Let's Get Physical

I know. It is the name of a not-so-spiritually-enriching song. But it is the words that come to mind when I think of the deep significance of what my family did yesterday. On August 16 we learned that our grandson due in December had died in utero. On August 18 our daughter delivered this precious little life. He was named Elijah Evan. We determined to mark his life on Labor Day weekend when our immediate family and his paternal grandparents would be present. How do you do a memorial service for a little boy whose life ended at five months in the womb? With just a few family members gathered in the back yard, how could we adequately mark the immense depth of the experience of love and loss? Words are powerful. God’s word is especially so, and there was plenty of that spoken and heard. But with such gut-wrenching pain, with such physically visible sorrow, how could we memorialize Elijah in a way that would be remembered and cherished? I realized in reflecting on what we did, we got physical! For Elijah’s memorial we participated together in some very physical ways.

Our son wrote a song for Elijah. Wow! As Elijah’s father said, “How many children have a song written for them?” This five-month-old, taken-before-he-was-born little boy does! This was such a physical expression of remembering. My son spent a week writing and practicing. He played it on his guitar and he sang it for them. His sister sang with him. It is called “Little Feet.” The chorus says, “Li’l Lijah was just too good for this world” and “his little feet never even made footprints in the dirt.” The songs speaks of our sorrow but also our hope that someday “we will see his little smile and touch his precious face.” It was a physical act born out of sadness and love and hope. We all were in awe. We all were in tears. It was such a physical experience. And the wonder of modern technology allowed my son to record and send the song for Elijah’s parents to keep.

Our daughter wrote a poem. It too was born out of sorrow and loss and hope. In her own reflection time she wondered how she could be so sad about a little boy she never saw. Then she realized she had seen him in her heart and mind. Her poem chronicled all the ways she had seen him. She had seen him in the joy in the faces of his mom and dad preparing to introduce him to the world. She had already imagined him playing with Laurel, our granddaughter born in July. She had imagined him visiting me and me scooping him up in my arms and not wanting to share him! She had already envisioned what future Christmases would be like for Elijah. And she had seen in her heart and mind her own child someday joining these cousins. Her poem was a very physical expression of how such a young and unseen life could create such a visible and heart-wrenching loss. We all “saw” Elijah with her, and as she read her poem we all physically mourned. Beautifully framed and mounted in an originally crafted work of art, the poem will hang in Elijah’s parent’s home, an enduring physical reminder of Elijah.

And we all planted something. On Sunday, September 4, in memory of Elijah Evan, I had ordered an arrangement containing seven separate plants for our church’s Communion Table. I had planned to pot each one to give to different family members in memory of him or to plant them around the yard. My daughter, Elijah’s mother, wanted to plant them. So at the close of our time of remembering, we did. What an incredible experience! Some of us took a turn of the dirt. Some of us helped to water. Under the careful and experienced guidance of Elijah’s paternal grandfather, each of us participated and watched as these plants were given a new lease on life. And two of them were planted next to plants from the memorial service of my father who died in 2006. Elijah’s plants right next to Great Grandpa Davis’—this was such a physical act of hope for all of us. The closing of Elijah’s memorial was very physical.

Through the song and poem written for him and through the plants given new life we will have constant and beautiful reminders of Elijah. These acts promote healing as well. We got physical. It was healing and it was very spiritually enriching.

Everyone has had experiences of loss. Many have known the loss of a little one like Elijah. What are the ways you or others you know have memorialized a loved one that has helped you to remember and to heal? Add a comment and let the readers know.

Strength in Weakness

Yeah, yeah! I know the Bible verses (2 Cor 12:8-10). Christ is made strong in our weakness. It’s all well and good. I love it when others are weak, Christ is strong. I teach it, I preach it. I just don’t like it when I am the one feeling weak. I especially don’t like it when I am so weak I feel helpless. But I was reminded this morning in our staff devotion time that this is exactly what Paul is talking about. And he is talking about it for me.

George, our student ministries director, was leading devotions and asked the question, “When was a time in your life when you felt most led by the Spirit, like Romans 8 says, “walking in the Spirit”? I thought about it. Of course the immediate response from a pastor is some superspiritual thing like, “I am led by the Spirit every moment of every day.” Yeah, right! I confessed that when I think about feeling led by the Spirit I am more like a cell phone with poor reception. The connection comes and goes. But as I thought more, I remembered a time when I really felt connected and totally led by the Spirit of God. It was during the most difficult time in my fifteen years of ordained ministry. It was a time of explosive conflict in a church I served as an associate. What had been little brush fires around the congregation for years (we learned later) erupted into an inferno one August following a seemingly routine issue in the life of ministry. Within hours the conflict became personal and pointed. Though I was not directly involved in any of the related issues, my convictions about what had happened made me one of two targets for all the rage. And the battle raged for over two years. There were days when I did not want to get out of bed. There were times when I was paralyzed in an attempt to avoid those who were on the attack. I never knew who I would run into at the grocery store or bank, and even in the halls of the church I served I could suddenly be confronted with a very angry person. There was also the deep sense of sadness over the loss of people who were so confused by what was happening that they withdrew from fellowship. When it was all over about 100 people left the church of 700. It felt to me like 100 deaths without goodbyes. Though I was not suicidal, there were days when I felt as though I did not want to go on living. The pain was so deep and I could see no end in sight.

As George continued to push the question I realized that this was the time I remembered most feeling the Spirit leading me. In fact, I remembering telling someone that I felt so weak I did not know if I could walk. But I did walk. And I did work, and I did go on. But I felt numb, like I was floating around from place to place. That is when I realized that the Spirit of God was carrying me. I was walking in the power of the Spirit and completely led by him. My absolute weakness allowed Christ to be my strength. I was living out the poem Footprints in the Sand.

I have been a Christian since a very young child, and I have studied Scripture since I was a teenager. I know that one of the dominant themes of Scripture is about suffering and weakness, and that we grow most in our faith when we are tested. I know that the very heart of the gospel is that through death life emerges. Through the Valley of Achor there is hope. I know this and love the truth. I don’t like living it out! It is painful. And yet this is exactly what Easter is all about. Through Lent we prepare to realize the weight of our sin and the price for its eradication on Good Friday. Easter morning, resurrection, is only possible because, as Jürgen Moltmann said, Christ suffered godforsakenness for us. Total weakness and defeat leads to absolute strength and victory. I hate it. But it is the way of the cross and it is the way of Christlikeness.

The church I served during those years grew stronger through those days of agony and pain. So did I. And I have been strengthened to travel with others walking that way of agony. Christ is sufficient. Most of the time it requires our absolute insufficiency to experience this kind of walking in the Spirit.

Facing Death in a Rice Paddy

Five years ago today, my father, Kenneth Earl Davis, died at the age of 86. That he died is no surprise. The surprise is that he lived to this ripe old age. It is a testament to the power and glory of God. My father was a WWII POW and a year and a half after he enlisted in the army he found himself facing death and his life flashing before his eyes.

Just turned twenty-one, Ken found himself face down in a hard, dry rice paddy in the Philippine Islands. He figured it was his time. He would be executed like the other American soldiers he saw dragged to this spot the day before—shot and bayoneted, and stripped of all earthly possessions. Though he had not slept or eaten for days, he could not sleep, and the hunger and pain he felt was overwhelmed by the reality that he believed his life was coming to an end.

Ken had seen this in movies. A person caught in death’s trap would suddenly see their life flash before their eyes. In the movies it was a flashback played out by the characters of the film. For Ken there were no actors, no characters. This was real life. Less than two years after he enlisted in the Army and looked at a map and chose the Philippine Islands as a place to serve, he found himself facing death in a rice paddy on the Bataan peninsula. And his life began to flash before his eyes.

It was as if a screen was suspended in his mind and his memory began playing back all the scenes. He saw his mom and dad and his 11 brothers and sisters. He saw his childhood antics and his rebellious escapades. He saw his home and the church he attended as a child and the chapel he attended while at the CCC Camp. And he remembered the good news of the gospel he learned from as far back as he could remember, that Jesus died for his sins and that he, Ken, would have a place in heaven because of God’s grace and mercy demonstrated on the cross no matter what he had done. It was April 12, 1942. It was about that time of the year—Easter. The screen went blank but Ken’s mind did not. He described an overwhelming sense of peace that came over him. He knew he was about to die, but he reached deep down into the faith he embraced as a child and took hold of it again. And he prayed. He thanked God for this faith given to him. He thanked God for his family. And he prayed that if somehow he survived this rice paddy death hole he would live his life differently. He would dedicate himself to following the one who gave his life for him—Jesus Christ.

Ken did survive that rice paddy. He did not know exactly why, but he did. The Japanese soldiers returned but they did not kill him. They kicked him and told him to get up and directed him toward a column of American and Filipino troops forming down the road. Ken had survived the death paddy, but now, just two weeks past his 21st birthday, he was about to join the infamous Bataan Death March. He would survive this, too. And the death rail cars, and the death camps, and a death ship (hellship), and another death camp. For three and one half years Ken would survive unspeakable torture and brutality. And he would live another 60 years to make good on the promise to dedicate his life to following Christ.

Ken would do more than survive. He would thrive. Despite these four years of the most inhospitable treatment, Ken was the epitome of hospitality. Even though he suffered untold prejudice and evil, Ken would extend acceptance and kindness to all kinds of people. And even though these years were filled with darkness and despair, Ken would prove to be a man of optimism and hope. His life was a testament to the power of the grace and love of God.

[This story is an excerpt from a soon to be published book about Ken’s WWII POW story and how it shaped his life and the life of his children, Forged by War: A Daughter’s Story of Her WWII POW Father and How It Shaped Her, is due to be published summer 2011.]

Monkeying Around at a Memorial Service

Can you do that? Today I did. Steve Eugene Ruckman was a stellar human being and an equal opportunity prankster. He loved the song, “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkeys,” and he loved to monkey around. There would be no way to celebrate his life without a little of the same at his memorial service.

Steve was one of those people who was always available when you needed him. He was also a man who could fix anything. Not a bad combination! He was the property manager for our church and one of our ruling elders. The former he came to willingly. The latter, I had to drag him kicking and screaming. Well . . . quietly kicking and screaming. Steve never made a scene. He did not want to be seen.

He resisted being an elder first because he was so dedicated to his family. He was the quintessential parent for his daughter, Katie, and son, Eric. They were in high school band and so Steve and his wife Ruth were band parents. They chaperoned, they chauffeured, they fed, they financed—everything a band needed, they were. Eric was a scout, too. Like his dad, he attained to Eagle Scout. So, of course, Steve was a quintessential Scout dad. He camped, he pledged, he built, he organized, he taught, he scouted—everything a scout troop needed, Steve was.

He did not see himself as a leader. He did not like to be “up front.” He was quiet and preferred to do things rather than talk about doing things. But he was a leader. People followed him. Peopled trusted him. When he did speak, people paid close attention. After his kids were out of band and Scouts, I cornered him. He succumbed to my pleading and carrying on. He became an elder. And he led. Quiet but strong leadership was his hallmark through a critical time in the life of our congregation.

But through all of it, Steve had fun and made life fun for others. He was in the office almost every day. He lit up the office with his pranks and teasing. When he first became ill from his chemo treatments, it was like the sunshine had been taken from the interior space of the church. We missed him. Steve and his family were in worship fifty Sundays out of the year, and on those Sundays Steve was the first person to greet people. As one frequent visitor described him, he was “the face of First Presbyterian Church of Downey.” And a warm and welcome face he was!

In 2006 I needed to move my office. Steve offered to put together a moving crew while I was on vacation. The new office was bigger, and so I had told him I would like to have a small table and chairs for working space if possible. Steve accommodated my request as only Steve could.

When I returned, there it was. Carefully placed in the middle of my office was a red and yellow Tyco picnic table, benches and all! And for added effect, in the middle of the table sat a large box of crayons and a tent sign that read “Pastor Candie,” each letter written with a different color crayon. Steve loved to monkey around.

Last year during my sabbatical I was in Southeast Asia. Steve could not resist teasing me even from around the world. He sent me an email with a picture of my office door attached. A bright pink piece of paper covered my name plate, and on that paper was the name “Steve Ruckman.” The subtitle declared that he was in charge.

About nine months ago Steve was diagnosed with endocarcinoma. It was already fairly advanced, and the chemo and radiation treatments quickly zapped him of his energy and ability to get around and fix and lead and monkey around. On Tuesday, March 15, at 4:22 p.m., after a day with family and friends laughing and crying at his bedside, Steve entered the eternal kingdom.

So earlier today I presided over the memorial service to celebrate Steve’s life. We can do that because Steve knew Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior, and lived it plainly and simply. Steve is not dead. Steve is alive because that is what Christ promises in John 11. Because Jesus died and lives again, even though a person dies, he or she will live. This was my meditation text for his memorial service. That is what Easter is all about. We will also celebrate because Steve would have it no other way. He would want us laughing and joking. He would want us monkeying around. It’s likely that is what he is doing right now. He is enjoying being in the presence of God, and I am quite certain he is monkeying around with angels.