Grief

We gathered over the weekend to remember and pay some final respect to my Aunt Norma. She went home on May 6th, home to Jesus and her dear husband Bill who went home in 2006. Her three children, five of her six grandchildren, spouses, her twin brother and his wife all gathered Saturday for a service and then time at her home, time filled with memory, laughter and some sorrow. Even as I write this I feel the tightness and weight of grief settle in. I've missed Bill now for three and a half years but with Norma's homegoing a new grief has risen. A place in my life has passed leaving only memories.

Grief, a common thread for all humans weaves through our lives like a dark thread. This morning, during my time at the park I wrote this:

Salty wet memories wash over me
as 303 asphalt miles flow beneath
the tires tearing me away.
With each wave of memory
my heart aches under the constriction
of loss.

They really are gone.
Another tear forms.
I gasp for breath,
blink and let it fall slowly,
mute testament to this grief.

Parting was always painful,
a yawning chasm where hope retreats,
joy, fun, laughter diffuse to grayness.

I felt this loss painfully as a boy
sobbing beneath the willow tree
that arched over the boyhood pond.
That training made my heart,
whenever we drew together, revel in
hope, joy, laughter and
ache at every parting.

Now, the asphalt miles have done their deed,
but the waves of parting still crash,
my throat tightens and my heart squeezes out
one more salty wet memory
to roll down my cheek

And I am reminded that you, even you, Jesus,
wept.

Wilderness

I recently went on retreat with a small group I'm involved in. We've been meeting for nearly two years and our main focus has centered around formational issues. This retreat was a good pause from our usual schedule, designed to go a bit deeper, more concentrated into some facet of Christ forming in us.

We were led by two people who encouraged us to look at a couple of early events in Jesus' ministry, His baptism and His time in the wilderness immediately following His baptism. We looked at baptism as an identity bestowment event, "This is my Son in whom I am well pleased", and wilderness as a place of formation, a place of grace.

As we moved from identity into discussing wilderness and it's formative nature, one of our leaders said, "Our elder brother (Jesus) has shown us the way to live, make it through the wilderness."

A question arose in me, perhaps an impertinent one, maybe even dangerous, "Really? Did you not, Jesus, as incarnate God, have resources that are not available to me?" This centers around Jesus being fully human and fully God. The advantages afforded Him and the call to follow Him into the wilderness seems a bit like asking me to bat like a steroid-infused Mark McGuire at the height of his ability a few years ago. He has an unfair advantage.

Formation, time in the wilderness, is a necessity, it would seem, if we are to become more Christ-like. But how do I navigate this terrain? I believe my questions are fair ones that many may ask if they are honest. The answer is in the concept of "Christ in me, I in Christ", a personal incarnation of sorts. Learning to rest in, live in John 10:10 LIFE, a life only possible because of personal incarnation. Again, Christ in me, I in Christ. By walking in faith, God's resources are mine. By listening to the voice of my Good Shepherd, I will follow more victoriously into the wilderness.

Another thought has arisen. Jesus was not fully God in human flesh, but fully God AND fully human. We often think of Incarnation as a stooping as He put on flesh, a way for us to know He understands our frailties. This certainly is true but there may be more to this. Perhaps He's telling us we are not as fully human as we believe we are. Perhaps He's also showing us how to be fully human. Perhaps He's asking us to consider we will only be fully human to the degree we become more alive to God; Christ in me, I in Christ.

Otherwise we are only living in the shallows of human-ness.