The Threshold Between Worlds

(written from the plane on Sunday) Last night, as I lay awake in the airport hotel in London, the word that came to mind was liminal.  The vague hovering outside of time and between spaces, the threshold from one thing to another where you might still be present in both, but not in either fully.  Two am in an island city, a few miles from an airport, 8 time zones from departure but still two from arrival.  A few hours of sleep having taken the edge off of exhaustion, a body confused into thinking night is day. 

And as I thought about that space that is neither here nor there, and the dis-ease of occupying it, the fading of what came before and the uncertainty of what lies ahead, I realized that the pause in travel between continents and social classes that characterizes our life parallels the space we walked with Scott’s dad over the last two weeks.  Liminal.  The threshold between the his four-score and five in once fit and then aging flesh plus once brilliant then increasingly troubled mind and his eternity as part of the new creation whose arc is ever upward.  We watched him withdraw from one and cross to the other and wish we knew what he struggled to tell us he saw or thought.  The valley of the shadow.

On a God’s-eye scale, this is more than a short walk through a low spot, this is the tale of our lives on earth.  We live in shadow, seeing through a glass darkly the outlines and reflections of glory that was, is and shall be.  

For us the transit back to Kenya carries some of the same loss as death.  Our trip to California was wrapped in weighty sadness, but not without its blessings too.  We had an unanticipated few days with two of our four kids.  We had weeks with Scott’s family.  We had Oceanside bike-rides and carrot cake and grilled salmon.  We had old photos and memories and hugs.  I feel even more acutely the departure from Julia who celebrates her 21rst birthday without us as we travel, and Luke who bravely strides into his own life calling.  The ache of the absence of Caleb and Jack looms as a darker shade in those shadows.

We recited Psalm 23 at Dave’s memorial service, a passage so familiar one can forget its power.  Our liminal life plays out in the valley of the shadow of death, but even here the poet claims to fear no evil.  It’s hard to grasp that such transitions from one world to the next, be it Earth to Heaven or California to Kenya, are the very place where God comes to set the feasting table.

A glimpse of that came a few hours before the restless 2 am thoughts.  London, neither old home nor current home, a threshold place between them, offered us an overflowing cup Saturday night.  Thanks to Serge social media we realized that one of our sister teams had planned a 5-year-anniversary celebration dinner for a church they had birthed.  At the last minute we contacted our friends and were embraced by their community.  Candleight and sparkling cider, immigrants and children and homeless people and students and artists and unlikely edge-people who had been gathered into a fellowship.  An hour of celebration and good food, slideshows and prayers.  Even in transit, the presence of God in God’s people.

Death makes me tired, tired of living apart, tired of the scattering and constant transition that the missionary life holds.  Tired of living on the threshold between worlds, never fully part of any.  Yet this is the cross.

A cross rearranged becomes a doorway.  Would you pray for us to hover there in the shadows of both worlds, and invite others to the party? 

Celebrating Julia: 21 years and Paradox

Today Julia Kathleen Myhre turns 21.  And David Vernon Myhre will be remembered in his memorial service, and buried in the ground.

Here they are exactly 21 years ago.  And today I know Grandad, and Grampy (my dad who died 11 years ago) would be thrilled with just who that little baby has become.  So we hold the paradox of death and life, mourning and celebration, ending and beginning, in our hearts today.

And because we are in California, sorting through hundreds and hundreds of photos, in a land of limitless internet, for the 21rst birthday we look back to that little girl with some fun photos:  spunky, sparky Julia, full of vigorous life and will.  Ready to hug, ready to hold her own.  Never far from her beloved bear.  Keeping up with brothers, helping mom.  Daddy's girl through and through.

Oct 4th 1996 in Reston, VA 

(our families rejoiced that her expected delivery date and Scott's Family Medicine recertification exam, which had to be done in person in those days, overlapped so she was born in America)

By early November we were back home in Bundibugyo

Big brothers' embrace, which continues to this day.

When she was 8 months old, we ran for our lives, and ended up back in the USA for a few months evacuated from rebel warfare.  So this is her first birthday, in West Virginia.

We returned to work in Kijabe for a few months and wait for Jack's birth. (and just for fun, here's the same two, Julia and Luke, this weekend)

Back to 1998 below . . 

And so began a special relationship with this boy who is nearly a twin

By her second birthday she was growing in confidence and charm and kindness and joy.

Her third birthday, a cowgirl in Uganda with some princess accoutrements . . 

More brother shots (waiting at the airstrip in our secret service glasses)

Always her own person, her own style.

On her birthday, I have to reflect on 21 years of being the mother of a daughter who brings us such love and peace.  After two boys I was completely ready for another, and quite satisfied with that, but God gave us Julia to show us a different side of love.  A 'how can I help' or 'here let me do that' spirit that smooths over all our rough edges and makes our family a better place.  A young woman who excels in academics and sports but actually prioritizes relationships and service and spirituality.  A growing activist for the environment, human culture, and health and how those three forces intersect for flourishing.  A competent crosser of cultures and languages.  Last weekend she flew into California with her smiles and neck massages and carrot cake baking and kitchen cleanups and encouraging words, and lifted all our spirits.  It's a joy to be her parent, and we delight in who she is and who she is becoming.  Happy Birthday Julia!!

We love you!

The Day is on its Way: Resurrection

This is the resurrection view for Dave Myhre--a ridge of pine and swooping gulls, overlooking the pacific.  It's been a full week now, since he died, with hours of little details one might not expect.  Cleaning out the room in the nursing home, saying goodbye to the kind caregivers there.  Meeting at the funeral home, the cemetery, to re-sign a dozen documents.  Gathering facts to write an obituary.  Taking that and a photo to the local newspaper office.  Meeting with the pastor about a memorial service.  Receiving visitors, and food.  Going to the florist to arrange flowers for the church.  Choosing music and Scriptures.  Sorting through a thousand photos to choose a few dozen for a slideshow.  Scanning them. Talking to relatives on the phone.  Writing thank you notes.  Canceling dentist appointments and prescription refills.  Trips back and forth to the airport.  Tears at times, and weariness. Julia and Luke breathed fresh air into all of this for several days.  As Dave was in his last hours, we bought them tickets to come out for the following weekend, each missing some school and work but maximizing time with Nana and the family.  Due to other considerations the memorial service timing got switched to tomorrow (Wednesday) instead of two days ago (Sunday) while they were here, but we had a sweet time of sitting on the beach sharing memories in Grandad's honor, spent lots of time as a family with Nana, took a couple of bike rides along the ocean, and visited the grave site.  He will also be buried tomorrow, at the site pictured above.

This past week, a creative American prophet-song writer named Chance the Rapper performed a new song on late night TV.  Perhaps my interpretation is colored by the reality of our family events but I found it to be a profoundly hopeful song.  Chance talks humbly and self-reflectively about the American dream, and the emptiness of that in ways that wealth and fame do not satisfy but actually make life more complicated.  But the song returns again and again to the image of waking up from a dream, to a new day.  A time of justice, and peace.  A very Biblical vision of resurrection.

The day is on its way.  No more sorrow, no more tears.  No more shooters with automatic weapon stockpiles murdering concert-goers in unprecedented domestic gun violence numbers.  No more hurricanes wiping out homes and livelihoods.  No more lonely widows, bereaved children, years of separations.  The day is on its way, and we are called to bring it to bear with all we do here on this earth.

Global thinking, empathy, and the environment . . . in a kid-friendly package

Today is the day.  A Forest, A Flood, and an Unlikely Star is now officially available from:
New Growth Press here . . (at a great discount, plus books 1 and 2 on sale) . . or the normal price on
Amazon here.

This is the third Rwendigo Tales book, written a decade ago as a Christmas present for my own kids and now in print with illustrations by our very own Acacia Masso, for all to enjoy.  It was a rare treat to BE WITH two of our kids on the release date, so Julia gamely posed for the promo photo.  A decade ago I didn't know how much she would embrace some of the themes in these stories, and in this one in particular about justice and poverty and the environment and courage and hope.

It's a solid page-turner read, not too long, opens your eyes to a corner of the world few get to see, appropriate for ages 10 to adult (some younger readers too but parents can decide).  One of the highest compliments I received about book two came when visiting with a Kenyan friend a month ago, who said that as she read it with her daughter she relived her own childhood in a Kenyan boarding school and they talked about it.  That gives me hope that these stories can capture a period and place, and generate discussion for families.  This one opens real majority-world issues, in ways kids and the rest of us can relate to.  There is a strong theme of what it means to forgive, that I still am learning about!  And all the books honor the resilience of the real people who are bravely engaging in their own way with a world marked by both suffering and beauty.

As with the other books, half the royalties feed back to help real kids in similar situations.

Today our focus in America is on tragedy, loss, horror in another mass shooting. The focus in our family is on mourning as we prepare for a memorial service.  The release of a kids' book can seem trivial in comparison.  However I know that stories that make sense of loss are more important than ever in times like these, so I do not hesitate to offer this one on a hard day.

IF YOU READ it please please please write a review on Amazon or NGP.  The more page-views, orders, and reviews, the more likely you will get to see book four!  If everyone who reads this blog bought five copies to give as Christmas gifts we'd be well on the way.  There is nothing preachy or offensive in these books; they are more like magical realism in blending deep topics into life adventures.

Celebrating a new book, mourning a loss, this is life.

A table in the valley

This week has been a walk through the valley of the shadow of death.  We know it ends with a feasting table, an Isaiah 25 celebration of abundance. Yet that over-running cup of mercy is poured right out in the dark valley with the enemy, death, present.

From Friday to Tuesday, we spent much of every day in a small sunny room at Bayview Villa home.  Scott held his dad's hand, read to him, talked to him.  We played St. Olaf choir singing hymns on a CD.  We sat with Ruth and talked together.  We met with nurses.  We went in and out.  Friday Dave was responsive and emotional.  Saturday and Sunday he had a more vacant look, but would still squeeze hands.  Monday mid-day he seemed to hear his neighbors' voices as they visited, but by Monday afternoon his breathing changed.  Tuesday he was never conscious, and clearly dying.  It was his 9th day without any food or drink.  As the sun set, the staff encouraged us to go home for some rest.  So often, they said, families want to be there for the last minutes, but the dying person is waiting for them to leave.  We drove back over the hill to Half Moon Bay, and within a few hours we got the phone call that he was gone.

(with baby Scott, 1960)

David Vernon Myhre, Jan 4 1932 to September 26 2017, 85 years and on to eternity.  He was the 6th child born to no-nonsense farmers, first-generation Norwegian immigrants whose parents moved to the USA with a wave of Scandinavians seeking opportunities in a time of upheaval at home.  Dave was born in Canada where they had migrated seeking better farmland, and he lived there until he was five, speaking Norwegian at home.  In 1937 they bought a farm in Abercrombie, ND, where he then grew up, quickly learning English in school.  He drove and tinkered with farm machinery, one time rolling a tractor which could have ended his life.  All four of our parents were the youngest in large families in the WW2 generation whose older siblings served, but by the time they were teens enabled to go to college.  Dave graduated with a degree in chemistry, then did a master's and went on to University of Minnesota for a PhD.  Even a couple of years ago as he reflected on that opportunity, he marveled.  So much grace to a quiet, careful, intelligent farming boy.

(our wedding, 1987)

At the University he met another graduate student of Norwegian/Swedish descent, Ruth, who was studying to teach home economics.  They were married in 1957, had Scott in 1960, left with his PhD in 1962 to move to Cincinnati and work for Proctor and Gamble, had Sonja in 1963.  He never left P&G, working for 32 years in a research lab for carbohydrate chemistry.  He basically invented Pringles, which is pretty cool, though in the late 70's he began to be more interested in health and gravitated towards gardening, running, then biking, making his own whole-grain bread.  He taught Scott to play baseball and basketball, cheered at a million games, took up tennis and suspended golfing to spend more time with his kids. He had a garage full of woodworking tools and created some lovely artful pieces, even after he lost two finger in an accident with the planer.  He was serious about his faith, studying his Bible, dedicating many hours to his roles as a deacon and elder at the church.  He was frugal with himself and generous with others, dependable, hard-working.  In retirement he and Ruth adventured around the world, and when Sonja settled in California they decided to move to Half Moon Bay to help her with kids and enjoy the closeness of family and the beauty of living by the ocean.

(24 years ago, goodbyes as we headed to Uganda)

In his final decade, a bike accident with significant brain bleeding followed by more strokes marked a downward progression of dementia.  We watched the person we knew slowly ebb away.  He battled the disease, trying diet, exercise, hearing aids, various augmentations to stay active and involved as long as he could.  In January we had the kids out celebrating his birthday, and he was still going on walks to the ocean and participating in outings.  But within a month or so his decline accelerated.  In March Scott made an emergent trip back to confirm that even the in-home helper his mom had tried was not enough, so he and his mom made the painful choice of a nursing home.  Sonja came back from Norway several times too.  By the end of August he had had a pneumonia, and entered hospice care in the nursing home, no longer really knowing any of us we felt.  In mid-September while Ruth was visiting Sonja in Norway, friends looking out for him told them to hurry back.  But when they arrived he rallied, so we continued on our trip until it became clear that Dave was no longer able to swallow, and Ruth needed us here, and we came.

(50th anniversary, 2007 in Wengen, Switzerland)

Death in all forms shows us the world is not right, is broken.  Death from dementia is particularly grievous, as the personality declines out of sync with the body.  Grief becomes chronic as the days become unpredictable.  The gradual slope sometimes drops off abruptly with a hospitalization, then levels again.  It is painful and frustrating for the person and all around him to march back through developmental milestones as the privileges of adulthood (driving, having a check-book, using a computer, traveling, then even walking out the door or going to the bathroom alone) fall away.  Watching, mostly from afar, intermittently up close, the nitty gritty of a life winding down, we look beyond the things which are seen to those which are not.  Beyond the fragility of a body near the end, to the glory of a soul entering eternity.

(Half Moon Bay visit, sunset by the ocean)

This week we spent in the shadow of death, but we fear no evil.  We will celebrate life and hope as we gather on Wednesday, 3 pm, at Community United Methodist Church, in Half Moon Bay.