The long trip home

Growing up, we lived “5 hours from anywhere”.  Obviously, that’s not exactly true, since where we lived was somewhere and that place was glorious and beautiful with the largest hospital locally, plus Kmart and JC Penny’s.  As far as remote small towns go, we were in the big leagues.  But, to get to a big city was 5 hours (with appropriate potty stops for us children).  But one year (1993? 1994?) we were “down south” (in the Los Angeles area) visiting my grandparents and getting ready for the 5 hour drive home.  It was my mom, my sister and me in my mother’s faux wood paneled station wagon. 

 

 We left Pasadena after breakfast and it was raining pretty hard.  My mom was driving on the freeway and the lanes were full (of cars and water) so she was pretty focused on staying in her lane when she couldn’t see the lines, when all of the sudden an Arrowhead water truck lost one of its empty 5 gallon bottles. My mom didn’t have any choice but to run it over and the bottle, being fairly large, got stuck under the station wagon. So she carefully pulled off to the side of the road.  It was the time before cell phones, so I imagine she walked to one of those yellow call boxes and called AAA.  It took them an hour to come and then just hit the bottle with a hammer and pulled it out so we could be on our way. 

 

We drove about an hour north before we got to Mojave, the last “real stop” before the long drive through the desert.  Despite being a real town, it was relatively small and you could normally drive from one end to the other in less than 5 minutes. Only this time, it was starting to snow (which it rarely did) and traffic dragged at a snail’s pace.  It took us 45 minutes to get to the other side of Mojave and as soon as we picked up the pace heading on the highway, we saw at least 4” of accumulated snow on the side of the road.  And we didn’t get to accelerate. She just made her way on yet another weather covered road where she couldn’t see the lines. 

 

My mom pressed on even as night drew and the snow continued to pile up, the roads became covered in white and we saw more and more big rigs parked on the side of the road.  My mom would drive what she could and stop where she could safely. It was slow driving with no chains and no plowed roads.  I’m sure my sister and I were in and out with sleep but there were parts I remember (like when we passed Coso Junction and she honked and honked at their lights and signs of life at the little rest stop).  I don’t know the exact time we arrived home, only that we did the math and it had taken us 14 hours to do that 5 hour trip and when I stepped out of the car there was snow up to my thighs.  

 

It was the trip that beat all trips in terms of hardships, challenges and time.  

 

 

 

A memory of Uncle Jerry

 Over the years the Camphouse siblings would often share hosting opportunities for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The Langleys, Colemans and Camphouses lived within an hour of each other and Christmas dinner was sometimes a big shared meal.  One year when I was in 1^st or second grade we hosted.  That meant cleaning and cooking and getting ready.  It also meant my mom (who was notorious for such things) came up with a special activity for everyone wherein we each drew a name of a family member and shared something kind that we appreciated about them.

 

That activity remains etched in by brain for how embarrassed I was when my mom helped me share with my older cousin.  It also stayed with me for later in that night when Uncle Jerry invited me to the living room where we sat on the big white couch and he told me how special I was to him, how valued and important.  I don’t remember the specific words. But I remember how he made me feel and it’s been a treasure I’ve picked up often over the years.  He gave me a great gift of love and encouragement and he fostered it when we saw each other for other reasons as I grew up.  

 

I remember him as someone who was always kind. He never raised his voice to me or around me.  He was gentle.  He was a story teller and a slow talker—a combination I was often impatient for as a child and grew to love as an adult.  

 

My heart broke at having to say goodbye, and yet I am forever grateful that the timing of our trip to California lined up with his time in the hospital so we could and say goodbye. I held his hand. I prayed for him. I anointed him with oil. I kissed his head and shared my love.  I am sad for his absence, and I am grateful for the ways his love and stories fill my heart.  

Grief Fatigue

 When I was pregnant I would experience periods of extreme fatigue where nearly every day, generally sometime in the afternoon, I would become so tired I could barely function. The only solution was to lie down and take a nap.  Now, I’m not pregnant. But a few times outside of pregnancy I’ve experienced that prolonged sense of fatigue and I haven’t been able to kick it or figure it out.  In January of 2017, I had that. It went on so long without reprieve I asked my prayer group to lift me up and a couple suggested I go see a doctor and maybe have my thyroid checked. My doctor checked me out and things looked normal. As she asked me questions I began to share and started talking about losing my mom 6 months earlier and my grief and then it burst. I just started crying and had this moment of clarity.  It wasn’t my thyroid. It was grief. With that awareness I started doing more to actively grieve (psa: grief isn’t just crying or being sad, there are lots of ways to actively grieve—things you can do—to help move through the emotions of your loss). And lo and behold with awareness and intentionality my state of being improved. 

 

And then it happened again. I was still a little slow on the uptake, but multiple days of that weighty fatigue I’d ask myself, “what is going on with me?” And then slowly it would come, “Maybe it’s grief.” I’d find it was around birthdays and anniversaries….my body was remembering even when my mind was not.  Again I’d engage some of those grieving practices and again I’d find relief.  

 

Over the years I’ve found the most effective practice for me is telling stories about the one I miss.  

 

Last month was a really hard month with lots of things coming to a head and a pretty extended illness (not covid). I thought I’d be able to regroup on vacation (and in many ways I did) and at the same time we said goodbye to my dear uncle, and we entered the anniversary month for my mother’s death.  

 

I’ve been so so tired.  I sleep at night. I eat well. I exercise. I drink water.  And still so much fatigue, sometimes where I simply can’t do anything other than lie down and try and nap.  I wonder how I might get better and then I remind myself…it’s likely grief. You need to tell some stories.  

 

So, in an effort to heal my heart and spirit I’ll be telling stories.  I’ll keep them on my blog (even though I hardly ever blog anymore) for myself and anyone else who might want to read some.  

Muscle memory

 Grief is a funny thing.  For me, it has this sneaky subtle presence.  I don’t just fall apart in tears.  Instead, most often I fall asleep. I just get so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. And, I don’t normally associate my fatigue with grief. I just assume I’m tired because of life.  Lately, I assume I’m tired because of pandemic life. And, let’s be real, part of pandemic life is grief over all the things that can’t be right now.  

 

This last week I’ve been tired. Like ready for a nap at 9am kind of tired.  Granted, I get up at 5, but still naps at 9am aren’t normal for me.  I wasn’t sure what was up but try to eat right, take my vitamins, keep exercising and listen to my body.  

 

And then yesterday I got a text “thinking about you today. I love you.” And it took me a minute. She’s a friend, so it wasn’t that weird…but why that day in particular? Oh, August 24^th….the day my mom died.  And then it hit me…my fatigue was likely my grief speaking.  

 

An hour or two later my sister messaged me, she wasn’t going to do anything for the day and she was preparing to tell her family they were on their own for lunch.  So I asked, “does it have anything to do with mom?” Oh…I hadn’t thought about that…maybe? 

 

Four years out and my mom’s death isn’t ask breath taking as it used to be.  But it’s still hard and even if my mind is too distracted to remember, my body isn’t. My body remembers, which is so weird that somehow rooted in my muscle memory is the pain of that loss.  

 

My sister asked what I was going to do about it. I said I felt I should lean into it, but had other things to do, so maybe I’d just get things done and then come back to it.  Which is pretty much what I did…or tried to do…because that dang blanket of fatigue is so heavy and at times during the day I just couldn’t. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t get up and go for a walk. I couldn’t do more. 

 

But resting and sleeping don’t actually fix the fatigue of grief. I actually have to do something to actively grieve, and the thing that has helped me the most is to write. I write about my mom. I write about what I miss. I write about the weight of it all, and somehow the words that I write, or type, pull some of the weight from my body to the page.  

 

We have a portal in the living room and when I walk into the room it activates and shows the pictures I’ve posted on Facebook—currently lots of pictures from our recent trip. Our trip home. Our trip to see family.  And pictures with some of those we love and were able to see.  But no pictures of my mom. Of course not. That’s obvious after 4 years.  But pictures were her thing. She loved taking pictures and back in the age of film we would sit or stand in place FOREVER until everyone cooperated and smiled like they were supposed to.  And she would insist on family pictures on major holidays. And she would insist on grandkid pictures with the grandparents.  And for years it was annoying and frustrating, especially when certain family members were less than cooperative.  Ahem.  You know who you are and I am not naming names. 

 

And my heart aches because I wish my mom were here. I wish my kids knew her—like really got to know her and enjoy her. She would have doted on them because that’s who she was. And she would have been able to help us when we fall short as parents and don’t know what to do. And she could have helped us come up with a plan for this hybrid school year that feels so likely to go south and be all online. But she’s not here. 

 

And yet she does help. Who she was and how she raised us and the things she taught us…those are in my muscle memory too.  I think part of the reason I can forget the date of her death is because she was an amazing mom and we had a solid relationship.  Sure, we had our issues, but they weren’t profound or harmful.  So I can hold the goodness of who she was without open wounds, or tender scars, or words left unsaid.  I knew she was dying and I got to say goodbye. And she taught me in such a way that I was able to help Ruth say goodbye over the phone too. My mom wasn’t conscious, so that wasn’t the point. The point was helping Ruth learn how to let someone go and release them into the arms of God.  She was only 5, so she doesn’t remember it well, but it was there…a healthy muscle memory that will hopefully help the next time we have to say goodbye.  

 

I never know quite where these stream of consciousness writings will take me. I try to just follow it and let the words come, and then stop when they don’t.  So here we are, stopping without conclusion.  

 

 

If I had known

I miss my mom.  My grief comes in unexpected waves now, and today happens to be one of those days where I really miss her.  It was 3 years ago that we learned we would be moving to Moscow Idaho and leaving my parents in California.  Leaving them was the hardest part of our decision. Over 8 years they had spent a lot of time with us. At first, visiting about every 6 weeks. Then, as my mom’s health got worse and she had more appointments in Los Angeles, they were with us for months at a time.  And then, all of the sudden, we weren’t going to be there.  And in two more months, my dad would take my mom from our house in Valencia to a care facility in San Gabriel.  It would be the last time I hugged or saw my mom in person.  When it happened, I knew it could be the last, that she wasn’t well and the doctors weren’t doing much, but even though I knew it mightbe, I don’t think I dared to believe it would be.  I have to think that if I had known, for sure, that I would have hugged her longer, been more effusive in telling her how important she was to me and showing her my love.  I look back at pictures from those months and wish I had taken more pictures.  She wasn’t in great shape, she was super heavy and couldn’t get up to walk or shower regularly.  And it didn’t really seem like something worth capturing in a picture, but what I didn’t realize or even think about was how few pictures I would have of her with me, or with my kids from those months. And since Steven was only a baby at the time, there would be far too few pictures of them together—despite her deep love for him and the fact that he would have absolutely adored her. It’s nothing I can change now, and isn’t the worst thing that could have been, but it is certainly something I grieve now.  I tried to do it all without regrets—caring for her, helping my dad, having her at our house, visiting her in the care facility—but there were some things I simply couldn’t see to make a different choice.  

2 year anniversary

Dear Mom,

I miss you. A LOT. Some days it feels like I could just call you up and ask your advice, or that we'll see you on the next visit. And other days I get hit with a ton of bricks...you're not here and you won't be here. And I should have appreciated you more. Seen all that you did with greater clarity. And Lord knows I should have asked more questions. You were so smart. So learned. You understood people and systems and things. And I wish I had you here. I don't have another you. 

Grief stinks. Ok, so maybe it doesn't. It helps you move through all the emotions and remember  the people you love. it can humble you. Teach you. And make you more grateful. It can even help you live better, more appreciative for what you've lost, more attentive to those you still have. The part that stinks is the losing. More specifically the losing and not getting back.  

Friday was two years since you'd died. Approaching the anniversary didn't feel so bad. Even the day of was OK. Until the fatigue hit...the one that marks my grief in an odd way. I'd expect uncontrollable tears, but those only come when I write. Instead my grief comes as this crazy thick fatigue where I can barely keep my eyes open. I'm sure if you were here you'd know the science and physiology of it to explain it all to me. But instead I have my questions still unanswered.

 

Doing it all again

I’m not really sure what’s lurking. Only that I’m perpetually tired….like really tired. Like ready for bed by 8 tired.  Last night it was ready to sleep at 6 tired, but I have kids, so that didn’t really work out.  And it may just be that I’m tired. But since my mom died, I’ve learned that crazy tired is actually a sign of unacknowledged grief. So, my guess is that somewhere there’s a pocket of emotion that’s built up and keeps sapping my energy. And the best way I've found to find it is to write....

I’m not really sure what it might be exactly, only that I miss my mom.  I wish I could do Christmas with her again.  Last year was hard, but it didn’t feel hard, I guess because I was expecting it to be hard.  But this year, the grief feels worse.  I remember a woman from my second church whose husband had died.  She said, “The first year of grief sucks, but the second year is so much worse because you have to do it all over again.  I mean, you get through the first Christmas, birthday, anniversary, etc without them, and then you have to do it all again.”

It seems insanely obvious that after someone dies you would have to do all the things without them from that day on, year after year, and that’s true.  But it’s hard to do the work of grief, the expressions and the deep deep feeling, only to realize despite your best efforts, there’s more deep stuff and sadness there.  

So there’s both a deep longing—one where I wish she were here, where the decorations are mostly all a reminder of her…the table cloth she bought me, the napkins, the Christmas dishes, the “our first home” ornament, the clothes, the symbols…so much of it beckoning forth her memory and she’s not here to enjoy it or share it.  And there’s a deep sadness, an emptiness because of her absence.  And frankly, it’s exhausting.  

Yesterday we received a package that included See’s candy. That’s a special treat up here since there aren’t See’s stores nearby.  And See’s was always a favorite of my grandma and my mom.  So when I open the box to enjoy some candy, I’m inclined to offer some to my mom, or save some for when she gets here.  Only she’s not here and she won’t be coming…not again, not ever.  

And there’s the grief.  Hard and fast and strong and deep.  I miss her.  I wish I could talk to her. Appreciate her more.  Ask more questions. Learn more things.  But I can only pull from my memories, and those of others who know and love and remember her. And, for today, that’s the best I can do.  

Susie's Surprise

This is a classic in our house…the stories…not the recipes.  lol.  I can hardly say “Susie’s surprise” without laughing. And if you have my brother, sister, and or dad and I together, we can generally all start to giggle, at least a little, at the memories.  

Let me start by saying my mom was a good cook. She cooked a lot of meals for all of us for a lot of years.  Most of those very good meals left no imprint on my brain.  I’m sorry mom.  

The meals that will live forever (in infamy) are those called “Susie’s Surprise”.  These were generally meals that came together as my mom tried to use up leftovers and clean out the fridge.  Maybe mom’s downfall was that she could find a use for just about anything…including a montage of food.  

I was particularly mindful of Susie’s Surprise yesterday as I excitedly planned meals to use our ham leftovers from Easter. I could make fried rice, mac-n-cheese and ham, split pea soup, quiche and navy bean soup.  I look forward to each of those meals and consider each of them fairly normal in the food categories.  I’m certain my mom made similar meals with left overs.  Sadly, I don’t remember those.  

I can’t even tell you all the weird Susie’s surprise concoctions she made. Just that they were weird.  Really weird.  Not like pot pie, or fried rice, or turkey soup….weird…like some odd combination of already combined foods (like casseroles) re-combined to be a “Surprise!”  I do remember a salad with all kinds of things including tuna, olives, and kidney beans.  I’m not even sure what else.  None of us were thrilled to eat it and we definitely thought it was too weird to be shared with the neighbor.  Sorry Ada.  

Spirit of Helping

My mom was a helper. She enjoyed filling a need and could step in to most any task at any point and help it be successful.  Do you need a cook? She could do that. Do you need a florist? She could do that! Do you need a childcare provider? She could do that. Do you need a prayer person? She could do that.  Do you need a scripture reader? She could do that. Do you need your pants hemmed? She could do that.  She could do most anything and she would to help most anybody.

My list of the ways she helped me over the years could go on and on (and probably should).  But in this Holy Week, I am thinking of her help in leading worship.  My first appointment was to Hemet UMC. In my first year, I was assigned to leading Palm/Passion Sunday.  Liturgically, the Sunday before Easter can go either way...focused on Palm Sunday or focused on the Passion.  I hated to choose.  I didn't want to skip Palm Sunday and I hated that people wouldn't come to Maundy Thursday or Good Friday and wanted them to have to sit with the sorrow of the Passion.  So, I did "Palm to Passion Sunday" and used the liturgy to explore the various events of that week.  The final element was to turn off the lights and hammer nails into a cross and let the sound echo in the sanctuary.  Then it was silent.

My mom was there for that service and was more than happy to help. So she hammered the nails.  The liturgy had been powerful and then the darkness, the silence, the hammering, and more silence, it really spoke to people.  And I remember how it spoke to her and how even in the busyness of orchestrating the liturgy, she was touched.  I am grateful she was always supportive of my ministry and willing to lend a hand in so many ways.

For the saints

On October 6th of 2016, we held a gathering of saints (yes, the living ones) to say goodbye to my mom. It was held at my home church, Bishop First UMC.  And, truth be told, it was an amazing reunion of beautiful people from my mom's life. There was family from all over the country and there were friends dating back to her childhood. Over the years, her friends, of course, became our friends and extended family.  There were people from every stage of my life.  People we had traveled with, camped with, done 4th of July with, worshipped with, done mission work with, done ministry with, prayed with, and shared many many meals with.  They were the people who helped form and shape me--pastor, Sunday School teacher, my mom's prayer partners, aunts, uncles, teachers, and more.  They comprise the tapestry of my childhood (and beyond).  


I'm not sure I can properly convey how precious it was to hug them and tell them hi.  And I so wished my mom could have been there to enjoy it. She would have adored having time with each of them. She easily could have talked until midnight as she caught up with each and every one. 

I am so very thankful for each of these people and the love they have shared with my family over the years.  And I am thankful for my mom who loved them and nurtured relationships that span a lifetime.  

Give of Yourself

Mom was always thinking of others. Always.  I don’t know that she knew another way of operating.  (One ironic and poignant example was when she was needing to be up and walking and exercising in order to gain back strength.  Yet, we could barely find a single way to motivate her.  At the same time my husband was needing to push himself to do more exercise.  In true Sue fashion, she volunteered to do a measure of walking for every measure of walking Rick did.  They weren’t equal, but in an attempt to encourage and motivate him, she offered to be an exercise buddy of sorts.  She wasn’t ready to do it for herself. But she was ready to do it for him.).  She always was thinking about how to do what would be good for another.  

One particular blessing she gave me was when I was a new mom with Ruth home from the hospital.  Each night I would nurse her and then my mom would take her and rock her for a few hours until she was ready to nurse again. Then she would bring Ruth into my room so I could nurse and put her down.  You could argue it was selfish (or at least not totally self-less) since she got to hold her granddaughter.  But her true motivation was to help me and let me get some good sleep.  Sure, she enjoyed it, but she was thinking of me.  

I am grateful for that gift and the memory of her holding Ruth and rocking her to sleep.   

Do the unexpected

As a parent, my mom was wonderful because she was consistent and, in most ways, predictable.  If you were refusing to finish your dinner, she would ask you your age and after you replied, say "5", that was how many bites she assigned (if you were particularly lacking, she might assign 5 bites of meat, and 5 bites of vegetables.  But, it was still consistent (and seemingly fair since 5 is a good number for 5 year olds).  Similarly, if you were acting out, you might earn 5 minutes of time out (unless you were 8, then it would be 8).  It was predictable and consistent.  It wasn't based on how well or poorly her day had gone, but on a specific strategy of parenting.

Then, sometimes, she would do something totally unexpected. Like the one time she served us waffle cone bowls and let us make ice cream sundaes for dinner. Not dessert. That was dinner.  Once.  It only happened once, but man did it stick!  It was a beautiful thing.

She did special things for us and by making them out of the ordinary, they became extraordinary and that was awesome!

Remembering the markers

Happy anniversary!  

Today would have been this lovely couple's 46th anniversary.  

I can hardly imagine what it would be like to spend the day, after over 46 years together, without your beloved.  What I do know is that they shared a lot of love over the years, both with each other and with others.  In 2015, then into 2016, she spent about 6 months in rehab, then a little time in the sun in San Diego before heading home. They'd only been home a couple of days and she still managed to arrange a surprise party/dinner with friends at a local restaurant.  She loved to plan surprises (though really preferred to anticipate the joy for herself), to buy gifts, and to spend time with friends.  

I'm grateful for the amazing example of love, care, support, encouragement, trust, generosity, and service that I have in my parents.  They didn't fight in front of us.  They communicated regularly and openly. They were intentional in showing love in various *languages. They proved that marriage takes work and it's worth it.

Parenting advice

Parenting is hard work. If you’re a parent, you know that.  If you’re not, you should know why the parents around you are exhausted and sometimes at their wits-end!  There is love, snuggles, cuteness, and laughter—all of which are awesome.  And there are tantrums, power struggles, food battles, and learning wars that are not so awesome.  

I have to say my parents (yes, both of them) are amazing, stellar, cream of the crop parents.  They are amazing people too. But as parents, they rocked it.  They were consistent, even keel, affirming, loving, kind, and a wonderful example.  I cannot remember one instance where either of them yelled. Not once.  As a parent myself, that’s pretty miraculous.  I wish I could say the same about myself as a parent.  Instead I’ll just say I’m a work in progress.  

Before I was a parent, I was a youth leader, youth counselor and youth pastor. I worked with teens at summer camp and in the church for years. And from time to time I would need advice about how to work with one.  Regularly, I’d call my parents to ask for their input.  Almost without fail, if I asked my dad, he’d say something like, “You should ask your mother; I learned everything I know from her.” And he’d pass the phone to my mom.  

Always, she’d have an answer. She was an educator who had both her masters and extensive continuing education training.  She and my dad took ELEVEN parenting classes before my brother was born.  (He was the firstborn).  ELEVEN classes.  That’s a lot.  I mean, parenting is hard, I get that, I’m grateful I’ve had 3 classes.  I could benefit from 11, maybe it’d help the yelling thing…anyway.  She knew a lot. She understood behavior from a developmental perspective, as well as a social one, and even an intelligence level one.  She could identify the underlying issues and offer a dozen options for how to handle it and work with the student.  

And then once I had Ruth, she continued to offer good wisdom.  It’s a bit different as a grandparent because you don’t want to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong (or isn’t solicited) and as a parent you don’t want to be seen as a failure (or at least that’s my issue) and so you (I) don’t always ask for advice when you should.  

In January we started a new stage, it’s super *fun*.  I don’t know which stage it is exactly…my mom would have been the one to tell me that.  But it’s where my kid asserts her independence by ignoring, arguing, or defying most every bit of instruction I give.  I wish I understood it so I had more patience for it.  And, I wish I had my mom’s dozen options for how to curb it before it drives me insane.  

I miss her. I wish I could call.  It makes me sad she’s not on the other end of a phone ready to answer.  But it also makes me grateful that I was raised by someone so amazing.  

Missing My Mom

My grief has been hitting particularly hard.  The day my mom passed, I sobbed. Hard. For a long time.  While her death wasn’t unexpected, it was unreal that she was actually gone.  And then I quickly fell into the doing…thinking about her service, writing liturgy, helping sort at the house.  The busy work of grief.  And I didn’t feel it much.  I missed her, but it didn’t sting like grief often does.  And then January came and my grief hit like a ton of bricks.  Grief is funny that way. It comes in all kinds of shapes and sizes, often unpredictably for things we’d never imagine.  

I’ve been remembering a lot and savoring various memories.  And still the sadness lingers.  And that’s ok. I’d certainly tell someone I counsel at the church that it’s ok to be sad.  At the same time, I hope for something beyond the sadness.  So, I thought I’d start writing and sharing memories, hoping that something more fruitful might happen, or at least that it would provoke the tears to do the healing work. 

It will likely be a series of posts, memories and lessons from my mom.  I like assonance as a communication tool, so I’ll stick with “Momma Mondays” and share my stories of her.  

Cheer for them all

Yesterday Ruth had the "Turkey Trot" at school.  The kids (k-5) are divided into teams with a child from each grade.  Then each grade group is taken one at a time to run their leg of the race.  At "go!" They run the perimeter of the school yard and as they finish they're given a popsicle stick with their finishing place (Ruth got 11th out of nearly 75 kindergarteners). Each grade level runs together and at the end,  their stick numbers are added up to find the team with the lowest score. 

The night before we were talking to Ruth about it and encouraging her.  She, of course, wanted to win the free turkey,  which we said would be great,  but we offered that the most important thing would be for her to be a good team mate and cheer for her team no matter what. 

As the kids gathered and lined up,  they were full of excitement and anticipation.  When they were called, the kindergarteners ran up the hill to the starting point.  And then when the coach yelled "go!" They charged down the hill and along the path. And I started to cry. I have no idea why.  Maybe their exuberance?  Their joy?  Their little legs running?  And then I saw Ruth about 3/4 of the way back running along.  And I cried more.  She just kept running and she kept passing other kids and got all the way up to 11th. My heart burst with joy. I was so proud of her. 

As she ran by me I shouted, "Go Ruthie, go! You can do it!  Keep going!" And it was like hearing my mother straight out of my mouth.  She was a cheerleader.  Not the pom pom kind (though she acquired those along the way) but the cheer-them-on loud,  crazy kind.  She cheered and she cheered for everyone. And she just kept cheering right from my heart for all the kids behind Ruth.  "Good job guys! You can do it!  Keep it up!  You're doing great!  You're almost there! Just a little farther!"

And my heart bust with pride for how my mom cheered on everyone and it broke with grief that she is gone.  It made me miss her so much.  And it made me overwhelmingly grateful for her example and who she raised me to be. 

I hate to say it

Lots of people ask how I'm doing in dealing with my mom's death.  Most of the time I can say "I'm fine" or "About like you'd expect." And when I do I can keep it together and hardly feel the weight of the grief. I'm good at compartmentalizing and at deflecting. It's a practiced art. But sometimes I'm forced to name it outloud. I'll be sharing with someone who doesn't know and I'll have to say it.  Actaully say it.

"My mom died this summer."

And that's when it's hard.  That's when it's really real and I can't just gloss over it and pretend I'll be able to call her up tomorrow.  And I hate it.  I hate to say it because then the wall that holds all those emotions at bay cracks wide open and there they are in all their teary snotty splendor.

And yet as much as I hate it,  I know it's important and necessary and good. ..it's a part of the grief.  And my reality,  our reality,  is she's gone.  She's not with us.  She's not there for advice,  or support, or encouragement. And I hate that even more than I hate saying it. 

Saying goodbye to a saint

Today we had to say goodbye to my beloved mother, Sue Camphouse.  We weren’t surprised by her passing as she has struggled with her health for a couple of years now; and was recently diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, and just this week took a turn for the worst.  But it’s still hard to know we’ve said our last “goodbye” and “I love you” (at least during our earthly life).  As I’ve thought about my weekly e-spire, I’ve wondered whether or not to share about her.  It felt crazy not to mention her death and yet a bit selfish at the same time.  

Finally I decided I needed to share, not only because it’s the most pressing thing on my heart today, but also because I need to live what I believe.  I believe that we are called to community as we follow Christ, and that means more than showing up and putting our best foot forward. It also means being honest and real with one another. It means letting people through the door when the house is a wreck or we have yet to shower.  It means receiving a hug when we know it will only elicit tears (and maybe a snotty, sniffling nose).  It means confessing our fears and our doubts.  It means daring to trust even when we’ve been hurt before.  It means accepting grace when grace is offered.  It means all of that and much, much more.  

So, today, I share, with tears streaming down my face, that heaven received a wonderful woman.  I wish you could have known my mother.  But since you won’t have that chance, I will share just a little about her. She was amazing. I couldn’t dream of capturing her in a few short sentences, but I will say, she was one of the most kind-hearted, generous, thoughtful, caring people I have ever known.  She was always thinking of others. She wanted them to be happy, safe, provided for, and to know they were important and loved.  She had a heart for the marginalized. She dedicated her life to special education and serving students with physical and mental challenges; in doing so, she also taught others to be kinder, more understanding, and more caring toward those same students. 

She was outgoing and gregarious.  She never met a stranger.  She loved people—young and old, regardless of any of those things that get in the way of our relationships. She was creative, talented, and incredibly faithful.  She taught me to pray publicly and over the phone. She modeled Christian disciplines, leadership in the church, and above all else, loving like Christ.  She was incredible and played a huge part in shaping me into who I am today.  For that I am eternally grateful.  

Her service will be in my hometown in a few weeks.  In the meantime, we will be here, supporting my father from a distance and working through our own grief.  Please know we are grateful for your prayers.  And know, even when my heart hurts, I am still here to be your pastor.  I look forward to sharing the Word on Sunday mornings, to visiting with you and getting to know you, praying with and for you, and preparing for the beautiful ministry to which God has called us.  I am here for you and am grateful for that privilege.

*While this isn't the most recent photo of her, it does capture her well: joyful, smiling, playful, and full of life. 

On loss and faith

Just about a month ago, Rick and I learned that we had miscarried.  I was nearly 11 weeks along and after some warning signs, I saw the doctor and learned there was no heartbeat and the baby hadn't grown in nearly 2 weeks.  It was what they call a "missed miscarriage" meaning my body didn't recognize it right away. My body was carrying along as if everything in the pregnancy was normal.  Only it wasn't.  We were scheduled to leave to Mexico a week after we learned we had miscarried and so we decided to have a D&C to simplify the process and not cause medical problems, or even an emergency, when we were so far from home. 

      As we have grieved, I have been especially grateful for my time as a chaplain at Northside Hospital in Atlanta.  Northside has more births (over 18000) per year than any other hospital in the US.  As part of that, there are also a number of women who experience miscarriage and stillbirth losses.  I was honored to walk with them in their grief as they experienced their own losses.  As a chaplaincy resident, I had to work through my own theology of life and death and pregnancy loss.  Time and time again I heard family members say, “It was God’s will.” And yet I could never reconcile God “taking” a child from loving and caring parents.  As I worked out my own beliefs, I finally came to believe that miscarriages and still births are not in God’s will.  I don’t think God wants the death of any child.  I think biology happens (statistically speaking, 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage in the first trimester) and things happen that are part of the brokenness of our world that don’t fall in line with God’s love or God’s grace. 

And yet, even when tragic and heartbreaking things happen, God is there to hold us and love us and comfort us.  Even when the world seems against us or our bodies have failed us or our hearts are broken yet again, God remains constant and eternally invested in us and our well-being.  I’m grateful I worked those things out in my mind years ago, because when we had to walk a similar path this last month, I didn’t have to fight to find God.  God was right there with me as I sat in the hospital room and underwent tests and saw the ultrasound where there was no more heartbeat. God was there when I shared the news with Rick and with family and friends and with each of you.  God was there when Ruthie hugged me and asked about the baby in my belly and prayed repeating after me for Jesus to hold that precious baby.  God was there during surgery and in the recovery and God has been there the whole time following.  Of that I am sure, and for that I give thanks.  

This year I have been terribly anxious for Christmas to arrive.  I was ready to decorate as soon as I heard the news, not physically, but emotionally, I wanted the peace and the hope and the light to break through the sadness.  And Christmas decorations, and the lights and the songs, and the smells all remind me of that hope of Christ. For me, that’s the heart of the Christmas message, that God’s love breaks through our deepest woes and darkest nights and instead offers hope and light and life.

 

It’s God’s promise of a future of abundance and peace and restoration and wholeness that allow us to walk freely into the future.  They allow us to heal from our heartbreaks and embrace something new, even if that something isn’t at all what we expected. 

  

  I pray that you find Christ this Advent and Christmas. I pray that God’s light breaks through the darkness in your own life. I pray that hope and joy fill your heart and that  the beautiful message of the incarnation flows from your lips so that others might know the love of God through Christ Jesus