Letting Go: Email Loss

I have been blogger gone for the last few months. Changed ministries, changed houses (three times!) And now finally getting settled. So, I am returning to be an occasional blogger. Inspired by the change of email  from former ministry to this one I am contemplating loss and new beginnings. For a pastor it is more complicated. 

In days my email from my previous church will be taken down. After almost ten years there will be no more fpc.candie@. The “fpc” is for First Presbyterian Church of Downey, California. I finished this call the end of October 2012 and began a new call at San Clemente Presbyterian Church. For a variety of reasons it has taken almost five months to get to the place to shut the email down. I find myself a little sad about this. I know why. It is not about email. It is about deep relationships and dear people who I had the privilege of serving for almost ten years.

Professional pastoral ethics and just plain good ministry sense requires that when a pastor leaves a church they leave in such a way as to allow a new pastor to enter and begin to build relationships that will become deep and dear. It is clearly the ethical way and clearly good common sense. But that does not make it easy or any less of a loss for those who experience it. Good pastoral boundaries are easy to explain but very difficult to live out. Pastors are human. Pastors have needs. Pastors are invited into sacred and intimate places with people that bind in ways words can never adequately explain. When you have married and buried and baptized, laughed and cried at hospital bedsides and court-related proceeding you are joined with others in ways that can run much deeper than blood. And yet, in the beginning, we are invited because of a professional relationship that was established—called through a process to be a pastor. And at some point, long or short lived, we are called as a pastors to take leave—the professional relationship ends. A new one must begin. The relationships that run so deep must be given time and space to make room for another pastor to enter and thrive. The payroll and services provided end.  The advice and counsel ends. The officiating  of life events ends. The daily intersecting of lives ends. But the love and the deep connections do not end. Ever. They cannot because they are spiritually rooted and spiritually nurtured, and intended to build an eternal kingdom. It is just difficult navigating the “already but not yet” nature of these relationships that have a temporal beginning and ending, but are eternity bound.

This is my second time navigating these boundaries. The first time was easier because I moved 2000 miles away. This time I am only an hour away. It is more difficult. The Lord knows, I KNOW the principles! I am part of a group in our presbytery that provides oversight and support for these places in ministry. But as good boundary training teaches, boundaries are not always impenetrable brick walls. Sometimes they are more porous and more like bougainvillea bushes. I am grateful for the Presbyterian way of ministry that provides advice and counsel for pastors like me in these places. But I must switch roles from one who advises others to one who receives it. This, too, is not easy. Knowing it and living it are two very different realities.

As this old email shuts down, I am grateful I have a new email. I have a new ministry. I have new opportunities to grow deep and dear relationships in sacred spaces. All these, past and present, are gifts from above. Letting go means days of sadness, days of joy. There is sadness in the loss, but there is also joy in knowing these are friends forever. Just last week two couples from the very first congregation I served visited us here in Southern California. It was sweet reunion for sure. No brick walls. All bougainvillea! As the song by Michael W. Smith says, “Friends are friends forever/ If the Lord’s the Lord of them.”

Mercies in the Valley

I have been gone. This blog will explain why. I hope it will also encourage all who read it in their own journeys through the valley of the shadow of death.

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It is a deep numbness marked by frequent flashes of pain. To describe it is very difficult. To experience it is excruciating. In an instant giddiness turned to profound grief. One has to wonder about all the capability of modern medicine and its machinery.

We were at an optional (you pay extra) ultrasound to “see” our grandson now almost five months along in utero. Our kids were pretty sure the baby was a boy, but this image would be definitive at five months. We had seen the DVD of the last ultrasound done a month earlier. The technicians can enhance the sonogram image and make it 3-D. They put the whole thing to music and even watching the DVD was quite emotional for me. This little baby, my grandson, not yet five inches in length, was exercising his arms and legs. But it was just a DVD.

Now our daughter and her husband invited us to come with them for this amazing experience in real time. The anticipation was palpable. This technology would allow us to see this little life still in our daughter’s womb. We were all in the room as the technician projected the ultrasound image on the wall larger than life. Almost immediately I sensed something was wrong. The heartbeat we heard was slow, not the rapid heartbeat of an unborn little boy. And the little guy was not moving. It looked like he was sleeping. I wondered, “Do babies sleep in the womb?” I could not remember. The technician had our daughter roll on her side to see if perhaps she could arouse the little man and get a better sound. It did not take long to see this produced nothing more. And then the fateful words came. “Guys, I cannot find a heartbeat. You need to go to the hospital,” she said. And then silence and she left the room. She was just a technician after all, and obviously not trained professionally to deliver such news. No matter the words or how they were delivered, we were all in shock. It happened so quickly. One second we were waiting to see this precious child squirm and to hear that unmistakable sound of life—his rapid heartbeat. The next second we were in grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression—all at once overwhelming our consciousness. I thought I might pass out. Our dear daughter and son-in-law, these wonderful and anxious young parents were suddenly slammed down into the deepest fear and grief. You have to wonder about the capability of modern medicine and its machinery.

It was later confirmed at the hospital. We had lost our dear little December baby. We were not prepared for this. We thought we were past “the time” when these things happen. The following day our daughter’s wonderful doctor confirmed the technicians words but with extraordinary bedside manners. He explained in detail to us all that had likely happened and all that lay ahead of them. He kept apologizing. Regularly, he stopped and said, “I am so sorry I have to tell you these things. “ It was profoundly comforting because he was sincerely communicating that he had some clue about how very difficult this must be for them. Still through it all, now 20 hours later, the numbness was profound. And the occasional flashes of pain seemed to be going deeper. I felt somehow like I was drowning, submerged and unable to get to the surface for air. I was hoping it was a dream and that any moment I might wake up.

It was not a dream. The grief and pain was real. The next day our precious daughter and son-in-law were admitted to the family center to be induced to give birth to their son who the doctor estimated had died sometime in the past week. The sight and sound of live babies were everywhere. The doctor apologized for this, too, but explained the concern now was for our daughter’s health, and her best care could be provided in this place.

The sadness is too deep and raw for me to write much more detail about all that transpired after she was admitted. But in the midst of all the sorrow and pain the mercies of God were scattered all around. We had prayed for two things: as quick a delivery as possible (the doctor had said it could take anywhere from 8-30 hours!), and safety for our daughter. Of course we prayed for strength to make it through, too, but we were certain God would provide this. We had no guarantee of the other requests. Though we know we will need much more of God’s mercies in the days and months ahead, we are profoundly grateful for God’s mercy shown to us. The body of my grandson was delivered just under eight hours after our daughter was induced. And 72 hours after the tragedy began, our daughter was home and resting comfortably with every indication that physically she will heal well.

Our daughter and son-in-law named him Elijah Evan. It means “My God is the Lord.” Our God is Lord. And the Lord’s mercies were all around us. We are profoundly thankful for family close enough to gather together. We cried a lot, but there were also moments of laughter--one of God’s greatest creative medicines. We have been blessed with top of the line adult children who have chosen top of the line life partners—a priceless mercy. Immense mercies in the prayers of family and friends near and far poured over us like fresh rain and the wonders of modern communication meant that we knew of these mercies moment my moment. Throughout the ordeal, the Word of God dwelling in us richly and called to mind by God’s ever present Spirit reminded us regularly of God’s promises. All of these mercies will continue to accompany us in the days ahead.

This is not the blog I had planned to write about my grandson that was due in December. It is the blog that has come. Written through tears I am reminded that the Psalmist says that God stores our tears up in a bottle—valuing each one (56:8). And I am reminded that Jesus loves the little children and the Lord knows us by name before we are ever formed in our mother’s womb (Jer. 1:5). Though we will wait a very long time to hold Elijah Evan, we are confident that he is in the arms of his heavenly father. A dear friend reminded me of another mercy. My father who passed away five years ago and was absolutely baby-crazy, has surely found him and will likely be holding and rocking Elijah Evan for us.

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.