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.

The Power of Story

Some 300,000 Allied and American soldiers were captured and imprisoned by the Japanese in the Pacific during World War II. One in three perished. There were a lot more POW’s in the European theatre but only one in thirteen perished there. These are just historical facts. Interesting but no one except history buffs get too excited about the statistics.

My father was one of the 300,000 captured in the Pacific, and he was one of the 200,000 that survived. He was severely malnourished and diseased but he survived. The doctors said he would never be able to have children because of the damage done by those three and a half years. The doctors were wrong. I am one of his five children. And not only did my father survive and have children, he thrived and raised a family that now numbers forty-one, with more on the way. I am passionate about telling his story.

My father survived the Bataan Death March, two POW camps and a prison infirmary in the Philippines, a hell ship transport, and forced labor in a copper mine in northern Japan. His three-and-a-half-year ordeal as a prisoner of war is a story of the power and grace of God combined with the determination and hope of a young man. All of a sudden people are very interested in and emotionally moved by this POW story. Why? Because it is a personal story and not just a historical fact. Personal stories are powerful. When told with passion and detail they engage people in quite remarkable ways.

First, personal stories can introduce the listener to a real person. When told well, the audience feels like they come to know the person. Second, personal stories can cause the listener to remember stories of their own. Emotional connection with another person’s story brings to mind experiences of their own and re-engagement with their past. Third, personal stories can inspire listeners to engage more fully in the present. When people experience deep emotion related to real-life experiences of others, they are inspired to experience life more deeply in the present.

This past week I have been telling my father’s POW story, and the response is quite remarkable. People of all ages and stages of life experience my father as a person and express significant appreciation for who he was. People of all ages and stages also open up and begin telling their own stories that are equally engaging. Many of the stories I have been told in the last week have never been told before. Hearing my father’s story encouraged them to tell theirs. And people of all ages and stages expressed a desire to engage more fully in the present—appreciating family and friends, and making the most of whatever life they have to live.

I love telling my father’s story. I love it because it reconnects me to him even though he died five years ago. But I also love telling my father’s story because of the way it impacts those who hear it. The multiplication potential is incalculable. I especially love that my father’s story encourages others to tell their stories too. Personal stories are powerful. The more people telling them, the more life will be enriched for all who tell and all who hear.

It's Just So Hard

I meet people all the time who are stuck in the past. Almost everything they say is about the good old days or about their disdain for the present. Granted there are so many things in history worth remembering and sharing and there is also much to disdain in the present. Yet it seems the more a person is enamored with the past the less engaged they are with enjoying the present or shaping the future, and, the more likely they are to disdain most everything about the present.

On the other hand, I meet people all the time who have no appreciation for history whatsoever. For many of them “history” is what they did last night. They are so self-absorbed and focused on their own very small, egocentric, present world that they are hardly aware of the amazing stories of the past, personal or corporate. They know little about history and care even less.

Still another kind of person I often encounter is crabby on the past and the present. They have no appreciation for the past and are completely unsatisfied with the present. They are waiting for the future thinking it will take care of their deep and abiding dissatisfaction with life. As a result they are literally wasting their future moment by moment. For these folks there is no future, only the ever present emptiness of the now.

It is just so hard to find the balance. So few people I meet are able to fully appreciate the richness of knowing and learning from history, both individual and corporate, while at the same time living fully in the present and reaching with enthusiasm toward the future. It seems the human condition is predisposed to focus on one to the exclusion of the others. It is just so hard to find a balance.

Just this past Sunday I spoke with folks in all three conditions. Our congregation is celebrating 125 years. There is so much in the history of this church to celebrate. But there is also so much going on right now and every indication that the future has incredible mission potential. The now is very different than the past. The congregation has changed dramatically from the 50s, 60s, and 70s, when it was a predominantly upper middle class professional church. In 1969 it began a 30 year decline. Members who have stayed through the glory and the decline to secure a different future, have self-described their past as self-absorbed. The church is now a growing and very diverse multicultural congregation that is enthusiastically looking forward to a very different future.

During this past Sunday’s celebration, I spoke with a woman who is still mourning the loss of the church it was in the past and as a result has found no faith community to satisfy her. I was saddened by hearing her describe her failed attempts at finding a faith community. Nothing can compare to what she had. I spoke with another person who is so wrapped up in their immediate experience of faith that they have almost no awareness of how important the past has been in bringing them to where they are. And they had no desire to wonder about the future in order to allow it to influence their present. And I spoke with a young man who is blinded to the rich offerings of both the past and the present and is waiting for some unidentifiable future time when everything he longs for will be realized.

Thank God I heard from a person who knows balance! This man was able to speak clearly of the beauty and pain of the past and understand its importance to his present and future. Yet he also seems totally engaged in the moment, talking excitedly about what God is doing in his life right now. He has an infectious enthusiasm for the future even though he does not know exactly what it will hold for him. He simply trusts the God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever!

The scripture consistently calls us to this balance. We are to remember the stories of God’s dealings with Israel because they are examples for us (1 Cor. 10), and to embrace the great cloud of witnesses (Heb. 12). We are exhorted to not worry about tomorrow because today is demanding enough on our energies (Matt. 6). But we are also told that a wise person plans for the future (Luke 14:25-34).

It’s just so hard. I love hearing stories from the past and can get so caught up in them that I lose any sense of time in the present. But I want to be fully present now. I want to seize every moment in such a way that it builds a future that is full of hope and possibility. And I want to take time to think about and plan for the future so that it does not catch me unprepared. I want to live a balanced life and not get stuck. I want to honor the past, embrace the present, and reach for the future. It’s just so hard.