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.

Mercy in the Clouds

A few days ago we were hiking in Switzerland, in the clouds.  Our trek from Meiringen-Grindelwald-Wengen-Murren-Griesalp-Kanderweg involved some rainy days, and periods where we ascended into the mist.  There were also times when we came around a bend, the clouds parted, and we saw brilliant blue backgrounds to glacier-covered peaks; but much of those days involved a misty veil.  The most challenging day as we hiked over a high Alpen pass, in the snow, searching for signs of the trail (which is marked by painting rocks on the ground, so loses some value when there is an unexpected accumulation), I thought about the mercy of being in the clouds.  You can't see how far there is to go, how high you are, or what dangers await at the bottom of ravines.  You can only see the trail a few meters ahead or behind.  The cloud surrounds you and enforces a focus on the here and now, the next step.  On that day it was a blessing, because our destination would have seemed impossibly high and distant, and the narrow trail would have seemed impossibly dangerous.  The steep ascent and descent were a bit frightening, particularly the last hundred meters or so below the pass when we completely lost the trail and didn't know if we should turn back.

The next day, we heard from Scott's mother that his dad's long slow decline from dementia and bleeding strokes had taken a more accelerated turn downward.  He had stopped eating and drinking completely.  Scott's sister had graciously spent a week in town but had left, and we sensed it was time for us to go.  We began making arrangements to change our tickets and cancel the rest of our trek to Zermatt.  In less than 24 hours we were on our way to California, arriving Friday afternoon uncertain if he would have died during our long air flight.  We went straight to the nursing home (where he has been since Scott's last trip in the Spring, when he and his mom had decided she could no longer meet his needs even with the in-home help. . . we are thankful for the excellent care the home and the hospice nurses have provided for him). That was a sweet couple of hours.  Though Dave's disease is very advanced, that afternoon he responded meaningfully and emotionally to Scott's presence.  And now as we continue going back and forth over the weekend, reading Psalms, holding hands, expressing thanks, telling stories, he is slipping away from us.

Then this morning, as we went to church, the passage was from Exodus 16 about God's provision of mana for the grumbling, anxious, can't-see-how-this-is-good Israelites.  In that chapter the phrase occurs "they looked toward the wilderness, and the glory of the LORD appeared in the cloud."  We want the cool clarity of the peaks of God's greatness, or the lush valley of the still waters and green pastures. But the presence of God in the Bible often comes as a cloud, as a rainbow of refracted and diffused light, a paradox of obscurity and vision, of leading and covering.

Today we can see some mercy in that cloudiness.  I think we are glad we had the first half of our anniversary trek without knowing we'd leave before the end.  That we focused day to day rather than knowing that loss was so imminent.  That when the time to leave came, it was clear, and we really couldn't know what we left behind either.  That now we are in California, we're also living hour to hour, on a time line we can't fully determine.

Faith comes when you're in the clouds, searching for the path.  Waiting for the mana that is just enough for one day, no more.

Thanks to many who have prayed and offered their love; please ask the One who holds us all to gently escort Dave into eternity.  And to give stamina and faith to his family as we watch and wait.

Further Up, and Further In

This phrase from CS Lewis' last Narnia book, The Last Battle, enjoins the characters who have reached the true Narnia to move deeper into the experience and place, as they climb the hills. And it keeps resonating for me as we hike into the Alps.

We are in Switzerland, hiking, as a complete sabbath from our normal life in honor of our 30th anniversary and in the wisdom of God's life-patterns and Serge's policies. Of course we wouldn't have to take time off in such wondrous beauty, but thanks to some generous gifts and savings, we're grateful to be here. It's not without a cost for sure, to our teams and families, particularly as Scott's dad continues to decline. But for today we're pressing on, further up and further in. Four days of hiking so far, average 15-18 km a day, thousands of feet up and down, strenuous paths that leave us with a healthy ache. Then evenings in Inns, tonight's is 136 years old and run by the 5th generation of the same family, with stunning views from the balcony and delicious food.

As we lift up our eyes to the hills, day after day, scrambling and climbing, striding and pausing, pray with us that God would reveal grace to us, refresh with Presence our weary souls. So often God called people to the mountains for encounters with his Glory. The solid awe-inspiring strength, the unknowable heights, the dangerous beauty, the abundant waters, the lonely pristine clarity, the otherworldliness of the landscape all make the mountains a place to experience God more concretely. You can look from afar and admire, but to really get into the high zones take time and breath and purpose.

Another phrase that's been in my head as we hike is the Mighty Fortress hymn, since we're in German-speaking country and the words for fortress (burg) and mountain (berg) echo each other. If you live around the Alps, particularly in the Middle Ages, in times of cantons and small kings and attacks, a good high rock and fortress makes for a place of safety. Also if you're going to survive in this environment, you can see how the Swiss characteristics might be the ones that would emerge: careful attention to detail, rules, surety, conformity, beauty. The paths are well marked. There is no trash. The homes all have flowers. The industry seems small scale. You can look at these mountains and feel that the people who managed to live in their shadows did so by drawing some hard lines and staying inside. Which perhaps explains a lot of our reformation inheritance of theology too. Dangerous mountains, keep to the path. Explain, set the parameters, make sense.

But the peaks still loom. We hear avalanches in the clouds. Snow blows in, then sun. There are tiny sparks of color in the wildflowers, massive swathes of blue across the sky. Unknown paths that wind and climb, inviting us further up and further in.

Ireland

Five blustery days and cozy nights on the Emerald Isle, a tribute to my mom whom we have abandoned for most of the last quarter century. With four young-adult kids and three senior-adult parents each with their own needs and directions, not to mention way-more-than-full time jobs, and organizational responsibilities, and supporters . . Well, it isn't often that we can devote a solid chunk of attention to any one person. So somewhere back a few months ago, in a flash of inspiration, I asked my mom if she would be willing to fly to London to meet us when we went to our Serge meetings, and then we could travel together. It's pretty impressive when people over 80 have no qualms about independent international travel. And where she wanted to go, was Ireland.

We have very American family roots, drawing from multiple continents and cultures including indigenous and enslaved peoples. But my mom's ancestry has some root tentacles that clung to the shores of Ireland. The story goes like this: a couple worn down by poverty, famine, injustice, unable to pay the oppressive dues to the essentially feudal landlord. The agent coming to their home, possibly built of turf or stone on the northwest coast. The agent grabs the ancestor's wife, threatening her with violence. The ancestor takes his gun, and kills the agent. Then he and his wife flee, finding their way onto a boat to America, to start a new life far from the reaches of the law. If anyone read the Booker finalist about the Bloody Project, which was rough, you can imagine a less sanitized version.

And that little vignette is only one of millions of stories of blood and sorrow that this island has endured. We toured the castle in Limerick and tried to sort out who was attacking whom, and sieging whom, and allying with whom. Celts, Normans, Vikings. British and French and Spanish. Christians from before the many schisms, Catholics, Protestants. A hidden history of suspicion, of betrayals.

Which makes the current peaceful, wild wonder of this place all the more real. Ireland is not a land that conquered its way into 21rst century freedom and prosperity. It is a land that absorbed a million punches into its bogs, and transformed them into green grains. That wept tears and poured them into guiness beers. That knelt, literally, in the sand between high and low tide to celebrate religious freedom off their oppressor's property. That reached down into a core of sassy truth, lively music, and a strong stance bracing against the gales, without losing friendliness and hope.

And perhaps all of the above because this is a land of an ancient faith lineage. We toured the Book of Kells and other illuminated Gospel texts drawn by monks around the year 800. When much of the world was devastated by war and plague, Ireland was busy preserving the truth.

So we had some adventures there. We were almost blown off the cliffs of Moher, not realizing they had been closed due to severe weather. In spite of multiple back surgeries and replaced joints, we got my mom walking on the wild Burren. There were nameless castles and ornate churches. Hedgerows and cows. Sea spray and sunsets. Prehistoric gold, and leathery bog-preserved bodies in the museum. A stunning coastal cottage, and a warm tea and scones with our real Irish friends the Maras.

As we left our cottage, we stopped at a local artist's shop and tea room, and I picked up a book of poetry by Thomas Lynch, an American descended from a nearby village called Moveen. It's called "The Sin-eater", and I highly recommend it. Lynch and the Irish get grace. The ridiculous frailty of the body held together with the glorious beauty of eternity, the irreverent humor held on the sure rock of God. "But now it all seems like shades of grey, shadow and apparition, glimpses only, through the half-light of daybreak and gloaming, mirage and apocalypse, a kind of swithering." (You have to read the poems to find out what that means, but it's my new favorite word).

Hoping this isn't our last visit. Bye for now, Ireland.