You Are Watched Over

I have a bible app on my phone that I use daily. Yes, I still have an actual bible, but this I can carry with me everywhere. Bible Gateway is the app and I highly recommend it. I use the free version and it's a powerful tool that gives many versions of the bible, old and new. Each day I am greeted with a verse for the day, as well as the daily bible reading plan I have set up. 

Today's bible verse comes from the Book of Psalms: The Lord will keep you from all harm--he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore. 121:7-8. NIV. When I read it, I immediately wanted to share the good news of God's providential care for us. Most us of know the verse or the at least the gist of it. But do we really believe it when so many bad things happen to people. 

I don't pretend to understand the evil that befalls us sometimes. To this day, I don't understand why I was victimized in a terrifying home invasion. I still suffer some PTSD from it though years have passed. I still occasionally feel a sense of not being safe in my home behind locked doors. But the verse that was chosen for today reminds me that God protects. I survived the ordeal. It could have been deadly. It left me shaken, but not knocked out for the count. 

I have peace more often than not. God has me hemmed in. He goes before me and brings up the rear. He's to my right and to my left. He's above me and below. I am encased in his loving embrace and nothing can tear me out of his arms. That's encouraging when darkness appears to rule. 

I have no idea what is in my future nor the futures of those whom I love and care about. There could be tragedy. I hope not. But God's care is with us throughout our lives. Whatever we face, we do not stand alone. The omnipresent God of hope is watching over us and keeps our souls safe no matter what may happen. Bad things happen sometimes. Such is our current state but take heart. You are held in the hands of the Almighty. You cannot be snatched away and that is a comforting thought.

 

Father's Day and Loss

 Again, I offer a personal essay for my blog. Yesterday was Father's Day. I rejoiced in my husband's fathering an amazing son, but I felt that peculiar sense of loss orphans do, at least as I think they may do. I was not a child when both my parents passed away, but I clearly remember the words, "Well now I am an orphan," pass through my mind. A grownup who will never again be able to get sage advice and parental love. This is for my father who I missed keenly yesterday.

I buried my father today.

 

It was a long silent drive to the Fort Leavenworth National Cemetery. I had hoped the weather would cooperate, and it did, though there is something unsettling about placing a loved one in the cold ground while the sun beams on.

 

An Air Force Honor Guard stood in formation as we took our places. With much solemnity they carefully folded a flag over the small wooden box that held the ashes of a man who had lived eighty-four years, twenty-five of which were in uniform. Those ashes were the only physical remains of a man who kept covenant with one woman for fifty-seven years, reared three children, and delighted in the exploits and successes of nine grandchildren. It was hard to imagine his 5’9” two hundred pound frame in a box that was smaller than a laptop.

 

Each motion of the flag ceremony was executed with precision. When the final fold was neatly tucked into place, the guard marched in line to a row of rifles. I knew what was coming, but I could not help the involuntary jerk that came with each report. The twenty-one gun salute: An honor reserved for those who have honorably served. Slowly, the head of the Honor Guard approached my mother with the flag and spoke quiet words no one wants to hear: “On behalf of a grateful nation…”

 

I don’t know what the Airmen in the Honor Guard thought. They do this routinely. It’s their job. Another World War II veteran dies, another ceremony. Maybe they think it’s just another old codger to bury. I only know that afterward, when I went to thank them, and told them, with tears, how much it meant to our family that they had come to honor my father, one of them reached out and shook my hand. It was a simple offer of sympathy and regard for our loss. I walked away hoping they understood that what they do matters very much.

 

A small box doesn’t require a large hole. The hole for my father was much like the hole one would dig for a fence post, only rectangular. An attendant of the cemetery placed the box gently in the grave. My mother laid a single rose, my father’s favorite flower, atop the box. She then tossed in some dirt. My sister and I chose to do the same. As the hole was filled, my mother, sister, brother, and I stood together watching the last of a lifelong relationship being buried. My father’s resting place is under a tree. As I lifted my eyes, I could see he was not alone. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of white markers surround him, each representing a soldier, marine, sailor, or airman. It was at once breathtaking and grieving.

 

The pain will come and go in waves. That’s the professional stance on the grief process. Gradually, it will get better. I believe that. But even with the intellectual foreknowledge we had of his impending death, the heart is still shocked to believe he is never coming home from the hospital. In my heart, I thought my parents would always be there. That childish hope has been shattered by the blunt reality of a marker in a cemetery.

 

As I write this, I feel the loss keenly, and it makes me want to shut out the world. I can’t begin to fathom what my mother must feel. Yet, I know, as does she, that this is how it must be. God said to Adam, “From dust you were taken and to dust you shall return.” Those words would instill utter hopelessness, were it not for the hope of the resurrection; were it not for the Cross and the Blood of the Lamb that was poured out for my father, my mother, my family, for me—for everyone who trusts in the gift of the Lord’s salvation.

 

The pain goes with the territory of living in a fallen world. Perhaps that is one of the motivators for seeking meaning and a Something greater outside ourselves and this world. For now, in the pain of loss, I can rejoice because I know the sum of one man’s life does not reside in a small box of ashes buried in the ground. The sum of my father’s life is in the countless people he touched, the lives he enriched. The Lord has kept an account, and I know he heard the words everyone wants to hear: “Well done, good and faithful servant…”

 

 

DeShawntae

 I'm going to depart from my usual blog entries now and then to write of other things. I have written pieces over the years that do not directly focus on my faith per se but nevertheless address issues that are informed by my faith and are written from my core being that loves God. There are lessons to be learned from them. 

I find God everywhere. In nature, people, the news, even movies, and commercials. If you're looking for God, he really can be seen in nonreligious settings. I find that encouraging because there is a lot of darkness and it's easy to think, "Where is God in all this?" His light is found even in the darkest places. You carry it with you if you have faith. 

This entry is about a tragic young teen. It's a sad lesson I learned about myself and how I have judged people. I think I do better now. I have changed over the span of my life. His name has been changed, but the account is true. Originally written in 2009, it was a journal entry.

DeShawntae died Saturday from a gunshot wound to the head. He was fifteen. 

I didn’t know DeShawntae well. I confess I learned his name because he was a troublemaker. He was taken aback the first time I called him by name. He didn’t understand I made a point of knowing names for incident reports. I really don’t think he was a bad person. But I could see he looked up to the older teens who were disruptive. I think he thought they were being cool and had begun to emulate them.   

DeShawntae lived with his grandmother. When he was suspended, she called. She explained she had told him to stay away because he had internet access at home. She didn’t understand why he would go to the library and be disruptive. She said he had bipolar disorder and was a difficult child who wouldn’t always take his medication. That explained a lot of his erratic behavior.  She also said his father was shot and killed over drugs when he was only 28 years old. That was DeShawntae’s childhood. 

My last encounter with DeShawntae was the day I had him arrested for trespassing. His suspension was for throwing library property and cussing at the staff. He was not to be in or on library property for 90 days. He came in a week later and I had to have him arrested. I was doing my job but hated this aspect of it. It was unnerving to have to stand there and swear out a complaint while he sat in the police car. I was aware all the teens had emptied the library and were watching me. Part of me was angry with him because he had just acted stupidly by coming back to the library. Now he was being arrested. And selfishly, it was me stuck having to do it. 

There was also a part of me that was relieved he would not be back for awhile. One less headache. One less stressor. But now I’m devastated because someone I had kind of written off died senselessly and suddenly, and my only imprint on his life was to ride him for his behavior. I don’t think I could have rescued him, but I could have tried talking to him more. I might have come to know him as more a boy and less a difficulty. 

The police think he was playing with a revolver and accidentally shot himself. Or perhaps he said or did something that made someone else think he should die for it. God only knows. The police closed the case quickly; his grandmother left behind to grieve him. 

I can’t help but wonder what DeShawntae’s thoughts were. What hopes and dreams, if any, did he have? I’ll never know because I never really knew him. Regardless of his behavior, the world is diminished without DeShawntae. This I know.