Monday, October 24, 2011

Before the Crown

Dear Lord, my bones are weak
My stomach’s filled with stones
I’ve been told you love the meek
But dear God, I’m so alone

Dear Son, I know your pain
I’ve borne the same disgrace
Be careful not to place the blame
Outside its proper place

Dear Lord, I know I oughtn’t
Point fingers and deride
But is this anguish all my fault?
Can I still in You confide?

Dear Son, you know me faithful
I always have been true
But you must be grateful
E’en when paths aren’t clear to you

Dear Lord, I’m losing strength
The world says that You’re wrong
It ridicules You at length
And I begin to feel I don’t belong

Dear Son, I love you everyday
I’ve held you close always
And this is where I mean to stay
Until one day I raise

Up above this broken shell
And ring in new life with golden bell
The stories shattered, this I know
But death will be dealt a final blow

I’m fighting still, though king I be
Stand by my side and slay with me
My enemies are not all gone
Death and hell still sing their song
Of hate and pain and lust and pride
Of all the souls to whom they lied
They make my demands seem hard and cruel
But this is their dance, their fiendish duel

You’ve turned and fled, hiding in the earth
Now the devil laughs his charmless mirth
Will you let him have the final joke?
Or will you let Me crush his throat?

I’ve had to pry open your hand
And take when you don’t understand
For how can I place in your palm,
A gift, a present or a psalm,
When you hold tight and won’t let go
And let me love on you bestow?

Dear Lord, I beg You to forgive me please
I was too willing my own pride to seize
I pray You now let me fall asleep
Let me breathe and dream and silence keep

Let me find peace in a life
That is not so filled with self and strife
Let me worship and bow down
Let me kneel before the crown

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Tales from the Nursing Home, Part III

Over the past year or two, I've written several times about my trips to and from a local nursing home that me and several of my friends attend every Tuesday evening in order to sing hymns and chat with the residents. Those first few visits were challenging because it was a new and scary thing; something that was definitely outside of my comfort zone. I have always had that struggle with not wanting to be pushed outside my little bubble. Everyone does, to some extent I believe, but mine took a few visits to get over.

After getting over the weirdness of being there, I began to rather enjoy going. We got to sing a lot of songs that I didn't get to sing in church anymore; old Baptist hymns and the like. I've actually never visited the home around Christmas time, but I'm sure carols are part of the repertoire. The residents were kind, loving, and almost always smiled ear to ear when we came in... although many of them didn't remember us I'm sure. The fact that we were there was enough.

But after about a year of visiting on a regular basis, it happened. I should have known that it was coming, this being a nursing home and all, but I had lied to myself for so long that it couldn't happen. People don't die. They just don't. I was a naive sod of a 20something. Our culture tells us that we will live forever, the next product will make you harder, better, faster, stronger. Buy this and you'll be a man, buy that and you'll have that perfect nerd appeal, put on this shirt and you'll get the ladies, watch this movie and you will finally fit in with the cool crowd. Death? Death is nowhere on the radar. Death is some sort of gag to be laughed at in the movies; not something that actually comes up and smacks you in the face when you are least expecting it.

There had been plenty of death in my past, but none of it had directly effected me. It had all happened behind closed doors and in dark corners... whispered about in hushed tones. Well I had just walked behind that closed door, I had brought a flashlight and I was listening very closely. Death could not remain a secret from me any longer.

Jim, one of the vocal Christians in the nursing home, whom I had seen attend my church more than once, was the first to go. He smiled the widest, laughed the brightest, and always thanked us whenever we were about to leave after singing. I felt his absence acutely. The next two that I saw fade and disappear were George and Marianne, a couple who were a transplant from Hungry. George had driven tanks in WWII, and they both loved to talk about how they met at a dance. They were never without each other, always clinging to the other's hand, never letting go. Marianne died in the late spring of this year... George managed to stick around for a week before he followed her.

After that, I couldn't bear to go to the home for quite some time. Months passed after I attended Jim's funeral, and I didn't go back. I had finally seen death's face, and I didn't want to look at it again anytime soon.

Summer came and went, as did money, friends, and the economy. Coming back for my senior year, I hadn't really thought about going back to the nursing home that much. That is until I was accosted on the street. Maybe 'accosted' is too strong a word, but I was approached. The guy who had been organizing and leading the singing at the home, himself having just got married, couldn't really take responsibility for coordinating the visits to the home anymore. He asked if I would be one of the regular attenders this year, and if so, would I be willing to actually lead the group, send out emails to invite people to come, etc. I told him I'd love to, and there I was... back at the nursing home every Tuesday.

The first challenge came in the form of trying to connect with the new residents. There are usually several categories of people there: (1) The people who don't know what's going on and love people, (2) The people who know what's going on but can't communicate it, and (3) the people who know what's going on, but are too filled with joy and Christ to care much about complaining. Jim fell into that last group, and my trips to the nursing home have never really been the same. I aspire to be like him when I am on my death bed.

But on my return to the home, I discovered a fourth type of resident: the person who knows exactly what is going on, and desperately needs to talk to someone about it. This came in the form of on Bonnie King, confined to the home because of an infection in her legs and no one wanted to take care of her. She had no mental defects that I could see, and from the first time we met she was very adamant in reminding me that she wasn't like "these people." She would gesture around her and point at the other residents, deaf, incoherent, needing love to be sure, but unable to communicate exactly what they needed on a hourly basis.

I first met Bonnie one Tuesday afternoon when I just walked up to one of the tables (we usually visit right as or after the residents are eating supper), plopped down a chair and began with my usual small talk.

"How are you all doing? How's your week been?" I asked in my best sunny day voice. Some nodded, some laughed, some said "just fine" and turned away. Bonnie mumbled under her breath.

"Big things, but can't talk... can't talk about them. Shouldn't talk about them."

I latch onto any verbal response I can get, so I pulled my chair in closer to Bonnie and asked, "Well, if you can't talk about those big things, can you at least talk about something?"

"Things aren't good," she looked at me pleadingly. Our relationship was on the fast track from there. After several minutes of talking with Bonnie, I got the impression that we were living in a 1984 world... where Big Brother was around every corner. She told me about financial pushing and rip offs, how the home owed several companies lots of money and then began jacking up prices for the residents. She detailed how little the workers in the home actually cared, how little they did to help the residents. She would quiet down or simply stop talking altogether when anyone else dared walk by, be they one of the workers, another resident, or even one of my peers come to bring some music and encouragement to the people sitting in the room.

The worst came right before we were going to sing though. While many of the things Bonnie tried to explain to me got convoluted and confused as she tried to explain them and I wouldn't understand, or she would lose track of where her train of thought was going... one part of the conversations stood out. Preceded by nothing, she gave the most damning critique of the home with her tears. She began crying and repeated over and over: "And I night, there's no one here. No other resident in my room... they're made for two people. At night I'm all alone... so alone..... so alone..."

I felt like a can of mace had just been released into my nostrils. I finally knew what was so wrong with this place. No one cares. I am often accused of caring too much; but I must admit, it does have its advantages. I go back and talk to Bonnie every week now. We just talk... about whatever she wants to talk about: politics, conspiracies, the hymns that we sing for the residents, my faith, her faith. And I resolve to never let this happen. My parents will be in my home till they die. They will not be alone. No one deserves to be alone. No one deserves to be abandoned.

JSTT

In the Spring...

"In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king's men and the whole Isrealite army. They destroyed the Ammonites and besieged Rabbah. But David remained in Jerusalem..." -2 Samuel 11:1

This is the precursor to King David's great sin--his adultery with Bathsheba and the murder of her husband, Uriah. The entire passage is prefaced with this thought: the simple fact that David was not where he was supposed to be. He begins the entire story with neglecting his duties, being lazy and abusing his power. How could things NOT go wrong?

Most great sins, I would argue, start this way. One bad decision deserves another afterall. Abraham let his wife get pawned off on a king not once... but TWICE, because he made the mistake of going into foreign lands and then lying about the relationship he had with Sarah; calling her his sister. Why did this happen? Because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time: Egypt, the anti-promised land.

But the opposite is also true. Take Samuel himself as an example. Right place at the right time with the right attitude. And so it goes throughout Scripture. Things do not start big. They progress, they escalate. Sins and victories both. They stack on top of each other. Make sure you are in the right place doing the right thing-- or you are going to get sucked down.