circle wider will confront and challenge us when we think we’ve won, that we’ve got it all figured out. 

Let’s not gloat. Let’s make a witness. 

The current generation of leaders in The United Methodist Church will have a clearer runway to do amazing things than mine did.  Go do it. 

Let it be. Amen. 

20

The sun has risen 7,304 times since I answered a wee small hours of the morning call, waking me to tell me, "Jim's gone."

20 years.  What does that even mean?

I was 3 months away from turning 40.  OMG, 40!

My sons were boys.

I was neck-deep in my endless (futile) pursuit of church/theological relevance, married for 15 years, and relatively happy (I think?). 

Who could ever tell? 

I was so repressed. So contained. 

On this side of things, I can see that it’s not so much that I didn’t want people to really know me. Hell, I didn’t really know me.  

Now, understand that awareness comes after a cascade of personal, relational, professional, mental, and spiritual crises and the significant and difficult work it takes to move through them.  

The days of believing I’m irreparably broken are gone (thank God).  

Although I did live long considering the implications of the CPT Code a former therapist used for my years of treatment under his care - the old F.34.1, Dysthymia, which at the time was defined to me as “incapable of being happy.”  Live with that one for a while, why don’t ya?  Or at least try to. Tens of thousands of dollars later…

Like I said, former therapist. 

 

I’m grateful for so much of the work done. I don’t want to come off as ungrateful.  And yet, “for everything there is a season.”  Clarity was never going to come caught in the dysthymic trap.

Current therapist…clearer understanding of self. Glory be.

Jimmy’s death was an inflection point for everyone who knew him.

It was for my family.

It was for me.

The curve changed.

Missing Jimmy during Dad’s long goodbye rose differently than before.  In the initial years after his death, just grappling with the reality of his absence was its own mindfuck.  How is it possible that he’s not here?  

But I needed him as we cared for Dad.  It was demanding in every conceivable way.  My sister was able to do only so much.  My brother-in-law and nephew stepped up huge, but I needed my brother to help me and us.

I’ve wondered how he would have handled it.  He tended to avoid the illness of others.  When dad had emergency gall bladder surgery in 1987 (back when that was a major surgery and his gall bladder was gangrenous), and I was in my first days at my first appointment, Associate Pastor at the Old Hickory United Methodist Church in Old Hickory (not Nashville), Tennessee, thank you very much, rather than staying at the hospital waiting, Jimmy drove around I-240 all day long.

But he was a kid then.  I’m guessing he would have risen to the occasion, as we all did, or at least tried to.

Jimmy went through more than a few personal, relational, professional, mental, and spiritual crises of his own in his 34 years, sometimes dramatically so.  

Mostly dramatically so.  

So, Jimmy was dramatic.

I was looked upon as the one who had it together (my God if he only knew).

And my patience for him when he didn’t was not very graceful at times.

I regret that.  Still.

I suspect my inability to be patient and graceful with him had little to do with him and everything to do with my inability to be patient and graceful with me.

I was 54 when my dam broke, 20 years older than he was when he died - the age he’d be now. Only recently, on this side of the curve, I’ve wondered how he would have been with me through my meltdowns.  Ask anyone who knew him or who was loved by him - he was fiercely loyal and protective (a Jeffords trait).

Hearing his assuring “I got you” during some of the darkest times would have been comforting, I’m certain.

What would it mean for him to know his son and fiance asked me to preside their wedding?  I wonder if he’d be able to keep it together through the service.

I know.  He wouldn’t.

As it is, and as I’ve done now, every April 17 since 2004, I write something about him/us/me.

It’s possible that 20 is enough.  We’ll see.

This year holds a different resonant peace, though.

Jimmy left us suddenly.  Dad left after a long struggle.

The thought of them being together, however it is you imagine that, brings comfort.

No, more than that.

Happiness.

See?  I can do it!