Sometimes it takes a weekend.

Today is Father's day. A day that took on a whole new potency a few short years ago and now is among a host of gradually developing routines as one of the few days of the year that I have designated for grief. The day grew into a bit of a weekend this year, as explained in the last post… but such is life eh?

I spent most of the day with a good friend of mine and his young son. We ran a few errands, talked a lot, and visited the grave of my Dad. While we were on top of the hill chuckling about the little one's attempts to eat the decorative rocks and his dismay when his own father prevented that exploration. We spoke of Dad's impact on his life and mine and we talked about the oddity of us visiting a little niche in a wall where the dusty remains of Dad sit. And I had a bit of clarity there as I explained why I visit the site… and why such things are important to me.

We talked about how when Dad first passed it shook my entire world. How the stories and the struggles all seemed to center around that loss. How it prevented my return to work for a period, and how I have my carefully curated triggers that bring the loss flooding back. How I can't remember crying much before Dad died, I can almost cry on command now… (and to be honest I'm a better person because of it) But in this context I also talked about how the grave is significant because I cannot live with that grief all the time.

Even when it was fresh the ache and the tears always led to a sense of numbness that wrapped the world in a shade of gray and the fuzzy silence that reminds me of floating in a pool with your ears submerged. I grew capable of feeling the loss, for a moment at a time, and then for more… I stopped hoping that Dad would be standing there every time I walked around the corner in mum and his house. I began to be ok with little rememberances like wearing a coat of his that mom gave me… His birthday came and went and I almost forgot this last year. And that is all to the good.

I think we need graveyards because they allow us a place to take all of that hurt, and loss and pain, and lock it away for the days when it is appropriate to dwell there. Days like today… where I had the honor of seeing the complete normalcy of a Dad holding his screaming kid and speaking calmly to him that he loved him, and that once the little guy was calm he'd be allowed to play within the boundaries he had been given. A day where I couldn't have stopped the tears if I wanted to; and I certainly didn't want to. Because there is a season for everything under heaven, and for today, for me, it is a day for mourning.

And if you are reading this with a sense of slightly confused sympathy, I'm happy for you. I really am. And I hope that pleasant naivete lasts as long as it can. But someday you'll know the truth of this whole process in a way that I would not wish on anyone. But in that day, when the light seems a little dimmer and the noise of creation is a little bit quieter, take the time to grieve. Because even the Lord of the universe wept at the grave of his friend.

Most importantly today was also a day to walk away from that grave, to get back into the car and to move on. Because I don't live on that hill, and no one does except memories and dust. And that is a wonderful thing too. Because my Redeemer lives, and in my Heavenly Father's house are many rooms… and somewhere up there an ever increasing group of men and women that I love are living a life that I cannot even begin to imagine. But for today I must walk the path appointed for me, in the manner that they taught me to. And that too is a powerful thing. And one that includes, but is not limited to, a hillside in South Dakota.

A painful place to start again.

It is a particularly odd exercise to find myself writing again… It has been a very long time and to be perfectly honest I'm not even sure how long it has been. I have  recently been reminded that due to circumstances this summer I have deprived my (admitedly tiny) audience of my questionably literate ramblings about camp this summer.

Unfortunately this is not due to the lack of ability to write, it is due to the lack of ability to be in attendance at camp for the fullness of the summer. And while I hope to be more present at camp in years to come… this may be the end of being able to take full seasons and spend them in that way. Just one of many things that I am currently in the process of internalizing and properly mourning; and on that list the topic of camp is a relatively minor concern, which should indicate the importance of the list itself. However those are topics for another post, and I shall relegate them thusly. Instead I have a more timely topic and I shall focus on it. 

Today was a day where a great man was memorialized and buried. Earlier this week Marvin Reinhold, A man I always knew as Grandpa (or very occasionally as Tige), passed away. And while by all accounts this was as normal of a death as could be expected it still hurt. Grandpa Reinhold was 85 years old and the last time I saw him he had a sparkle in his eye that easily rivals my two year-old nephew for mischief and joy. Grandpa and his wife were among the heart and soul of a camp ministry called Rainbow Bible Ranch, a place I called home for many years. I must that particular camp was a training ground for much of what I am even today. We mourned Grandma Reinhold back in 2004 and now we mourn the loss of Grandpa. And as grief is odd and hard to translate into anything coherent I will instead fall back on one of the old cliches and tell you who Grandpa was to me by telling a story.

At some point in the past, the late 90's or so I was at Rainbow for a week of camp. By this time I had already attended several summers and had fallen in love with the annual ritual of attending camp, riding horses, and growing spiritually in ways that took the rest of the year to fully process. This year was no exception, and as the normal camp routine on thursday night dictated we watched a movie called The Harvest. Even then I knew the story well, so I listened to it more than I actually watched and let my thoughts drift around the themes the story discussed. At the end the staff always use the film to present the gospel and allow the opportunity for campers to respond and have one on one conversations. Although I was quite assured of my salvation I took advantage of the opportunity to talk to a staff member and discuss what had been stirring in my heart and what we in Christian circles summarize as "the call". Well that night I ended up paired with Grandpa Reinhold.

He looked at me with those gentle eyes that always seemed to look right into the depths of your soul and loved you anyway. He asked me what was on my heart, and I rambled for what felt like hours. I told him how I didn't know why or how it would look but that I felt called into some kind of ministry, and even though I had no clue what that would lead to (and in some ways I still don't) I knew the next step was to work there. Grandpa just looked at me, and with absolutely no condemnation, ridicule, or doubt just smiled and then placed both of his huge hands on my shoulders and began to pray over me. And the next year (whenever it was) I started on the road to working at camp. It was a long journey and one fraught with devastation and triumph. I grew a lot at that camp, and through that time Grandpa was often a voice of comfort and encouragement. Even when my confidence in myself wavered, or when I had done something incredibly stupid Grandpa would smile and with surprising gentleness would spur us on to greater things.

The craziest thing about this story? It's not unique at all. In my own memory it is one sliver of almost a decade of time spent there at that camp, and these moments were so frequent as to be almost taken for granted. I say almost because they always meant the world to us every time they happened. The other thing you should know (and I suspect some of you might) is that my experience was only one of (at minimum) hundreds of others who experienced the same. If the greatness of a man is measured in how he does justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly with God then Grandpa Reinhold was among the greatest men I have ever known. And in the same way that I cannot wait to meet my own Father on the other side of this mortal coil as a man whole and without sickness, I cannot wait to see all of the stories I was told fully realized and see the soul reunited with a body that can finally keep up.

But tragically, that day is not today… So, farewell Grandpa. my mentor, my guide, my example, my encourager, my brother in christ, and my friend. I will see you again. But not yet… Instead may we all be worthy of the mantle you passed to each and every one of us that grew up under your teaching. You are missed, and you are loved.

The pain of blessing; Walking among giants

Yesterday was a day of incredible blessing, and one of the (at least recently) most difficult things I've ever done. Yesterday I climbed into my new car, and drove off for another brief time in Wyoming.

For those of you in the know, this may cause some puzzlement. Why should getting a astronomically huge upgrade in vehicles cause any sort of emotional difficulty? I mean, I drove a car that I loved to be frustrated with and that had major breakdowns on a semi-annual basis. Not to mention the convenient vent holes in the rusted out body panels, or the windows that would happily roll down... but only roll back up through a heroic feat of strength. And why would it be sad to say farewell to the purposefully avoided thought that I drive all over the midwest and the car doesn't have a spare tire for the increasingly likely event of a flat. Well on the one had it's sad because that car was a huge blessing regardless.

That car was a gift from a dear brother at a time of need. I had recently lost my other vehicle to a collision with a deer and was without a vehicle or the means to acquire one. And in that place of helplessness my friend gifted me my little green car. A car that we had both spent countless hours driving/riding around in during high school. A car filled with good memory and well-earned rust and dust. And it served me well for over three years. I learned to drive a manual in that car, and to keep a set of earplugs handy because it out  roared most heavy machinery for the first two years until I could get the muffler fixed once again.

I learned how to pull a starter out of that car and that a stubborn starter can sometimes be awakened with a hammer. I took that car to camp for three summers, and it faithfully got me there, faithfully had some major mechanical issue while I was there, and newly repaired faithfully carried me home again.

I will miss that stupid thing... it was a daily reminder of grace and provision. Not abundance, but enough.

And now I look at the car that I own and I struggle calling it mine. Because forever in my mind this car is my father's. Sleek, black, and filled with a host of modern bells a whistles it is a thing of beauty. I loved this car when it first replaced our old “canadian battlewagon” during the cash for clunkers program. And I loved this car whenever I borrowed it for short periods to drive around town.

Me and my little brother took this car to Chicago when we moved him home... and for a very brief moment we thought that it had been stolen (and it had in a perfectly legal but no less annoying manner). I remember this car sitting in the garage for the last two years. Every time any of us would return home there it would be, as a steady reminder that its driver was gone, but he would never be forgotten. And in a very real sense that car was a comfort of the greater things my heavenly father was gifting my earthly one even now.

And now I own that car. And I am ecstatic and sad. Because that is my dad's car. And it's like a small hug to be able to feel his presence every time I see it. But I also can't help but know that there now is an empty garage at my mothers house because of that blessing. And I can't help but be reminded that dad is gone, and that he won't be returning to take back his car.

I was swamped with all of that joy, sorrow, and a surprising amount of raw pain right as I was saying good bye to my mother. As we both stood in the doorway to the garage she said “it's yours now” and completely against my better judgment I burst out crying and said “no it's not” after an indeterminate amount of time, several long hugs and more tears than my precious male ego would tolerate in almost any other context I got in the car and drove off...

It's amazing how humbling it is to be blessed so completely over the last month. I was surrounded by a family that I love dearly for almost the entire time. And I got more sleep than I have in years. Coming up on two years without dad it still remains a bit odd to not have him there. And as I played with my cute nephew bearing his namesake this last week  the bittersweet rolled over me again and again.

So why the title? Well... I've said what seems like hundreds of times now that this sort of pain is good. Because the loss (and the blessings) are the result of an incredible group of people that I get to call family. Would that all people be so blessed this side of heaven.