"Reunion"

It had been almost two and a half years since I had last seen her. And I had actually only seen her once in the past five and a half years. While we had talked almost weekly, I still didn’t know what to expect. Even the possibility that I might see her now wasn’t set in concrete. I knew she was in the area and she had called the day before to ask what time our church services were. But even then, there was no guarantee.

As I stood on the platform with the choir for the first service, I kept my eyes open…scanning the congregation so see if she may have slipped in without my noticing. That had happened once before many years ago. I was still coaching and we really didn’t know each other that well. She had come to a wrestling match and sat in the stands…watching, cheering, waiting. But I didn’t see her until it was all over; until it was almost too late. I’d learned my lesson and always tried to keep a watchful eye for her since whenever I thought there might be even the slightest possibility she would be there.

The first service passed and still, she wasn’t there. I walked from one entry door to the other, like a child on Christmas Even…waiting, watching, hoping. With a watchful eye on the time so I wouldn’t be late to line up for choir for the second service and the other on the entry ways, the minutes ticked away. Three minutes until we were to walk in, so I moved into my position in line…disappointed that perhaps she wouldn’t make it. Standing in conversation with a friend, suddenly I felt someone grab me from behind.

As I turned, it was a friend that I knew she was planning to attend with. My heart grew and began to beat at a more rapid pace. As we exchanged hugs, I peeked over his shoulder…hoping, expecting, wanting to see her. But the hallway was empty. Again, my heart began to sink. Maybe he was here to tell me that it wasn’t going to work…that it was just too hard for her to be there.

Suddenly, he began to look around as well.

“I know there are a couple of beautiful ladies around here somewhere”.

He began to walk toward the far entry and I followed, forgetting for a moment that the choir would begin to walk in for second service in only a minute. I looked to the right and left. Perhaps they were in the ladies room, I thought. And then I saw them…more specifically, I saw her.

I’m not sure if my heart started racing…or if it just stopped beating altogether for the next few moments. I really don’t know how long I stood there…probably seconds, but it seemed much longer. She was exactly as I remembered her. Her long blonde hair still styled as it was the last time I saw her. Adorned in a white jacked with a fur collar, it reminded me of the first time I met her…in a school parking lot at a semi-clandestine meeting. Her make-up perfect, her smile radiant…her demeanor, as hesitant as my own.

My feet began to move again as I slowly walked toward her. My arms opened, welcoming her into a hug…holding her perhaps a moment longer that I should have, but not long enough for the feelings welling up in me. While my inner being screamed at me to give her a tender kiss, I pulled away and told her how good it was to see her and how good she looked. I could see one of the choir lines begin to move and I hastily apologized for having to leave and get in for the service…telling her that I would see her in a little bit.

As we sang our songs and led the congregation in worship, my eyes kept returning to that spot near the left aisle…three seats in, eight rows back. Watching her as she sang and worshiped the Lord. Tears pooling in my eyes as I realized that we weren’t a “couple” any longer and the great treasure that I had lost. It seemed that we were on the platform longer than usual…most likely because I wanted to sit in the empty chair…left aisle, eight rows back, fourth seat in.

Finally, we sang our last number and exited the platform. Gathering my stuff, I entered the back of the sanctuary and found my way to the empty chair beside her. As I sat next to her for the next forty minutes, it seemed like nothing had changed. We were together…side by side, sitting in church. I found it difficult not to reach for her hand…or slide my arm around her holding her close. But I didn’t. Now wasn’t the time. I’m not sure there will ever be the “right” time again.

We spent the remainder of the day together, enjoying lunch (which she insisted on paying for as I slipped her some more money). We visited as though there wasn’t a 30 month gulf between the last time we sat side by side, talking about family, work, God. The time flew by much too quickly and we soon found that it was time for me to leave.

Ours is an unusual relationship. Divorced, yet in love. Separated, yet in touch regularly. Certain that a relationship right now is not what would be good for either of us…or for both of us. I’ve never loved anyone in the same way as I love Paula. I don’t know when we will find ourselves side by side again…if ever, but that one day together will be a day I remember forever.

Photo from Flickr

Remembering the "Wild Things"

My sister had told me it was a movie that I really needed to watch with my little brother.

“It’s a boy’s movie”, she said.

And she was right. As I sat and watched the DVD, I found myself laughing out loud and remembering my own childhood.

Building snow forts and making an arsenal of snowballs…ready for the next fight.

Sliding on my belly in the snow, believing that I must be invisible and able to sneak up on the enemy with my snowballs at the ready…not thinking about the bright colored snow coat that I was wearing.

Rolling down a hillside…head over tails…and laughing out loud when we got to the bottom.

Designing a “fort” in the dirt with the end of a pointed stick with the mandatory towers and “secret chambers”.

Having fights with dirt clods.

Picking teams between the “good guys” and the “bad guys”.

It was a “boy’s movie.” I don’t have a lot of really great memories of childhood. But watching a young boy in the movie “Where The Wild Things Are” helped me to remember some of the times that I spent with my brothers and sister as a young boy myself.

Times of playing in the freshly turned fields with the furrows of dirt and sod still moist and fragrant with a deep earthy smell. Remembering how angry dad was that we had moved some of those furrows out of their neat, parallel rows to make our forts, sometimes stacking several layers of sod on top of one another to give better protection from the dirt clods that would soon be flying our way.

I remember the times in the woods, climbing the cedar trees as we played hide and seek or cowboys and Indians. Watching my little brother Jeff in amazement as he would scurry up and down the trees more like a monkey than a boy. His apparent lack of fear as he would jump from limb to limb…from tree to tree. Whereas I would begin to shake if I got much higher than two or three limbs up off the ground, he would casually go to the top, even as the tree would begin to bend over under his weight.

“Zulu warfare” played in the wooded area down near the little creek. Each of us with long limbs torn from the nearest tree, our child-like imagination transforming them into carefully crafted “spears”, intent on impaling each other like the warriors on the African continent that gave name to our war games.

Dragging our snow sleds up the hill on the county road on cold winter days after a fresh snow before the gravel trucks came through to ruin the slope with coarse nuggets of rock that would slow our descent. First, the trip down the hill a couple of times with the toboggan to create a layer of packed snow and ice. Then we could begin to have the races on our sleds…each taking a running start and flying down the hill. At times, hand fighting each other and forcing the other off the bank…and on at least one occasion, into the creek below the bridge. After hours of play in the snow, the wet clothes would come off and a cup of hot chocolate would help to restore the heat to our bodies.

Sometimes, we need a reminder of the pleasant memories of our childhood. We need a trigger to refresh the stories of our past. We need to remember that it wasn’t all bad…that there were time of fun and laughter. Right now…I’m smiling as I remember.

Photo from Flickr

"I'll eat you up, I love you so"

Max looks back over his shoulder…scanning the horizon. His little sail boat starts to move away from the shore. The look in his eyes says it all. It’s not complete. Something is missing. And then he sees him…Carol running up over the dunes to the shore. He wades out into the water, but it’s too late to hug Max…or even to say ‘goodbye’. The two look at each other for a moment and then Carol tilts his head back and lets out a “howl”. Max responds with his own “howl” as the two communicate with this bizarre exchange of “wolf calls”.

By now, the tears are streaming down my face. The sobs are uncontrollable as they fight to escape from the deepest parts of my soul. It’s not uncommon for me to cry at movies…especially films involving kids, but this seems different. Usually the tears come because a child is hurt, or lost or sad…or crying themselves. But in this case, Max wants to leave and go back home. The movie ends with his eating his soup, looking at his mom with a smile on his face and happy to be where he is. So why did I find myself reacting like this.

I’ve thought about my reaction a lot since I turned the DVD player off in my little home. And the more I reflected, the more I realized how much like Max I was at one point in my life not too long ago. In the movie “Where The Wild Things Are”, a young boy runs away and finds himself on an island with strange creatures…make believe creatures. And while he is there, he starts his relationship with the inhabitants based on a lie. He says that he is a King. And as he spends more time with these creatures, they begin to develop a relationship…a friendship…perhaps even a level of love for one another.

The two primary characters in the story are “Max” and “Carol”. There is a scene mid-way through the film where Carol scratches a heart with the letter “M” in it indicating his love for this young boy. Near the end of the movie, when Max has realized that he has hurt Carol, he goes to a special place to find that Carol has destroyed a dream world that he had created. He bends down and creates a heart with the letter “C” in it from the twigs and scraps strewn about the ground.

Pondering those two scenes helped to cement in my mind the anguish that I felt about the movie. For a number of years, I had been living the life of a young teen boy. I was searching for something that I had never found in my own youth. Relationships and friendships… I would find them in chat rooms. And while I was there, I would create my own lie about who I was and what I was. No claims to be a king, but it might as well have been that outlandish. In my mind and in my heart, the relationships seemed so real and the feelings that I would develop for the teens on the other end of my chats were genuine. But like the creatures in the movie, they were really only a figment of my imagination.

The last chat relationship that I had prior to my arrest was with a young man named “Chase”. He was 15 years old and in our imaginary relationship, two months older than I was. We spent countless hours together talking and sharing about the things that teenage boys talk about. School. Hobbies. Fears. But there came a day when the friendship ended and I had to re-enter the land of reality. I didn’t get to say good-bye. I didn’t get to explain who I was or what I had done. I don’t know if he cried or screamed or what. I don’t know if he was sad or confused or hurt. It was just over. We didn’t get to “howl” together.

I’m glad that that season of my life is over…that I’ve come to a place where I can be satisfied with genuine relationships. Like Max in the final scene in the movie, I’m happy to be home. But there is also a realization that I left some damage in my wake…that I may have (and probably did) hurt some young people along the way because of my selfishness. And so, as I sit and watch films or hear stories of the separation of friends, I’m sure that I can expect the tears and the sobs to return. But next time, I’ll be ready and understand their source.

Photos from Flickr

Illuminating the Scrim

There is an amazing type of fabric that is used in the theater world called scrim. This material has the unique property that if light is shined on it from the front, the material is opaque and you can’t see what is behind the curtain. However, if it is lit from behind the curtain, the fabric becomes transparent, revealing a new scene to the spectators in the theater seats.

As I read about this material, it prodded me to think about my own life and what I’ve kept hidden behind the “curtains” for most of my life. And more importantly, why I wasn’t able to see things about my personality, character and experiences that were there. Even those people who knew me the best…my wife, friends and family weren’t able to see me for who I really was.

The analogy of scrim has given me an understanding that I never had before and it is helping me to understand not only who I am, but also who some very important people in my life are. I am discovering that if all you do is look hard from the outside, you’re not going to get to see the whole person. But that’s what we tend to do in our humanness. We look at the “visible” and make a judgment about who or what the person is. If they’re not well-dressed, we may perceive them to be of “below average” intelligence. If they drive an “old beater”, we may decide that they are poor or destitute. If the color of their skin is different from ours or the language they speak is different from ours, we tend to avoid them and treat them as if they were alien not to our country, but to our planet.

The reality is…we are all different and unique. We will never be able to understand who others are, or who we are, until we take the time to readjust the light in their lives. This is often uncomfortable because we don’t always know what is going to be revealed behind the scrim. It feels safer not knowing what the whole story is…what images or memories or failures or experiences might be lurking behind the fabric. So, we tend to keep the light shining so that everything is opaque and invisible.

In my own life, I’m learning to allow the light to move from the front of the curtain to behind it. I have to admit, some of the scenes that are revealed are not pleasant or comfortable. But, I need to know. And as I continue to readjust the light in my own life, I’m discovering that others that I care about can become more comfortable looking behind their curtains as well.

Photo from i.weiss.com

Embracing the Leper

The policy of the visiting district is “No travel for sex offenders will be approved for recreational purposes.” Therefore, your travel request is denied.

As I sat staring at those words on my Blackberry, trying to comprehend the words on that tiny little screen, I could slowly feel my heart grow heavier in my chest. It didn’t make any sense. I had been told that there would be no problem. I had made plans…airline tickets had been purchased. I had a new set of custom made golf clubs in the trunk of my car. I had been going to the driving range to improve my game so that I wouldn’t be an embarrassment to the men I was going to be playing with. There HAD to be a mistake!!

But, it was no mistake. My request to travel to California on a short golf vacation with friends had been denied. Even my attempts to appeal the denial were turned down. There was nothing more for me to do than to let my friend Paul know what had happened so that he could find someone to take my place on short notice.

I’ve reflected on the words of that brief e-mail that I received from my probation officer a number of times over the past few days and I realize that the heaviness of my heart really doesn’t come from the fact that I don’t get to go on a golf trip. Not that I don’t love to golf… I do. And not that I wasn’t looking forward to this opportunity to travel with friends…because I was. The weight is my chest is caused by a much deeper realization. Two simple words in that e-mail that are completely life altering, because it places me in a class of people that are outcasts.

In Biblical times, there was another class of people that were outcasts from society. In fact, they were so unwanted, that if they came near people, they were required to call out, “Unclean! Unclean!” Members of mainstream society were forbidden to have contact with these people, and if one were so bold as to touch them, they too would find themselves cast out of the community. These people were “lepers” and their condition caused them to be isolated and separated from all of society.

It has taken millennia for leprosy to be more clearly understood and for treatment options to be developed. But even with a greater understanding of the disease, there is still a stigma that will always be attached to those who have the disease. And so it is for me, and literally thousands of others who carry the same “scarlet letters” – “S.O.”

But, I’m learning that the first place that the stigma has to stop is with me. I’ve had to forgive myself for the choices that I made. I’ve had to accept that my moral core is not the person who spent countless hours on the internet in places I didn’t belong. And I’ve had to accept that my future is not what I thought that it would be ten years ago.

There is a story in the Catholic Church of St. Francis of Assisi embracing a leper one day on the road.

He could ride on. There is no reason to stop. As he passes, he can throw down his last coin to the leper. His horse lifts one hoof and paws the dirt. It is time to go on, to go home. As Francesco drops his hand to the reins, his eyes fall upon his own expensive, well-fitting glove, and it dawns on him that this leper is not wearing gloves, which is odd; he and his kind are required to wear them when they leave their hospitals, just as they are required to wear and ring their bells to warn the unwary traveler of their approach. Again Francesco looks down upon the solitary figure of the leper, who has not moved a muscle. His hand is still wrapped around the cord of the bell, his head arrested at an angle. He is like a weather beaten statue, and Francesco has the sense the he has been standing there, in his path, forever.

The leper watches him with interest. His blasted face is bathed in sunlight; the black hole that was his eye has a steely sheen, and a few moist drops on his lips glitter like precious stones. He moves at last, releasing his bell cord and extending his hand slowly, palm up, before him.

This supplicating gesture releases Francesco, for it dictates the counter gesture, which he realizes he longs to make. Without hesitation, he strides across the distance separating him from his obligation, smiling all the while as if stepping out to greet an old and dear friend. He opens his purse, extracts the thin piece of silver inside it, and closes it up again. He is closer now than he has ever been to one of those unfortunate beings, and the old familiar reaction of disgust and nausea rises up, nearly choking him, but he battles it down. He can hear the rasp of the leper's diseased, difficult breath, rattling and wet. The war between Francesco's will and his reluctance overmasters him; he misses a step, recovers, then drops to one knee before the outstretched hand, which is hardly recognizable as a hand but is rather a lumpish, misshapen thing, the fingers so swollen and calloused that they are hardly differentiated, the flesh as hard as an animal's rough paw. Carefully, Francesco places his coin in the open palm, where it glitters, hot and white.

For a moment he tries to form some simple speech, some pleasantry that will restore him to the ordinary world, but even as he struggles, he understands that this world is gone from him now, that there is no turning back; it was only so much smoke, blinding and confusing him, but he has come through it somehow, he has found the source of it, and now, at last, he is standing in the fire. Tenderly he takes the leper's hand, tenderly he brings it to his lips. At once his mouth is flooded with an unearthly sweetness, which pours over his tongue, sweet and hot, burning his throat and bringing sudden tears to his eyes. These tears moisten the corrupted hand he presses to his mouth. His ears are filled with the sound of wind, and he can feel the wind chilling his face, a cold, harsh wind blowing toward him from the future, blowing away everything that has come before this moment, which he has longed for and dreaded, as if he thought he might not live through it. He reaches up, clinging to the leper's tunic, for the wind is so strong, so cold, he fears he cannot stand against it. Behind him, the horse lifts his head from his grazing and lets out a long, impatient whinny, but Francesco does not hear him. He is there in the road, rising to his feet, and the leper assists him, holding him by the shoulders. Then the two men clutch each other, their faces pressed close together, their arms entwined. The sun beats down, the air is hot and still, yet they appear to be caught in a whirlwind. Their clothes whip about, their hair stands on end; they hold on to each other for dear life.

From "Saint Francis Meets a Leper on the Road", by Valerie Martin

That moment transformed Francis’ (Francesco) life. His perception of who, and what a leper was had been changed forever. That’s where I am today. I’ve embraced the leper, for he is me. And I pray daily that our society will embrace “lepers” of every form in the same way. Fortunately for me, God has placed men and women around me who embrace me and love me for the man I am inside. Not the man with the scars of my own form of leprosy…but the man after God’s own heart that I was created to be.

Sculpture by Timothy Schmalz

Photo from Flickr

Coffee Time

I was jarred by the ringing of my cell phone as I sat watching the end of the golf tournament.

“Hi, it’s me...from group. Are you busy?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Do you want to meet for coffee or something?”

Before I answered, I sat there in stunned silence for a moment. This was a new experience for me. I’m not used to people calling me out of the blue on a Sunday afternoon to go have coffee. It’s not that I was too busy, nor did I have any place else that I needed to be anytime soon. It was just something new.

“Uhhmmm….sure. Where are you now?”

We set a place to meet at a Starbucks midway between where he was and I was and I cleaned up and got in the car for the short drive. As I drove, I wondered what he might want to see me about. He was definitely a man who was dealing with a lot of issues and I was glad that I had been able to help him over the past few weeks.

On Thursday night during our group, he mentioned to us that his unemployment had run out and that the trailer that he had been living in was no longer available. He was living in a “low rent” apartment until he was able to find a new place to live, but he did have a lead on a place. His car is in the shop and he isn’t sure when they will have it fixed for him and he can’t start his job at the golf course until he has transportation. The State was graciously providing him with $15 a month for food stamps, but that would hardly feed anyone for even a few days.

After group, I asked him if he could use a little help and after swallowing his pride, he accepted twenty dollars from me. As we walked down to our cars to leave, we visited for a moment about the lead he had a place to live and I offered to help him with his rent if it worked out and if his family wasn’t able to help him right now. He promised to call if he needed help. True to his word, he called on Friday and came by my work to pick up some money to pay for the initial rent on his room.

I heard from him again the next day. He was calling from a motel where he had found a bed for another night. His cell phone had been disconnected for non-payment and he had no money for food. A quick stop at the bank and I swung by his motel to drop the money off. As he opened the door to his tiny room, the odor of stale cigarette smoke was almost overwhelming. He offered me a cup of coffee, which I kindly refused. We shook hands and as he headed to his car (borrowed from his ex-wife) so he could go pay his cell phone bill, I walked back to my car and went about my day.

As I drove away, I reflected on how blessed I am. I could have found myself in the exact same place he was. Society isn’t kind to those who have served time in prison and in the current economy where jobs are difficult to find…they are even more difficult for a person with a record. But I am fortunate to have a strong support system of family and church which has provided me with a good job, a nice place to live and the love and support needed to make it during this valley of my life.

As we walked into the Starbucks on that Sunday afternoon, I bought us our drinks…a skinny mocha for him, a non-fat latte for me and we found a couple of comfortable chairs in the corner. There was a part of me that was wondering “what next”, but a bigger part of me that was just enjoying some company. For the next two hours, we simply visited. He talked about his family (one of 13 kids of an abusive, alcoholic father). He shared a story of reconciliation with his dad that occurred because of his arrest. We talked about the frustrations that we face as a result of our choices and the mutual commitment that we’re not going to let that lapse in judgment define our entire lives. He told me about the conversation he had with his dad that morning about “his friend” who is helping him right now to just survive and the advise that his dad gave him to accept the friendship. And I told him that he needed to consider me on the bottom of his “payback” list. His first concern when he started to get an income again was to pay off his treatment and make sure he has a roof over his head and food in the cupboard.

Before long, it was time to go; me to church and him to another appointment. I’ve never been one to just take the time to sit with a friend and simply visit. I’m not sure when he will call again, but I have a hunch that it will happen. And when it does, there will be no hesitation on my part. We’ll simply find a place, buy a cup of liquid caffeine, and spend however much time we have to enjoy the company of a friend.

Photo from Flickr

Nudges, Bridges and Miracles!

I was rounding the curve on one of the back roads on my way home from choir practice when I felt it. A slight nudge. A nearly audible sound…like there was a person next to me in the car. Or perhaps, a voice from the radio speakers that were playing softly in the car.

“You need to make sure Debbie and Geoff know. Frank may not have called them.”

It was that simple...that plain. Not grandiose words or a long, drawn out narrative. Just simple words telling me that I had a job to do.

Only hours before, my brother Frank had called to tell me that we would need to cancel our dinner engagement for Friday night. We had planned to get together so I could deliver some Christmas gifts and catch up some since we hadn’t visited for over a month. He went on to tell me that he needed to cancel because his wife Clare’s dad had died suddenly the day before and the funeral would be on Friday. I quickly extended my condolences and told him that is would be no problem to schedule for another time and asked how he and Clare were doing. He told me that he and Clare's dad had grown close over the past ten years, but he was doing OK. We visited for a few more minutes and I hung up.

At choir practice, the director opened with an invitation for prayer requests. I sat there quietly as member after member shared their requests to the group and the list grew.

“Please pray that I find my cat’s eye medicine. I just bought a new bottle yesterday for $85 and it has disappeared.”

“Peggy’s mother is in the hospital and it doesn’t look good. Let’s pray that God will give her a sense of peace about her mom.”

“Brent lost his job last week and we have a wedding coming up in a couple of months. Brent really needs a job.”

As I sat and listened to the other choir members naming their requests, I felt led to ask for prayer for Frank and Clare.

“My brother Frank’s wife Clare’s father died unexpectedly on Monday night”, I shared. “Could we pray that God would provide comfort and strength for them?”

It was added to the list and after a few more moments, we joined in prayer and lifted up all of the requests to God…agreeing that He would hear and meet our many needs. I had NO clue how God was going to answer my own request.

Our family structure has been fractured for years. In fact, I haven’t been in the same room with both of my brothers and my sister at the same time in over ten years. Actually, I have no idea the last time we were all together. But I do know that it has been the desire of my heart for over a year that we might all be together again. That there might be healing in this family of four. That whatever ever wounds are still open that have created a chasm too wide to bridge would finally find some healing.

And so, as I rounded those curves on a dark, rainy evening, I made a decision to be careless. Even as another silent voice screamed at me, “NO Mark!!! Stay out of this, it’s not your place to get involved!”, I pulled out my Blackberry and started to enter a short e-mail to Debbie and Geoff. Now I know that a convicted felon on probation probably shouldn’t take a chance by breaking the law and sending a text while driving my car, but the sense was so strong that I needed to be doing this. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the Blackberry as I crafted the message, glancing down when I dared to make sure that the information was correct and hit the send button.

What happened over the course of the next 48 hours can only be described as a miracle. After various e-mails and phone calls, Debbie and Geoff said that they planned to attend the funeral on Friday. I have to admit, I had a little bit of apprehension about what might happen. Although Frank knew that I would probably be there, I hadn’t told him that I had notified Debbie and Geoff about the funeral and he had no idea that they might be there. I knew that it was going to be a hard day for both Frank and Clare and I didn’t want to be the cause of any more heartache or distractions on the day they were burying a man they both loved.

“Could we pray that God would provide comfort and strength for them?”

As we arrived at the church and entered the sanctuary for the beginning of the service, an astonished Clare came over to greet us. It took only seconds to realize that we had all made the right decision to be there. The hard, clinging hug and the tears streaming down Clare’s cheeks were the first indication. The heartfelt words of appreciation that we were there came next. After a few moments of visiting, we took our seats and awaited the beginning of the service.

Moments later, the bagpipe played the haunting melody of “Amazing Grace” as the casket was wheeled in, attended by six men serving as pall bearers. I almost didn’t see him. Looking older than I had ever seen him, my brother Frank walked with one hand on the casket and his head down alongside the casket. In that moment, I knew that this man he called his “father-in-law” was indeed a special man in his life. Clare wasn’t the only one who had lost a father…Frank had as well.

We spent the next ninety minutes rising and sitting as the full Catholic mass worked its way to completion. Scriptures read of loss and love. Prayers recited for all those groups who this man had represented. A humorous eulogy that left me feeling as though I wished I had known this man. And then it was over. The family gathered and followed the coffin out as it was taken to the Cadillac hearse for his final trip to the cemetery.

As Debbie and Geoff, with his wife Lynn, and I waited for Frank and Clare to return, I wondered what the reaction would be when Frank and Geoff met. Theirs is the most tenuous relationship and up until now, any bridges laid down to restore it had not been crossed. Frank soon walked over and gave me a hug, thanking me for being there. He moved on to Debbie and embraced her as well. I couldn’t help but hold my breath as Geoff stepped slightly forward and Frank pulled him into his arms. I could be wrong, but it seemed that he held him for just a moment longer and perhaps a little tighter than he had Debbie or me.

We stood and visited for nearly an hour. I wished it could have been hours. The tears that would occasionally find themselves appearing in the eyes of my oldest brother may have only been tears of grief over the loss of his father-in-law. But I think they were more. I believe they were tears generated by a sense of love and appreciation for the four of us being there with him and Clare. Tears that come when our hearts are filled to overflowing with emotions that we can’t quite explain. Tears that I found myself fighting back as I watched a little bit of youth restored to the man who appeared so much older only hours before as he walked beside a casket.

“Could we pray that God would provide comfort and strength for them?”

My prayer from only two days earlier was indeed answered! I had seen God’s love provide strength and comfort for my brother and his wife. But I had seen more. I had seen God’s hand in helping to bring healing and restoration to a family that needs it by nudging each of us across a bridge not yet crossed. God is definitely still in the miracle business and he blessed me by being a part of one in my own life. I could have chosen not to ask for prayer. I could have listened to the ‘negative’ voice telling me to mind my own business. We all could have simply been “too busy” to take time to go to a funeral of a man we had never met. But God was working in the lives of a family that He loves and that He desires to see restored.

Bridge photo from Flickr

Family photo by Clare Lyons