Well, I've had several "suggestions" we'll call them, to add a feed-burner to the site. So. I did it. And it didn't hurt or anything. It's right over there. No. My right, your left, your other left. My right, your left.
<---
I'm looking into possibly moving my blog as well, so heads up on that. More later...
So...that's that. for now.
Also thinking about changing 'Mongo's name to either "moe" or "kong". I've had several comments, asking why his name is "Mongo" ('go) for short, and sort of wondering if it was some kind of reference to an old term, "Mongoloid" (which, no, it is not). The term is derived from his sort of Simian comportment and generally large size. He's not too offended, so...I suppose if anyone is interested in casting votes, my virtual ears are open.
Check ya later...
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
a time to remember...
Yesterday was my dad's birthday. I didn't dwell on that fact, but it was noted. I saw that my facebook-savvy sibs noted it as well. And I'm sure that those who are not were just as aware of the fact.
There are a lot of things that can be said about pop. Lots of good things. My dad had a good life, and he had a good death. Our communication with him the last few days was difficult. But my sister had a short conversation in which he conveyed to her that he was happy, because we were all here with him. Now, that may seem elementary, but none of us live in the same state so it was a big deal that were all able to be there.
He told her, by nodding, that he was happy were all there to see him die.
...
My dad was happy to finally die. I know that. It may see macabre, or morose. But I never doubted for a second that he was not afraid. Which is amazing. Faith being what it is-it seems to me that faith, by it's very nature, requires an element of uncertainty, but, Dad, and I asked him this, I asked him "are you scared?" and his gaze became one of...revolt? conviction? he looked right at me with all the directness he could muster, and said "never."
...
When he died, my younger brother (the youngest) was across the bed from me. My older brother was just to my right. It was a savage watch. For me. For us. But it tied the three of us together from that night forward. I don't know why God brought the three of us together, and essentially excluded the other three sibs from this pivot point in all of our lives.
...
Dad's birthday was very near his..."other" day. Just 11 (?) days. So that's probably one reason why his birthday and his deathday are tied together in my head. But going beyond that, I have to think that they would remain closely knit because Dad was, for the whole of our lives together, so thoroughly unafraid of dying. I knew, when I was 9 or 10 years old, that Dad was looking towards his death with eagerness. Not a morbid eagerness. It was more an arthritic eagerness. Dad-and I'm just giving birth to this idea in my mind as I write it-had a kingdom case of arthritus. He didn't have the gnarled knuckles of the infirm or extremely elderly. But he had arthritus in his shoulders and hands to the degree that he was hampered.
He didn't whine or complain-that's not my sense of it. He just hated the constancy of the pain. And I think he hated the pervasivness of cruelty, the fullness of injustice that he witnessed during his life. He had a tremendous passion for the oppressed. For the poor. And the work of his life reflected that. It was much more than a cognitive recognition of the fact. He worked to push it back. Lydia House. Interfaith Coalition. The Food Bank. Angel Tree. He was a worker.
But that's not really my point, I guess.
My point is that his observation of wickedness-his observation of the fruits of genuine evil (oppression, injustice, hunger, illness) drove him towards Jesus, not away from him. He saw his own death as an act of liberation. Not flight from the dark in this world. But a liberation towards the beauty of the world that is coming. Jesus had promised dad that he would be an eternal partner with Him in the act of Jesus' restoration and reclaiming of God's world. And that excited him. THAT was what death was for him. Death, in the scope of my Dad's life, was D-day. It was taking the beaches, and beginning the drive towards the death of Death.
...
I am blessed to have been raised in an environment that didn't fear death. I hope to make that part of his legacy a part of my legacy. I just hope I don't have to leave it too soon. Not that I'm afraid. But I am enjoying my life, and would be sad to part with it.
There are a lot of things that can be said about pop. Lots of good things. My dad had a good life, and he had a good death. Our communication with him the last few days was difficult. But my sister had a short conversation in which he conveyed to her that he was happy, because we were all here with him. Now, that may seem elementary, but none of us live in the same state so it was a big deal that were all able to be there.
He told her, by nodding, that he was happy were all there to see him die.
...
My dad was happy to finally die. I know that. It may see macabre, or morose. But I never doubted for a second that he was not afraid. Which is amazing. Faith being what it is-it seems to me that faith, by it's very nature, requires an element of uncertainty, but, Dad, and I asked him this, I asked him "are you scared?" and his gaze became one of...revolt? conviction? he looked right at me with all the directness he could muster, and said "never."
...
When he died, my younger brother (the youngest) was across the bed from me. My older brother was just to my right. It was a savage watch. For me. For us. But it tied the three of us together from that night forward. I don't know why God brought the three of us together, and essentially excluded the other three sibs from this pivot point in all of our lives.
...
Dad's birthday was very near his..."other" day. Just 11 (?) days. So that's probably one reason why his birthday and his deathday are tied together in my head. But going beyond that, I have to think that they would remain closely knit because Dad was, for the whole of our lives together, so thoroughly unafraid of dying. I knew, when I was 9 or 10 years old, that Dad was looking towards his death with eagerness. Not a morbid eagerness. It was more an arthritic eagerness. Dad-and I'm just giving birth to this idea in my mind as I write it-had a kingdom case of arthritus. He didn't have the gnarled knuckles of the infirm or extremely elderly. But he had arthritus in his shoulders and hands to the degree that he was hampered.
He didn't whine or complain-that's not my sense of it. He just hated the constancy of the pain. And I think he hated the pervasivness of cruelty, the fullness of injustice that he witnessed during his life. He had a tremendous passion for the oppressed. For the poor. And the work of his life reflected that. It was much more than a cognitive recognition of the fact. He worked to push it back. Lydia House. Interfaith Coalition. The Food Bank. Angel Tree. He was a worker.
But that's not really my point, I guess.
My point is that his observation of wickedness-his observation of the fruits of genuine evil (oppression, injustice, hunger, illness) drove him towards Jesus, not away from him. He saw his own death as an act of liberation. Not flight from the dark in this world. But a liberation towards the beauty of the world that is coming. Jesus had promised dad that he would be an eternal partner with Him in the act of Jesus' restoration and reclaiming of God's world. And that excited him. THAT was what death was for him. Death, in the scope of my Dad's life, was D-day. It was taking the beaches, and beginning the drive towards the death of Death.
...
I am blessed to have been raised in an environment that didn't fear death. I hope to make that part of his legacy a part of my legacy. I just hope I don't have to leave it too soon. Not that I'm afraid. But I am enjoying my life, and would be sad to part with it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)