22

Part of processing the death of my mother, on this day as I recall the death of my brother, is that as I look at this very groovy 1973 pic, now 53 years later, there’s just two of us left on this side of Glory. It’s a very disorientating feeling. And even as I celebrate their reunion, the sense of loneliness can overwhelm.  

Most of my life, when it’s become too much, my pattern is to exile myself from the world I occupy.  Driven by fear, or shame, or insecurity, self imposed isolation was a coping mechanism. Not a healthy one, mind you, and I’m grateful for resources I can call on to keep me present, that I’ve never had until recent years. But choosing to be alone is very different than being lonely.  It took me almost 62 years to be orphaned.  That is a blessing. And it still sucks.  

From now on, Jimmy, you’ve got Mom and Dad with you, and I am so glad. 

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!

19

April 17. 

I always think about Jimmy on this day. But this year, there’s a more profound sense of miss.  

I wish he were here to help with Dad.  

I miss his physical presence because right now it is the thing most needed. We’re all determined to tend to Dad‘s daily needs as we seek to honor his request to stay at home with hospice until the end. We’re also decided to relieve Mom of some of the exhausting constancy of care. 

Between my brother-in-law, nephew, and me, there’s someone with him 24hrs/a day. More than the necessary physicality and the utility of handling the daily needs of someone who can no longer do those things unassisted,  I’m finding the 3 of us drawn closer to one another as we do this work. There’s a bonding that occurs for those who stand watch. 

The thought of Jimmy participating in the sacred work of caring for our dad and mom would lighten the load for sure.  It might also have been a thing, maybe the thing that would have drawn us closer.  Here’s to the never-ending regret of relational work delayed for which time ran out.  

So I feel the absence of his presence in a pretty profound way this year.   When Dad talks about what it will be like on the other side, the first thing he always says is that he’s going to find Jimmy and get one of his big bear hugs.  

Yeah, I could use one of those right now too. And God knows I’d do about anything to give him one. 

Love you, brother, and miss you. 

18

Sometimes it’s hard to hold that two seemingly contradictory things simultaneously can be true.  

But it’s a thing. If it wasn’t, would there even be a “mind blown” emoji for it?  🤯. So there you go. 

I’m sitting in that space this morning. It’s April 17, you know what that means. Well, maybe you don’t, but I do, my family does. Life is marked by the impacts of trauma on it. Jimmy died 18 years ago.  I don’t need to recall what happened, or what we went through in the seasons following it. My body, my very being knows the score.  Turns out, the trauma of losing him wasn’t the first, and certainly hasn’t been the last that have left lasting craters in me.  

I’m sure it won’t be the last. 

Life is full of surprises.  Some are wonderful. And others are the opposite of wonderful.  Two things…

Each crater has a story.   Learning that story, telling that story, not having that story be the sum of what defines you but rather the work of resilience through it, that’s the thing. 

How’s that happen?  Well the first and most important thing is to be willing to acknowledge that work doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and you can’t do it alone. You need somebody to hold space for you as the inner battle is joined to no longer let the trauma define you to make room for the story of how you endured it. 

Please understand…I’m a continuing work in progress on these things.  The pace of progress can be maddeningly slow. But it’s worth it. I bear witness. 

Two things… right. It’s April 17. And this year it’s Easter.  Resurrection. Oh, and I’m about to leave to drive to Mayfield, where I was a boy, where I was first told I’d be a preacher at the age of 8, and share a word of resurrection to the community of faith that confirmed me, a community of faith working to not let the trauma of a tornado define who they’ll be. And I haven’t preached in 2 years. Haven’t wanted to, and believed the church surely didn’t want to hear from me. 

In so many ways today is 🤯.   But today isn’t about what I think, what I believe or even what I can prove.  If you can prove resurrection then faith isn’t necessary. 

Jimmy. 

Easter. 

Mayfield. 

Preaching. 

Maybe the things that are seemingly simultaneously contradictory aren’t at all.  On this side of Grace another emoji defines the day:

❤️

17

Holding and honoring the passage of time for something over which you had no control or say is about the only way one can claim some level of agency. And yet, a year on into a global pandemic one is quickly reminded that the passage of time is not really a linear exercise at all. It’s more like a Star Trek: The Next Generation episode featuring Q (that’s Q as in John DeLancie’s character, not the secret source of Gospel material, and certainly not the ridiculously dangerous conspiratorial bullshit invading the body politic of the day). 

To that end, I dreamt about Jimmy last night.  Back when we were kids in Mayfield, on Heritage Drive. Where the hell did that come from?  It’s almost as if after 17 years I’m given the keenest reminders that he’s never not around. Somehow, somewhere. 

I miss deeply what we don’t have - time with him now as our lives have moved, shifted, changed. Through those transitions one thing would be constant - the force of his presence and all that entails. 

Jimmy’s been gone half as long as he lived.  That seems impossible and yet there it is. 

So if you knew him, take a minute and remember Jimmy. As you do, look for him in your day. He’s around. 

16

Remembering today in light of what the world’s enduring isn’t hard, but there is a sense of preoccupation with the unknowns residing in the unprecedented.

And yet, the calendar always finds us in moments of reflection for those we remember.  

So today I remember Jimmy, not so much for who he was (which is the stuff of legend and tall tales, some of which are kinda true), but for the man I could have discovered as integral in my life during the last few years, which have been replete with transitions, failures, self-discovery, trauma, and loss.  

Most of my adult life with Jimmy, the question I lived with was what kind of brother I was or wasn’t to him.  

I’ve lived in the regret of the failure to hold that in the sanctity it deserves. 

And yet at some level, I always felt we understood each other, and that one day we’d come to embrace the gift that brotherhood is.  

Part of my work of rediscovery and recovery is to come to peace about what wasn’t and what can never be. Let me tell you, it’s hard f’n work.  And it’s work worth doing.  

He’d be 50 this year.  Since I’m more than halfway to 60, my zeal to rub that in is tempered. 

I find myself wondering not what kind of brother I would be to him right now. Instead, I wonder what kind of brother he’d be for me as I walk into the chasm of the unknown.  

And I think I know.  I know I do.  

We shared this trait, sometimes to our detriment...to stand with, to stand in front of if need be (nothing’s going to get you today, not on my watch). 

That’s what he’d do. Without thinking, almost instinctively, he’d stand a post to overwatch me. It was his way, it’s mine, too. 

“I got you.”

To have my little brother be my big brother these days would have been fine by me. 

For a while, at least.  

15

How is it possible it’s been 15 years?

This year there’s a particular sense of the unresolved, the resurfacing of stuff buried, and it’s haunting me. 

Something about suddenly losing a brother I chose has done something to me as I recall my own brother and the suddenness of losing him. 

When a current trauma triggers feelings of an older one, the shock to the system is compounded. 

So I’m pensive. I feel sadness, anger, and confusion like I did 15 years ago. 

How the hell did this happen?

What happened?

Why?

What could I have done differently?  

What should I have said?

I couldn’t speak at Jimmy’s service.

Didn’t want to. I was too angry to pray. 

I didn’t have that luxury for John’s. I was front and center for the whole thing. 

Put your head down and grind it out. 

 “You’re so strong, Johnny. I’m amazed at how much you just take on yourself and keep going.”

Yeah, let me tell you. At one time I thought of that as a virtue, maybe even one of my superpowers. But there’s a backside to every blessing. It doesn’t matter how much any of us can take, there comes a time when one more thing is one thing too many, and what you could once carry crushes you. 

I’m crushed. Probably crazy. Definitely not awesome. 

As I live in present grief, that which is residual and unresolved reminds me that it never left. 

It weighs heavily on my shoulders. 

I can’t take off the old cloak so that I can wear the new one. 

I wear them both these days. 

12

Most of us have certain dates on the calendar that haunt us.

Today does that to my family...to me.

There have been occasions across the years when this date has triggered what I can only describe as a PTSD response.  And I use that term not to demean or disparage those who suffer from that.  Rather, I think it helps me empathize more than ever with those who do.  Jimmy's unexpected death rocked our family.  Those of you who walked through that with us know this is true. 

Those of you who know me and love me anyway know all too well what that traumatic event did to me...what the recollection of it can do to me.

In these days, though, I'm struck with curiosity of who he would have been.  When he died I was in the last months being 39...now, I'm ever closer to being 52.  

He'd be 46...father to an impressive young man.

Most of Jimmy's adulthood he struggled to figure out who he was and what he was supposed to be.  I can only imagine that at 46 he would have found it.

While there is joy in remembering my little brother today, there's sadness, too.

Most of our adult lives together, Jimmy and I struggled to figure out how what our relationship as brothers would look like.  I grieve deeply having never done all I could then to work toward that.  I take it as grace that the gift of imagination of what would be now serves as healing balm for the pain of what wasn't and could never be.

Today my family's scars will likely throb a bit.  As you have all along just hold onto us and love us through it.

11

Today's a hard day for my family.

All of us suffer loss. It is among the things humanity has in common. Sometimes loss is sudden, tragic. 

Sometimes it's gradual. 

The memories of all that occurred the day Jimmy died are seared. Can't be undone nor can a recitation of the pain be unfelt. 

This year it feels different. Maybe it's because most of my family was together with our new family only days ago celebrating the love of God alive in Mia. 

Maybe it's because I see Jimmy's son becoming such an impressive young man.

Maybe it's that I'm different. I'm told I am. Self awareness is a gift to be sure--I'm aware enough to know it's true. 

Whatever it is, while today I may not be on top of the mountain, I do know that I am "Closer to Fine."

Love you, brother. 

"I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
The best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it's only life after all
Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
And lightness has a call that's hard to hear
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it, I'm crawling on your shore.

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountain
There's more than one answer to these questions
pointing me in crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine."

10

We mark the passage of time in years...that become decades...scores.
It's just what we do, we mark the time...about many things.

We mark the time until things happen.
We mark the time since things happened.

Today is the 10th year I've marked this day.

It's not that I've marked it by writing something. 
I mark this day because this day has marked me, has marked my family.
Like a healed broken bone that aches before a dramatic change in the weather, this day makes a healed broken heart ache.

The scars where once there was an open wound are a bit more sensitive to the touch on days like today.  Anytime you see a scar, you know there's a story--be it falling off your bike, to surviving an accident, to wrestling with the Divine through the night, to being nailed to a cross--our scars say something. 

We all lost much 10 years ago when Jimmy died.
And whatever peace I found since then, I'll never come to peace with a 34 year old going to sleep and not waking up.  That shit sucks.  And it always will (by the way, my blog, you don't my language, move on).

I'm a different man than I was then.  10 years ago I was a few months from being 40 and living in the existential angst of that milestone, consumed with showing outwardly that I belonged while inwardly uncertain what that meant immersed in hiding me for fear of rejection. 

Now a few months from 50...truthfully, I've never been more content with what I don't know.  I'm comfortable living the journey of "I don't know, but let's see what we can discover, together."

I'm healthier than I've been since I was 25, physically.
I'm healthier than I've been spiritually, ever.

Over the years to come I'll continue to mark the time of this day.  I'll always lament a relationship that was never allowed to season....for words never spoken that should have been.

As it happens, the family will be gathering this weekend. It's Easter.  It's also Confirmation day.  My youngest, Jack, is being confirmed.  We'll all be together to mark a right of passage for another of the family...including another one we're just hearing about this week (stay tuned).

And when together, something will be said, a look or a facial expression seen, and someone will say, "you know who that looks like, sounds like?"  
  
It's been a decade.  Gosh, that's a long time.

Nine

Nine years.

The passage of time is a fuzzy thing. Things happen in life. Everyday something happens. Our days are marked by the accumulation of events. Like episodic television, years gone by are like seasons. And events recalled are as stories often prompted by "you remember the one when....?"

And sometimes there are events that are watersheds. Nothing going forward will ever be as it was.  Everything is filtered through the reality of that moment in time.

April 17 is one of those days.

It's not like today is the gratuitous "remember Jimmy" day. There's something about him I remember every day. I look at my middle kid's facial expressions from time to time and I'm stopped in my tracks.

Today, nine years later...my awareness of loss is revisited...loss of what was, and loss of what will never be.

As traumatic as that day was for my family and me, a day like none other in our lives, what I marvel at today, nine years later, is how we are getting through it.

There were agents of grace dispatched to stand with us that day and the days that followed. You held us close and "Lifted us to the Light" when we didn't know which way was up. Some stand with us still. For that I'm thank-full.

For those who knew him...remember a story (there are plenty to choose from), raise a glass, and laugh.

And those of you who didn't....you know the phrase "force of nature?"
He's the standard by which all others are compared.

Eight

Eight years.

So much has happened in eight years.
So much life lived.

I look at my children and see what eight years looks like.
I look at myself in the mirror and there they are etched in winkles and grey hair.

Eight years ago our family lost Jimmy.

For most of those eight years it was my open wound whose pain I could not hide despite my best intentions to do so. It revealed itself in my appearance, demeanor.

Whoever said time heals all wounds is full of shit.
It doesn't.

God's grace does--in the people who love you and see you through, no matter what, even when you don't want to be loved. I'm blessed to have a few of those people in my life. I've not thanked them for who they are to me like I should. They're not seeking it.

We've all had to deal with the impact of Jimmy's life and death in our own way. My sister and my parents have had their own pains to wrestle with and through. Jimmy's wife and son are eight years in living life and seeking to do it well.

And so have any of you who knew him.

Make no mistake about it, the kid left an impression.
Eight years on I'm realizing he still does.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Seven

A lucky number.

The Mick.

Numerological perfection.

Heaven + Earth.

But today?  

The number of years since we lost 

A force of nature.

A twirp.

A son, husband, father, friend.

Brother.

Miss you.

Six

Six years ago this very morning, around 4:30 a.m., my sister in law called with the news of my brother's death.  As it was today, it was a Saturday.  What happened between that Saturday and Monday afternoon is burned in my memory.  I don't dwell on it, but there are moments such as today when it's unavoidable.

My thoughts of Jimmy this week have been of what was.  The kid I knew.  The pain in the neck he enjoyed being for me.  The attention and love he long sought from me that while present, was never quite as much as either of us needed...and yet, we were both too damn proud to admit it.

I've written extensively about Jimmy and processing my grief in the years since his death...they're all labelled "Jimmy."  For this year, I pause, remember my kid brother, and shake my head that it's been six years.  He'd be 40 this year, and I would have so enjoyed rubbing that in.

Five

There's a lot of change going on in my life right now - as it always seems to do - change comes in two forms - that which creeps day by day, week by week, and on and on so that its presence is as a parasite - feeding off the energy of your life and you're not sure why.

The other kind is that traumatic change that comes all at once.

You're moving.
You're changing churches.
You're changing jobs.

It's a jolt. It catches your undivided attention and dominates all aspects of life.

The change that comes through death is this way, too.

Five years ago, today. How is that possible?

Did it just hit me that five years ago today my brother died?

Nope. April 17 lurks on the calendar. It finds me even when I don't want it to.

You who have lived with and through such a thing can bear witness, of that I have no doubt.

So, I'm with family today.

Need to call my sister.

Some melancholy? Sure. But surprisingly, not too much.

Living. Being. Remembering.

All seem the right way to honor a life whose impact crosses the barriers of mortality.

When my kid smirks like he did-when a "tall tale" is woven worthy of Jimmy - I smile.

In many ways, dealing with the remnants of his presence in the lives of those I'm charged to raise now helps me come to grips with those lingering parts of sadness and guilt from what I didn't do or didn't say.

I pray I get it right this time.

Four

Those of you who have suffered a soul wound through the unexpected death of someone close will understand.

I thought that this April 17 would roll by without much impact.

But the veil of grief doesn't take a year off - and today is one of those days in which I'll revisit the impact of loss four years on.

Four years. How is that possible?

After Jimmy died, I swore I'd be a better man than I was then. It has taken me four years - I think I can say I am - not yet what I could be, or should be - but better.

My deepest regret is living with the question never answered of the man he would have been four years later.

I love you, brother.

Three

Three years ago this morning, at about 4:30 a.m., I got the call from my sister-in-law that my brother had died in his sleep.

I happen to be staying with my folks this week as I do Board of Ministry work at Lakeshore. I'll call my sister today.

As I process my grief, I've been all over the place through the years -

• I've lamented unexpected loss
• I've grieved brotherly "stuff" never fully worked out.
• I've grieved him not being able to watch his son grow up

But today, I just miss Jimmy.

For more on my written journey of dealing with Jimmy's death, hit the "Jimmy" label below

Jimmy - Archived Reflections

Last April, I wrote about the second anniversary of my brother's death. Jimmy died in his sleep in April of 2004. Being able to write and preach about his death, and the aftermath of living with the reality of his death was pretty important for me. I reflected upon that anniversary in my post titled "Two."

As I browsed through archived newsletters, I was reminded how important this time was in my writing. I've loved and hurt before - but never before had I experienced a "hole in my soul" of this magnitude.

The greatest regret I lived with (thank God for the past tense of that) was the fact that Jimmy and I, despite loving each other far more than either of us would admit to each other, never fully nurtured our relationship as brothers in ways that I had hoped. That drove both my writing and my disease of grief that led me to pretty unhealthy behaviors for the balance of the year.

Rather than breaking these writings up in several posts, I'm keeping them all within the confines of this one - it is long, but chronological.

“Oh Brother”
Sunday, April 19, 4:30 a.m. - One day after Jimmy’s death

I fooled myself into thinking I was going to get a good night’s sleep tonight.

I started off numb and exhausted, but just after 4, I awoke with a heaviness of heart that tells me don’t even try right now. It was just about the same time the night before that my sister in-law called me about Jimmy.

Thank you all for your expressions of care yesterday. Rob and Judy, I got your voice messages, but by that time of the day yesterday, I just couldn’t answer the phone anymore. I’m sorry.

Daddy went with Carin and her father to pick out a plot at Ridgecrest and to set the arrangements for the funeral. I was left to hold down the fort with the rest of family and gathered friends until Dad called and asked me to write Jimmy’s obituary.

A more surreal experience I cannot recall. But this whole day has been that way.

Living on the extremes of life is a challenge. Grief, pain and shock bounded by my two year old angel who lives today as if its any other and expecting us to live, love, play and read to him just because that s what we do.

I really think I live too controlled a life.

As short as it is, why so self-protected? My ‘crisis’ of identity a year or so back. So self-critical of who I am in my relationships and dissatisfied that I bring anything of value to them (and yes, with my brother, that is a regret that weighs heaviest) it’s hit me that I’m so afraid I’m not going to be liked and loved for me, that I hide in the control of what I know, who I know, and how I present myself.

Well, that masked has cracked and what’s left is who I am -

My nephew, Eric, will be four in June. I wonder if he’s going to remember his father? My eleven year old gets it. I look at him as it’s as if I’m looking in a time warped mirror and I wish to God he’s not as much like me as it appears he’s going to be.

I know you love me. I have no expectations of any of you except that you continue to love me through this.

Mom and Dad are a mess. Are children supposed to hold their parents as if they were their own children?


Wednesday, April 21, 4:00 p.m.
My Dear Christian Community,
I‘ve been haunted by what I wrote for Easter morning. Between the confidence and conviction of composing it and this moment - everything has been placed into a different light.

Doubt, distress, disbelief, a hole in my heart as big as a truck.

So, today as I was doing some word processing at home, I noticed that the obituary for my brother is just above the sermon I wrote the Sunday before. Providence, timing, synchronicity, who knows, but I went back and re-read this sermon with different eyes - and with faith I proclaim, here I stand, I can do no other, not because it’s easy, but because it’s never been harder.

When my dad got up at the service to speak, my sigh was audible, he heard me. It was “Oh my God, Dad, what are you doing?”

I had been as parent to him the preceding 36 hours, but in that moment, he, admittedly stepped outside himself, spoke the truth - he spoke, nor as my preacher, but as my father, and I needed that so badly.

It’s one thing for us to announce our love for each other and our rubrically guided proclamations of peace, it is something else to make that incarnate, and you have done that for me these past days. I cannot begin to articulate what that has meant and continues to mean.

I am grieving well. I can be reduced to mush in the blink of a teary eye without knowing what triggered it.

Multiple calls have been made to parents and sister and sister-in law “just to hear each others voices.”

Tuesday morning (the morning after the funeral), when Kristy was up with the boys to get them ready for school, Christopher (the 5 year old nephew Jason spoke of in his eulogy) asked her if she could hear me snoring through the night (that being the sign that his daddy was still alive). These are the questions we live with and answer as honestly as we can, even when we don’t know what to say.

I find myself talking about all this and processing it for no apparent reason, it just comes out. I think that’s healthy.

Of one thing I am certain and I pledge, Jimmy’s death will teach me how to live. So help me God.

*********************

“Amazed and Confused”
Luke 24.l-12 Easter - Year C
Rev’d Dr. Jonathan L. Jeffords, OSL, April 11, 2004

“But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened. Luke 24.11.12

What is this day about?

What does it mean?

Isn’t that at least some of what lives in us at Easter? Children are bombarded with influences and understandings of this day that confuse.

I have a minister friend who leads the devotionals at the pre-school at her church. She was telling me this week of what happened as she was asking the kids if they knew what Easter meant.

The response?

“We get to hunt for eggs and get candy.’

My colleague said, But isn’t there something else about Easter we remember, something about Jesus?’

And one little girl raised her hand and blurted out, “You mean Jesus gets to hunt for eggs and get candy too?”

Amazingl

There’s a photograph of me that captures what it means to be “amazed and confused.”

I’m coming out of the birthing room at Methodist North and into the family waiting area to announce that my first child has been born, Despite holding multiple degrees from institutions of higher learning, despite knowing the biology of human childbirth, seeing it, witnessing it, was, well, in a couple of words ,“amazing and confusing.’ See, it was the “physics” of it all that blew my mind, And so, there’s this photograph that captures my face before the first words were spoken that Andrew Scott Jeffords had entered the world, It was true, it had happened but that didn’t make it any less amazing or confusing.
Wow!

As grand as my emotions of that moment, all those amazing and confusing moments that accompany any effort to raise three boys, be a good husband and father, and pastor — if pictures had been taken of me on the occasions I’ve been in the company of death, I wonder how similar or dissimilar they would be, Maybe not so different. Our entrances and exits on the stage of this earthen sod is the stuff of music and poetry, the touch of the artist’s brush and the liturgies of many a religious tradition.

But as true as that might be, our culture does not know what to do with death. In fact, we are so much more in the death “avoidance and denial” business than ever we are death as a part of life. We don’t talk about it without squirming, and if we do it’s usually only because someone’s mortality has forced us to deal with it.

Craig Barnes in his commentary in “The Christian Century” magazine, remembers his grandmother’s generation. He said that death was an integral part of their lives. Family members died in their own beds, wakes were held in their houses. He said that it was spoken as a reality of life.

Now if there was the polite whisper in her day it was about sex. After all, some things do demand some discretion. Contrasting that to today, the turnabout is obvious isn’t it? We don’t talk about death except in whispers, but our indulgences into human sexuality are plastered on every billboard, TV show, and song on the radio - everywhere for everyone to see. Death is compartmentalized in our culture and times — we deal with it only when we have no other choice,

The transition of life to death is sacred. Bill Coffin says,

“Death cannot be the enemy if it’s death that brings us to life. For just without leave-taking there can be no arrival; without growing old there can be no growing up; without tears, no laughter; so without death there can be no living....he says, Death is the great equalizer, not because it makes us equal, but because it mocks our pretensions at being anything else."

Yes, death is real. No getting around it, But it is also sacred. And for those of us who hold to the unique revelation of God through Jesus of Nazareth, we know that everything we understand as real, common, ordinary is indeed extraordinary. And on this Easter morning we find ourselves in good company with those first witnesses teased by this amazing and confusing question— ‘why do you look for the living among the dead?’

On that first Easter morning, Luke tells us of the women who went to the tomb to do what must be done to the body to prepare it for burial. The ointment and spices were prepared: the sad and noble duty was theirs to carry out.

Death, although sacred, isn’t pretty - it stinks.

In fact the stench of it casts such fear in our culture that we’ll do any and everything to avoid its reality. Their only worry was the stone that blocked their way, how could they get to Jesus without help?

How indeed!

The men, the ones we traditionally know as the disciples, fearfully locked away as the dreams of what could be lay dead in the stone cold tombs of their spirits. It was what it was. He was dead, and so too, was the revolution, the new Reign, the hopes of tomorrow long gone. The only reign now ruling their lives was grief of lost and fear of what all of this meant for them.

You’ve been there, haven’t you? Are you there now? There’s something here that transcends time — Our knowledge of Jesus — who he is, what he taught, what he charges his followers to do—it seems is not enough. Christians are people most needy of assurance, We need those confirming moments that in spite of the evidence, there’s something more still. What a minute, there’s a church word for that — FAITH!

‘Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.’ Hebrews 11.1

I love Jim Wallis’ definition of faith. Wallis founded the Sojourner’s Community in D.C. He says that -

Faith is believing in spite of the evidence, and watching the evidence change.’

But how many times did we hear Jesus admonish those even closest to him that their lack of faith prevented them from seeing the Truth. Guess what folks?— Lack of faith still does.

The evidence of faith we are called to pivots on three little letters that begin chapter 24. It’s an interesting figure of speech, a conjunction, “but.” As in ‘despite what you see, there is something else going on here that you don’t see, and because you don’t see it doesn’t make it any less real,”

“But,” a conjunction - for all of us who grew up with Schoolhouse Rock, we know all about conjunctions, right? You know “conjunction, junction what’s your function? Hooking up words and phrases and clauses.”

What a bizarre way to start the Easter narrative from Luke. Craig Barnes comments on the “but,” that it is a sacred intrusion into death. The gospel always turns on a great ‘however.’ I like that very much. It is so consistent with Jesus, who announced the Reign of God again and again by saying ‘you have heard it said,.,, but I tell you that ultimately we find the Easter story from Luke doing pretty much the same thing you have heard it said that I’m dead, but I tell you”

So, the women make their way to the tomb only to find that the problem they anticipated, that the stone wouldn’t allow them access to Jesus’ broken, dead, body, rolled away. One commentator makes an interesting point, “why was the stone rolled away? To let Jesus out of the tomb, or to let us in it and see the magnificent work of God!”

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

The women’s’ encounter with the angel, their remembering what Jesus had told them and their reporting of all these things to the disciples was hardly overwhelming to them. Luke reports that the disciples are left with the thought that it was and ‘idle tale,’ I mean, after all, what do the women knew? Can’t you just see that? You know the role and place of women in that culture and time — status attached only to the men is their lines - couldn’t testify in court — their testimony couldn’t be trusted.

I can see Peter, going to the tomb both to pacify and patronize the women, sees for himself. Sees the stone rolled away, the linen cloths laying aside. He, amazed and confused, goes home. We’re pretty sure he didn’t fully believe the women. After seeing for himself one wonders if he believed at first either. The pivotal moment of the Christian faith, where death is both acknowledged and defeated, and he goes home. Mark’s gospel talks about them being afraid. John has Peter being stupid and John (the beloved one) both faster and smarter than everyone else to know what had happened and why.

Despite what we think, or know, or what we think we know about Jesus and the Resurrection, there is still this — something happened. Something happened that cemented otherwise cowardly disciples to martyrdom for the sake of the Crucified and Risen Lord. The kerygmatic message of Jesus of Nazareth resonated with people moving them from hopelessness to hope, oppression or no.

Something still happens. Look at as, here we are. Something brings as here. Something of meaning drives us. There are many reasons to come and be a part of a church—even this one. We choose congregations based upon ideology, theology, political bent, we choose congregations for what they can do for us, provide us, what bells and whistles their program brings — and we find ourselves at churches for what we can bring to them — what of God in as in meant to be offered and shared In the up building of Christian community. But in the end, none of these reasons matter if they are ends onto themselves.

Ultimately, we must wrestle with this fundamental question - “what do you think of Jesus?” Of what account does the one proclaimed crucified and risen hold sway in your life? In the end—what difference does it make, and how does that difference find expression?

Our chancel choir sings and recorded a setting of the Song of Solomon that is haunting in its beauty. The French horn is elegant, the piano is fabulous, the voices are magnificent, especially the tenors! Anyway, there’s a line in that song taken from the Scripture that bears witness to the love of God for humanity. Although referring to the love shared between two committed people for one another, metaphorically it holds up.

Set me as a seal upon your heart. For love is strong as death Love is strong as death.

This Easter morning tells me of something else. Something more. Want to know what Easter is all about? It’s amazing and confusing, yes, but sisters and brothers in Christ, it’s true—not only is love as strong an death...love in stronger.

‘Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.’ Luke 24.6

Sources:
Craig Barnes, ‘We’re All Terminal’ April 6, 2004, The Christian Century
Credo- William Sloane Coffin
The Soul of Politics - Jim Wallis

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"I Buried My Brother”
June 9, 2004

I went to the cemetery today to visit my brother’s grave.

I spend a decent amount of time in Jackson for Conference business, and though I’ve been in and through Jackson several times since Jimmy died, I’ve not been able to make myself go there again.

Like that nagging thing left undone that won’t let go until it’s done, this was something that I had to do.

The reality of Jimmy’s death is shrouded still in the disbelief that it actually happened. There have been several gatherings of family in the past weeks, and I’m left with the weight of loss and the sadness of “the one more thing” I could or would have said had I the chance. His absence is profoundly present to me, as it is with my whole family.

So, it was with that, a sense of sadness, no, of obligation, and yes, perhaps a little dread, that I, along with Sky, a brother in the clergy, went to the cemetery at the same time that the Annual Conference’s Memorial Service was taking place to take part in one of our own.

Like a wave, the grief hit me again.

There it was, his name and years of life upon this earth inscribed on a temporary marker.

His burial site was now covered with sod, but on the fringes of the sod there was a ring of dirt. I was reminded that the last time I saw that dirt. It was the day I helped to bury him.

That’s right, I helped bury my brother.

Under the leadership and the insistence of his best friend, Jason, who eulogized him, it was made clear very quickly that no machine, no cemetery workers were going to bury Jimmy.

We were.

And we did.

Family and friends all - we picked up our shovels and did a day’s work.

I’ve never done that before. I’m not sure I’ll ever do that again. But on that day, there was no other thing to do but to pitch in.

It truly was a means of grace.

We talked, we laughed, we told stories.

The young and the old helped.

It was a holy moment.

When we had finished, we all looked at each other as if to say ‘what do we do now? So, we gathered in circle and sang the "Doxology."

It felt right. It was right.

In the beginning, and at the end, there is God.

Today I remembered the last time I was there. And even through my tears I could smile. And I remember my brother, and I miss him, and I’m thankful for his life. And I left the cemetery today thinking that it had been a very good day.

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Over My Shoulder –
October 26, 2004

Clergy people are a weird lot.

I ought to know.

We’re fairly well educated, often versatile in a number of disciplines, and usually very expressive of ourselves in communicating from the pulpit.

It’s letting folks know who we really are that is the rub.

For many reasons, some of which are pretty smart, clergy don’t always share the full measure of who we are, both to fellow clergy and especially not to the people under our charge.

There’s a lot of me in that sentiment. The stuff that makes up my being is bound in the fear that if you knew me for who I really am, will you still love me? I can remember as a boy, as ontological questions were coming into my awareness, posing scenarios to my mother that went something like this: “If I did (fill in the blank of something very, very bad), would you still love me?” Invariably, the answer was, “I may not like what you did, but I’ll always love you.”

As confident as clergy people can be, we are often in very lonely places. We can well articulate a theology of grace, but when the work of “doing” ministry supplants the personal work of discipleship (spiritual disciplines practiced), knowing the nature of grace as operative in ones life gets a little muddled.

I say all of that to say this — life’s been a bit muddled these last months. I find myself on the other side of a fairly deep chasm of grief and pain. I see it now over my shoulder, and ahead is a life that is good, and one framed in faith and hope.

I’ve always thought that matters of body and spirit were linked.

I understood it.

Now, I can bear witness to it. A couple of weeks after Jimmy died; I developed this “back” issue. It was legitimate enough. I have a bulging disc at L4 and L5, I saw a physical therapist, went through some therapy, and lived in pain for months, for which I sought relief through medication.

It never occurred to me that the pain in my back and the pain in my heart were related. And sure enough, whenever I treated my back pain with medication, somehow the soul was numbed, too. At that point in my life, that seemed preferable.
But grief that is not dealt with, even though numbed, can exact a toll.

It did for me.

And it is a lonely place.

In fact, I’ve come to believe that the medication deepened the pain of my soul. Grief for the loss in my family, shame for the brother I wasn’t for Jimmy, the loss of control in not being able to understand how a 34 year old man goes to sleep one day and doesn’t wake up the next.

Let me tell you people, I have not been well these months.

Ask my staff, they’ll tell you. Ask my wife and kids—or, better yet, don’t!

I’ve listened to playbacks of my sermons, especially since the Summer forward, and all I can say is, “I’m sorry.” I don’t think I said anything heretical, but boy, did I sound angry. Well, I was. It’s taken everything I have to “do my job” these months. I don’t think I’ve done it well.

Three weeks ago I had a breakthrough moment. I recognized that as strong as I thought I was, as self- reliant and sufficient, I needed my parents in the worst way. They visited for Andrew’s birthday, and they basically grabbed me to give me room to vent, to cry, and to affirm that, together, we were going to get through this. I was reminded that I still need my mom and dad. In fact, I need them now more than ever.

It was October 7. That was the last day I took a pain pill.

It’s amazing how much better the world seems with a clear head and heart. Sure, my back still acts up once in a while, but stretching and an occasional dose of ibuprofen is really all I need.

Over my shoulder is a place to which I have no desire to return. I prefer to look ahead.

I miss Jimmy.

I have more grieving to do. But unlike before, “I feel my pain,” and that’s not so bad a place to be.

Because I’m free to feel, I’m now able to heal.

So, that’s where I am. That’s where I’ve been. By the grace of God, it is a “whole” place where I’m going.