Leaving a Hole

Last Wednesday morning when I got word my father was dying, I was serving as Dean for Teen Ministry Week at camp.  Initially I made preparations to leave camp immediately.  But as I was leaving, I got the call that there was no rush, Dad had already passed away.  Over the next day and a half, I wrestled with when the right time was to step away from my camp responsibilities and head home to grieve with my family.  The funeral was scheduled for Saturday evening, but I felt I should be there some time before then.

Eventually I decided to leave the camp Thursday evening.  As I was riding away from the camp, I wondered what hole I might leave behind.  I left the leadership of the week in the hands of the very capable (Dr.) Steve Cook, but I wondered if my contribution would still be missed.  Would the hole I left there be filled?  The closer I got to Manassas and the rest of my family, the more I wondered the same thing about my father.  His passing left a hole in many lives.  One cousin explained, "I always looked forward to Sunday mornings because I knew my hug, kiss on the cheek followed by 'I Love Ya' was waiting for me."

Nearly everyone has relatives who will miss their passing.  But as I sat in a standing room auditorium at my Dad's memorial service, I couldn't help but wonder how members of that crowd would be affected by his passing.  Where would Dad be missed?  What holes exist now that he's not there to fill them?

When I'm gone, I'd like to be believe I'll be missed.  But I don't merely want to be emotionally missed.  I'm sure there will be some who will grieve my passing.  Rather, are there people I am serving and things I am doing that will be left undone when I'm gone?  I want to live my life while I'm here in such a way that what I'm doing matters.  I want to be missed when I'm gone . . . some.  I say "some" because while I want the things I do to matter, I would also like to be known for equipping others to handle things when I'm not here any more.

None of us are indispensable.  Sooner or later we will all be gone.  But we have the chance to spend our lives doing things that matter.  We can also train others to come alongside us so that when it is our time to go, we will leave a hole.  May we leave a hole behind when we are gone, but may it be one that will be filled by those who have learned from our example.

A Father's Mercies

Wednesday morning June 16th at 8:45 am my Dad passed away.  I was at camp with three of my best friends when I got the news.  Although Ann wasn't there (she was with her parents in NC), I felt the embrace of my dear friends in the moment when the grief was most heavy.  There are so many little mercies, graces I felt the Lord extended to me through this process, that have reminded me He is still in charge even in the storms of life.  I know this, and have seen this at work in the lives of others.  But it is still encouraging when I experience it personally.

Here are just a few small things . . .
-- The day Dad passed away just happened to be the only day of the week that Steve, Tessa, and Robbie were all three at the camp.
-- In addition, the disabilities group was later than expected, which gave them the time to be with me while not neglecting the service that day.
-- I was able to preach a revival at my home church just a week before Dad died.  In fact, Jon Ulm related to me those were the last three sermons Dad heard (he didn't make it to church last Sunday).
-- I was able to talk to Dad on Tuesday, the day before he passed.  In fact, he told me they had said he was going to be going home.  It turns out he was right, just not in the way he thought.
-- Mickey Derrow had already been scheduled to preach on Father's Day (the day after the funeral), so I didn't have to ask someone to preach for me at the last minute.
-- When a Survivor friend (Brett Bowers) expressed condolences, he did so by quoting Psalm 116:15, the very passage used in the sermon at Dad's funeral.  It is the only passage anyone has left.

There are more, but I want to make sure I write these down before I forget.  So many "unforgettable" memories are too easily lost.