In Search of Comfort

Of an evening I like to find a comfortable chair with an easy reading light and sip a smidgen of bourbon, with a little ice, from a hefty glass while reading The Bible aloud to no one. Please understand that this says more about my humanity, my creatureliness, my search for comfort than it does about my righteousness. I make no claim to that. None. Even the act of reading is a selfish search for comfort, for understanding, for purpose. And I confess I often make more time for bourbon sipping than Bible reading.

Humanity is always in search of comfort. We trust in the certainty of our science, we dream of having confidence in our leaders, and we are uplifted when faith and trust in our fellow man is restored. Sometimes all those things fail us, and we are left grasping for something to hang onto, some eternal comfort. Try as we might we never quite understand the fullness of whatever eternal comfort exists, certainly not in this world. This world is too broken. The small comforts of a few verses read aloud, a whispered prayer, the embrace of someone that truly cares for you, the ease of true friendship, a snippet of song or piece of art or a turn of phrase that encapsulates our feelings ... these are our refuge, our meager comforts, our reasons to continue.

My desperate Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there.

I read Psalm 133 through 136 and learned, or re-learned, that "his steadfast love endures forever." Many times in my life I have questioned God when bad things have happened, wondering the purpose of suffering. In retrospect, which seems to always have more clarity, I've come to understand that it takes both the good and the bad to appreciate the fullness of life I have lived, and that both have brought me to where I am today. I cannot forget the bad, or discount it, because that diminishes me and makes me a shallow, incomplete person. I will not say that I am grateful for those bad things, but I am grateful that steadfast love endures forever.

I read Psalm 137 through 140 and came across a verse that is burned in my brain, Psalm 139:13-14:

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
You knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
That I know very well.

As someone who frequently feels 'not good enough' this is an amazing comfort. But that's a selfish, personal comfort. This particular verse was also part of my morning Bible reading the day of the memorial service for my dear departed niece, Colby Katherine Finn, in May, 2010. I remember reading that verse and getting stuck on "knit me together in my mother's womb" and "fearfully and wonderfully made." At first I thought, "how cruel." At the memorial service, surrounded by friends and family and witnessing the impact of this innocent little one on her community, I had to acknowledge the truth of it. She was fearfully and wonderfully made and that gives me, a 60 year old man, some comfort that I might possibly be wonderful.

I read Psalm 145 through 150 and found some wisdom in Psalm 146 and some hope in Psalm 149:

Psalm 146:3-4

Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortals, in whom there is no help.
When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
on that very day their plans perish.

Psalm 149:1

Praise the Lord!
Sing to the Lord a new song,
his praise in the assembly of the faithful.

I think we have all seen a prince or two that does not deserve our trust. It's a reminder of human fallibility, our inherent craving of comfort above sacrifice. It's wise to be cautious of those who claim leadership and power, regardless of your political persuasion. Distrust is a good safeguard against tyranny, but it also helps to combat our own pride, our tendency to envision ourselves as completely in control.

And as for the "new song," this, to me, is a call to hope. That our song can be new. It does not have to be the same old song. The Psalms themselves are poetry, songs. There is rhythm and meter and rhyme that provides a foundation, a starting place. Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Letters and Papers from Prison, puts it this way:

What I mean is that God, the Eternal, wants to be loved with our whole heart, not to the detriment of earthly love or to diminish it, but as a sort of cantus firmus to which the other voices of life resound in counterpoint. One of these contrapuntal themes, which keep their full independence but are still related to the cantus firmus, is earthly love. Even in the Bible there is the Song of Solomon, and you really can't imagine a hotter, more sensual, and glowing love than the one spoken of there. It's really good that this is in the Bible, contradicting all those who think being Christian is about tempering one's passions (where is there any such tempering in the Old Testament?). Where the cantus firmus is clear and distinct, a counterpoint can develop as mightily as it wants. The two are "undivided and yet distinct," as the Definition of Chalcedon says, like the divine and human natures of Christ. ... Do you understand what I mean? I wanted to ask you to let the cantus firmus be heard clearly in your being together; only then will it sound complete and full, and the counterpoint will always know that it is being carried and can't get out of tune or be cut adrift, while remaining itself and complete in itself. Only this polyphony gives your life wholeness, and you know that no disaster can befall you as long as the cantus firmus continues.

I know no Latin or music theory, but I get the gist. The cantus firmus is the underlying song, the melody of our life. If that is based in God, or if you prefer the greater thing outside yourself, then as long as your loves, your life, your actions are in "counterpoint" or harmony with that foundational melody, then you are in "the song" ... "the story" ... "the poem" ... "the picture."

I believe that in this world, that is where you find comfort. Not in your own song, not in your selfishness, but in harmony with a true song, something above our mortal abilities, something more substantial than earthly comfort.

My Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there. Whether this was God speaking to me or my own desperation to find comfort, I do not know. But it was found.

All of the above is a bit grandiose. Philosophical and epistemological rantings that are well above the pay-grade of a glorified keyboard monkey. My only excuse is that this is the second anniversary of the loss of my love and I still struggle with sorting it all out, with making sense of the joy and the tragedy in the 30+ years of our life together. I'm not as lonely, and I'm not as lost, and I'm not as shocked as I was two years ago, but I am trying desperately to sing a new song, one that is in harmony with something bigger than myself. I'm starting to hum along. A bit. There have been fits and starts and I'm inherently skeptical, but I'm starting to feel the rhythms and anticipate the rhymes. I am hopeful. And comforted. And anticipating the joy of a new song.

Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve 2019 was spent with old friends that I haven't seen in quite some time. For many, many years we would gather at Brenda and David's house on New Year's Eve. Our kids would draw names and exchange gifts. We would watch whatever football game was on, eat, drink, talk, and tease. We would kiss our sweeties and toast when the ball dropped in New York City, 11PM our time. Sometimes we would stay until our midnight. Other times we would head home right after the toast because the kid was sleepy, or because I was.

Kissing your sweetie was an important part of the New Year tradition, like the Southern tradition of eating black-eyed peas on New Year's Day for good luck. The superstition behind the kiss was that what you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve would be what you'll be doing the most of for the following year. There weren't quite as many people at the get together last night. Only a few kids showed up, and they were drinking as much or more than their parents, not exchanging gifts. I didn't have a sweetie to kiss, but that's not a complaint. I was happy to be spending time with friends and that seems like a wonderful activity for the upcoming year.

I spent New Year's Eve 2018 in Sugar Land. Some neighbors down the street invited me to their house and there were a lot of neighborhood people there. Most of them I did not know, but it was nice to meet them and visit a bit and learn a bit about them. I snuck out sometime before the ball dropped, walking the half block back home in a cold, for Houston, wind. Everyone was nice, but I was uncomfortable. The holidays require a lot of social energy, and I was running low.

As I laid in bed that New Year's Eve, sleeplessly watching the alarm clock tick over from '18 to '19, I realized that on New Year's Eve 2016 I did not kiss my sweetie at midnight. She was in Plano. I was in Sugar Land. She had spent New Year's Eve with friends and family in Plano, while I stayed in Sugar Land and unpacked. We had just moved into our new house and there was a lot to do. That night, as she was getting in bed, she coughed hard and felt some pain in her chest. We soon learned that the cancer had returned. That story has been told. I'm not re-telling it all here. I'm not superstitious. Midnight on New Year's Eve is just another moment in time. But it is a marker, a remembering point. Memories are not mistakes or triumphs. They are what you make them, and it seems that over time the good ones win out over the bad.

Last night I left shortly after 11PM. It's a long drive from Plano to Fort Worth and I didn't want to be on the road after midnight with a bunch of rookie drinkers. I was on I-30 headed west with the downtown Fort Worth skyline coming into view when I started noticing sporadic fireworks. Small ones, nothing too showy, probably set off in someone's backyard, hoping the neighbors didn't call the police. Someone's tradition. Someone's superstition. Someone wanting to mark the moment, spark some excitement, and ignite some good luck and happiness for the new year. Here's hoping we all get good luck and happiness in the coming year, regardless of our traditions!

I tossed and turned a bit last night, before finally falling asleep. Anxious, as always, about the things to do and the things undone, I finally relented to sleep by convincing myself that I could put off those things for a fews hours, until tomorrow and a new day.

This morning, as always, the sun came up and life continued, despite the momentous marker of being New Year's Day. I was reminded that today was a dear friend's birthday, the anniversary of another friend's wedding, and a day when everyone "starts over" by making resolutions or just simply being able to close the book on the previous calendar year. I'm not much on resolutions, they seem a bit contrived to me, but I assume they work in their own way for many people because the tradition continues. It makes sense, in a way. It's a permanent marker kind of date. But three or five or seven weeks from now, January 1 is just another day when the sun came up, and it loses the magic, the spark of being a new year.

I feel like I have done a lot of starting over recently. New jobs. New home. New relationships. Starting over doesn't always work out like you want. Too often when we "start over" our goal is to meet our own needs, to make ourselves happier or healthier. I kissed my sweetie on New Year's Eve because I wanted to keep kissing her. I should have been looking at it the other way round. When you kiss someone, do it to make them happy, not for your own agenda or need. Their happiness should be your reward.

If I have a resolution this year it is to be more selfless, to worry about other's happiness more than my own, to ignore my own discomfort if my presence is helpful to someone else. I would like to give more happiness than I take. I don't want to be the person who thrives on conflict and complaint. I've known too many people in my life like that. I've tried not to be that person, but I fear that sometimes I slip into that mode, that mindset that if someone else is happy it is somehow stolen from me, despite knowing that happiness can only be given, not taken. Or, worse, that somehow my happiness is dependent on someone else. What an unfair burden that is. You put them in a no win situation and sure enough, no one wins.

Give some happiness. You'll get plenty in return. Happy New Year, everyone!

Roller Coaster

March 25, 2017

It's been one year since my love passed away. Fifteen months before that we learned the cancer had metastasized. Three months before that she had the last of her reconstruction surgery done, which took several surgeries over 14 months. Before that process started she had been in chemotherapy and radiation treatments for 8 months. That treatment started 6 weeks after the bilateral mastectomy, which was done two months after she was originally diagnosed. That was Halloween, October 31, 2014. If you add it all up, it was three years and five months from diagnosis to death.

Those three plus years were miserable. The worst years of my life. Many people advised me that cancer was a roller coaster with lots of ups and downs. I don't recall any ups. It was a desperate downhill ride. We never found the part where the trajectory became positive. Oh, we had a few moments when we thought the trajectory had changed ... when chemo ended and the hair started growing back cuter than ever ... when the reconstruction surgery provided the cup size she'd always wanted ... when we moved to Sugar Land to reboot and prepare for retirement and maybe some grandkids some day. They were all just foolers, leading you to believe you were somewhere you weren't. It was all downhill. No matter how strong your brave face was, from Halloween 2014 to Easter 2018, it was a slow, struggling descent. The challenge was to stay on the ride, to hang on, because the trajectory might change. Hindsight proves it didn't.

Everyone says you can't put a clock on grief, but we do. We have to, because time is the only thing that heals, or at least makes the grief tolerable. In many ways I think that the grief process has been easier on me than on those who weren't along on the daily descent. I saw Cindy vulnerable, and afraid, and in pain, and hopeless, and helpless. I saw the suffering up close and how much it defeated her, a woman not accustomed to defeat. Yes, her family and friends and co-workers knew she was struggling, and I know they loved her through it. She loved them, too. But to the bitter end she worked to spare them the worst of it, until she just couldn't do it anymore, either physically or emotionally. That was her gift to us all, to be strong, to persevere, to maintain dignity, to live and die on her own terms. She made it as easy for us who remain as she could. It's up to us to learn from that for our lives going forward, and for our own future demise. She will always be my love, but she will also always be my hero. I can only pray that God will give me the strength and courage that my dear Cindy had in her life, but especially in her death.

My family and many dear friends have reached out to me today, knowing it is the first anniversary of my love's departure. I appreciate all of the calls and notes and messages. It helps me to know that I am not alone in my grief, that Cindy impacted everyone she met, that Cindy did not just belong to me. It reminds me that my love was loved by many, and that makes me proud that she chose to go through the dying process with me, that she trusted me to take the ride with her. She will always be my love, and every day I could use her help, I need my right hand, but I also know she intentionally made it easy for me to go on without her in many, many ways. What a heroic thing to do.

It's been one year since my love passed away. I've changed jobs. I've listed our house in Sugar Land for sale. I've purchased a new, smaller home in Fort Worth, and hope to move in the next few months. I've been diligently working on getting a handle on finances, and doing my best to help Griffin on his path forward, though he seems to have it well in hand ... he is his Mother's son. These are all major changes, something psychologists would say are stress inducing and yet, as overwhelming as the details can be, it's all quite invigorating. It's all something that I think Cindy would be proud of me for tackling, instead of climbing into a bottle or dragging everyone into my "woe is me" story.

The major changes include a new relationship with a woman I greatly admire. It began three months after Cindy died. Some might  say, and have said, that it was too soon to have a relationship. All I know is that after my love died the roller coaster continued to descend until Susan changed the trajectory. I'm no hero. I have no answers. I don't know the approved time-table for grief. I know that Cindy wanted me to be happy and that Susan makes me happy. This is a new ride, one that will likely have its own ups and downs. I believe that Cindy would be proud of me for taking the risk, regardless of the calendar, and I am glad that Susan has trusted me enough, so far, to take the risk with me.

It's been a year since my love passed away. I wouldn't be the man I am without her. I want to be a

man she would be proud of going forward. I think I can do that, with just a little help, because as we all know, women make men better. I think I've found one who makes me better, and my intention is to at least enjoy the ride.

This year, will be a good year.

My Big Sister

Dear Whitney and Jessica,

It was an honor to be asked to speak at my sister, your mother's, memorial service. I'm posting my words from the service here, so that everyone knows the love and admiration I had for Jennifer. Your father Dan, but especially your mother, Jennifer, were huge influences in my life. Not only did they teach me ...  they supported me, believed in me, trusted me. Those things are priceless, as you well know.

When we lose someone there are always regrets. The things we didn't say. The things we said that we shouldn't have. The missed opportunities and simply running out of time. I never thanked either of them enough for the things they did for me and there's no making up for that oversight, but they both knew I loved them and that will have to be enough. I love you and your families, too. Holler if you need me.

Love,

Uncle Dexter

---

I am number five of the seven children of Billy and Winifred Turner, almost exactly halfway between my oldest sister, Jennifer, and my youngest brother, Neil. Though I'm number five sequentially, I am, by age, the middle child*. Neil is 12 years younger and Jennifer was 13 years older, which means she was an adolescent when I was born, and she was leaving home at the time of my earliest memories. It's disorienting when you lose a constant in your life. It's like "home base" in a game of tag or kick-the-can has been moved. You're still in the game, but not quite sure where "safe" is.

Dan & Jennifer - summer visit to Pampa

One of my earliest memories is moving Jennifer into a dorm at Texas Women's University. I had never been anywhere with so many trees, and so much humidity! It was an odd thing for a young boy, to see his big sister, a person he idolized, be so excited about moving away, leaving Mom & Dad & brothers & sisters. To this day I can't drive by the oaks on the TWU campus without thinking of Jennifer and the gratitude and excitement she had at the opportunity to learn and add to her life experience.

I also remember parking myself for hours in the branches of a tree in our front yard, waiting for Jennifer to come home for holidays. Until Christina arrived, I was the baby, and I just knew she would be bringing me a special treat, that she would be happy to see me and show me she was thinking of me. She never disappointed. Whether it was a TWU sweatshirt, that I proudly wore to school despite their lack of a football team, or a cassette tape player, complete with The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour tape, she always let me know she was thinking of me, that I mattered, that I was good enough to deserve those gifts.

Jennifer & Thanksgiving dessert

I spent many summers with Jennifer and Dan. I learned a lot and that, I think, was a primary motivation for Jennifer to put up with me those summers. We went to museums and libraries. We wandered around downtown Fort Worth, the biggest buildings I'd ever seen! We visited Fort Concho in San Angelo and the Frank Buck Zoo in Gainesville. Jennifer wanted me to have experiences I couldn't have in Pampa, to see new things and gain a bigger perspective on the wider world. She did everything in her power to do that for me, to instill in me a sense of adventure and a desire to learn.

When I headed off to college Jennifer was always there in a supporting role. My freshman year I broke the rules by living off campus with a friend. Jennifer let me use her address in Haltom City as my residence so the school thought I was commuting and I wouldn't have to pay for a dorm room and meal plan. She coached me on writing research papers. She fed me on weekends and paid me for doing chores around her house, including baby-sitting Whitney, so I could have some extra cash. The summer before my sophomore year, when she was pregnant with Jessica, she spent a long, hot day in Denton finding an affordable apartment for me while I was working in Pampa. She gave me counsel and guidance and, more importantly, confidence in my own choices and decisions. Getting that validation from someone you truly respect, well, it's priceless. I am eternally grateful for that.

Jennifer getting Cindy & Candy ready for a ride

As I grew older and married and had my own family we had fewer opportunities to connect. Throughout my life she was always the older sister, the one who lived elsewhere, the one I knew from a distance, just like my brother Bill. I looked up to them. I admired them. I still do. So many of the characteristics and strengths of my brothers and sisters are things that I use today as standards, as benchmarks. Jennifer was the first born, the leader, the trail blazer. We would all be different people without her example, her influence, and I have no words to express my gratitude for being fortunate enough to be the "middle child" in this amazing group of siblings. None of us are the type of people who are "in your business." All of us are the type of people who will do whatever we can for each other, for family, for friends. For me, Jennifer set that standard.

For years I have cautioned my son, Griffin, that at some point we all have to overcome our parenting. Though we do our best, parents are imperfect. The hope is that love will fill in the imperfect gaps. Fortunately, for me, I have my brothers and sisters. Each of them - Jennifer, Bill, Loretta, Nelda, Christina, Neil - have helped to fill in those gaps in some way or another. As I mentioned before, losing Jennifer is disorienting. There is a part of me that I cannot touch, that I cannot visit to reassure myself about who I am and what I am about. There is, however, comfort in knowing that the gifts she gave me, the important gifts like love of adventure and learning and being supportive of others, will always be a part of me, and a part of our family. And there is peace in knowing that despite the differences of age and circumstance and distance, she loved me. I loved you, too, Jennifer. Rest in that peace, knowing we all loved you.

Dan & Jennifer ... and me, hiding from the photographer behind Dan!

* Nelda, the actual middle child, took some offense at this statement so let me correct the record. She is the middle child. I am simply the child that was equidistant in age between Neil and Jennifer!

Patience and Peace

Thanksgiving in Edmond, 2018

I eat too fast. When I sit down at a meal with friends or family I'm nearly always the first to finish. When I eat by myself it's even worse. Once the food is in front of me it becomes my sole focus. If it's really good food I'm not distracted by conversation or manners, I just keep chewing. I know this about myself, but have only recently been concerned about it. Maybe everyone else at the table is slowing down, or maybe I've speeded up so much that even I notice it. It's a habit I'd like to break.

I'm tempted to explain the behavior by my upbringing in a large family where competition for pork chops was fierce, but that's not accurate. Yes, there were seven kids in my family, but our ages range over 25 years which means we didn't all grow up together, much less eat supper together. There wasn't that much competition for the pork chops. I could probably make some excuse about not knowing any better, not knowing that shoveling down your food was impolite, but you'd think that would be more common sense than training. The truth of it is I'm just impatient.

Recently I've made a new friend. He eats slowly, or maybe he just eats more than everyone else, but in either case he's the last person to finish a shared meal. I have older friends that get accused of eating too slowly, too. Being the last person done with a meal seems to be much more noticeable than being the first one. It's hard for me to be critical of slow eaters because maybe they're not slow, maybe I'm just too fast. I usually defend them, telling others to back off and let them finish in peace, without rushing. Secretly, I'm wishing I had tarried a bit longer over my meal. Savoring seems more mature, and more enjoyable, than scarfing, but old habits die hard.

As a kid I always felt meals were an interruption, so I hurried through them to get back to what I was doing, or to get on to the next thing, such as dessert! Part of it may have been that family meals were almost always a minefield, never knowing what comment or information would trigger a lecture or worse. Part of it may have been the utilitarian nature of meals. They weren't so much an event or opportunity as a chore, something that needed to get done, something to check off the to-do list. Cook the meal. Eat the meal. Clean up after the meal. The tasks had priority over the meal itself. Whatever the case, I eat too fast, and wish I didn't.

Thinking about it now, the fast eating, or rather the impatience behind it seems to be a factor in everything I do. There's a reason I'm not a watchmaker or winemaker. I don't do well on projects that take a long time to come to fruition, or that have tedious tasks that shouldn't be glossed over. In Mr. Mackey's 9th grade shop class, despite being good with the designing of projects and handling of tools, I invariably made a 'B' on my wood working projects. At least I was consistent. They were all marked down because I didn't do enough sanding; I always rushed through the final finishing bits.

It's evident in other ways, too. I'm planning on buying a new car in about 6 months so, of course, I've already begun researching and online shopping. I know if I walked into a dealership today I'd probably drive out with a new car. I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing, since I can often be paralyzed into inaction by the research phase, but I'm not kidding myself. I know it's just the kid in me wanting the toy now, not later.

Too often I approach life, work, relationships, and even grief with this sort of logical process approach. I've done this bit, now what's the next one? And what's after that? And when do we get to the good part at the end of the process, when are we finished? When do we get our grade, our satisfaction, our dessert?

MDPC, Houston - 2nd Sunday of Advent 2018

Today, in the Revised Common Lectionary, is the second Sunday of Advent. The scripture reading was Luke 3:1-6 in which we learn that John the Baptist came to 'make the rough ways smooth' for the coming Lord. It is also the Advent Sunday when we talk about and proclaim the Peace of Christ. I can tell you from personal experience that impatience is no way to find peace, and it does nothing to smooth out the path for you or anyone else. I worry that my restlessness, my need to be "finished," my inability or unwillingness to wait, has made other people's paths rough and crooked, instead of smooth and straight. Some things, however, you can't take back, you can only repent, a primary message of John the Baptist, and try to do better in the future.

This advent season I hope to learn to savor and wait for the hope and the joy, instead of jumping straight to the Herald Angels. I need to take my time and appreciate the peace in the waiting, knowing that the joy is coming, and with the hope that I'll have the opportunity to share all of it gratefully with others. Someday. May the Peace of Christ be with you.