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.  

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. 

Sue Camphouse Eulogy

They say everyone has a crazy aunt. I don’t know if every family actually has one, but I do know that my family has one.  Only, I don’t have a crazy aunt, because the crazy aunt in our family happened to be my mother.  Now, if you don’t know me or don’t know us very well, please know I say that with the utmost love and respect, really I do.  She was crazy in that she was wild and gregarious and did things that made all the sense in the world to her but were often silly or zany or a little bit crazy.

As a child and a teen I often rolled my eyes at her crazy ways. But I will tell you those crazy things are some of the most memorable things about her.  She was spirited and full of life.  I don’t know that there was a Spirit Friday at Home Street Middle School where she didn’t wear red and white.  She always donned the school colors from her scrunchy, to her earrings, to her shirt, to her pants, to her shoes, and her socks.  Everything was red and white.   *and her zany ways made a big imprint on my memories and fill my heart with love as I mourn her absence.  

Truth be told, if you haven’t already guessed it,  she was a free-spirit stuck in straight-laced world.  My mom was creative to the n-th degree.  She could find a purpose for pretty much anything…from peach pits in advent wreaths, to pill bottles for jewelry or camp affirmations, or most anything…those little orange bottles come in awfully handy, there’s about 1000 and 1 uses for them, to shreds of fabric for a baby blanket.  

She was thoughtful and bright and she could brainstorm most any issue and offer at least a dozen options for solutions.  And she was both wildly creative and incredibly educated when it came to parenting and to teaching.  She could approach a student, or one of the three of us to diffuse most any tantrum, or argument or trial.  From choosing to walk, skip, run, jump, or crawl from the house to the car if that was an issue, to various ways to draw a picture, or complete a project.  I remember in 6th grade, I was in Mr McGuire’s class and we were working our polyhedraville math project.  We needed trees. So I called my mom and asked for trees. Now, I don’t know what you might have thought of, maybe a magazine clipping or maybe you would have had us draw them.  Sue Camphouse brought brocolli.  My mom thought outside the box…it’s part of what made her crazy. She could surprise you with her ideas, or questions, or outlandish requests.  

Honestly, I could share a lot about my mom. She was truly remarkable, but I think the thing that is most inspiring is how she valued people.  Everyone was important and valuable and worthy. There was no one worth giving up on. I remember when I worked with the youth here at the church in the summer of 2000, Kaitlyn Orr was sharing a testimony and she referred to “bad people”.  That was when we had two services, so between services my mom talked to me and then to Kaitlyn to clarify that “there are no bad people, only bad actions.”  She truly saw and believed the best about people. She taught me to “look over the other person’s shoulder” to see where they were coming from.  She taught me to love like Christ in a way no other ever has.  She was a woman of tremendous faith. Please don't think she was just “a good person”. She was who she was because of her faith and I learned faith from her. I learned how to pray. I learned how to pray over the phone. I learned to study the Bible. And I learned how to love people. 

She wanted me to look beyond the present moment or problematic action and see where they were coming from, to understand them and have greater compassion toward them. She loved being with people, caring for them, cooking for them, gifting them things….she was truly a people person.  And she had a remarkable gift of empathy.  She could feel for another person in ways I could only dream of.  The morning after Dwight and Josh Heslep were killed, she went down to Back Street Parlor to answer questions and answer phones so Shelley and DeAnn wouldn’t have to.  She anticipated what would be needed and helpful before most others even considered it.  

Today I am filled with gratitude for who she was as a mother, a friend, and as a person. I am grateful for who she was to each of you and for how your relationship with her has nurtured and enriched my own life and experience.  

*Italics indicate I initial wrote this portion but left it out during the service, either  because of memory, timing, or flow.

**this is the written manuscript, which I followed loosely. I tried to add back in the pieces I added, but it is not a verbatim account of what I said. 

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.