What God
Has Been Teaching Me Lately
"And it's hard to forget her, because she sculpted a life in you." That's the phrase I heard on my radio and it caught my ear. It was spoken by an older man with the most lovely island accent. His name was Sy and he was speaking to his daughter Yvette about her mother, his late wife Pat. They were discussing what their loss felt like on the NPR feature, StoryCorps.
Sy described his wife's slow demise due to blood cancer. He described how they had always been so close over the decades of their marriage. He likened their relationship to one stream flowing together. Then, there came a split in the stream. Cancer created two paths. But, he explained, at the beginning, "We were still close enough to hold hands." As the cancer continued, he painfully described how they were being torn apart from each other, knowing death was eminent. Yet, he observed, they could still see each other and smile at each other. Then, near the end, he said how she floated away--separated by that gulf that death creates. Now, he is a solitary stream. His story told in his voice was so moving to me. He drew a beautiful picture of long, deep love. And I could hear the sound of long, deep loss in his words, in his sighs and in his silence.
He then spoke directly to his daughter. He said that what remains of his soul mate Pat, he sees in her. "And it's hard to forget her, because she sculpted a life in you," he says. "You are her handiwork, and whenever I look at you, I remember your mother." Sy said that Yvette was her mother's handiwork, but I like to think she was her "happy work." What a beautiful thought for you and me to ponder today.
What is your happy work? If life's stream were to carry you away, what of you would remain? In what or whom have you invested cheerfully?
Another phrase caught my ear this week. This time, it wasn't on the radio; it was at a funeral. "I'm not here to impress; I'm here to bless." Those words hung in Ben Birdsong's office. I sat at his funeral this week and heard his friend tell of Ben's happy work. He cared about unity in the body of Christ and that all would be blessed and know Jesus. That was his happy work. God carried him home yet, his happy work remains in the lives of so many he influenced and invested in.
We all leave parts of ourselves in the lives of everyone we touch. If sorrow carries us along a stream of loss and separation that we never intended, we can be buoyed by the hope that our "happy work" will remain long after we leave. So, let us, like Pat and Ben, invest cheerfully and tirelessly in the lives of others.
"So let's not allow ourselves to get fatigued doing good. At the right time we will harvest a good crop if we don't give up or quit. Right now, therefore, every time we get the chance, let us work for the benefit of all, starting with the people closest to us in the community of faith." Gal 6: 9, 10 (The Message) Well, that's what's been percolating in me
lately, and if you'd like to hear my friend Ben's last recorded
words--his happy work--click here.
"And it's hard to forget her, because she sculpted a life in you." That's the phrase I heard on my radio and it caught my ear. It was spoken by an older man with the most lovely island accent. His name was Sy and he was speaking to his daughter Yvette about her mother, his late wife Pat. They were discussing what their loss felt like on the NPR feature, StoryCorps.
Sy described his wife's slow demise due to blood cancer. He described how they had always been so close over the decades of their marriage. He likened their relationship to one stream flowing together. Then, there came a split in the stream. Cancer created two paths. But, he explained, at the beginning, "We were still close enough to hold hands." As the cancer continued, he painfully described how they were being torn apart from each other, knowing death was eminent. Yet, he observed, they could still see each other and smile at each other. Then, near the end, he said how she floated away--separated by that gulf that death creates. Now, he is a solitary stream. His story told in his voice was so moving to me. He drew a beautiful picture of long, deep love. And I could hear the sound of long, deep loss in his words, in his sighs and in his silence.
He then spoke directly to his daughter. He said that what remains of his soul mate Pat, he sees in her. "And it's hard to forget her, because she sculpted a life in you," he says. "You are her handiwork, and whenever I look at you, I remember your mother." Sy said that Yvette was her mother's handiwork, but I like to think she was her "happy work." What a beautiful thought for you and me to ponder today.
What is your happy work? If life's stream were to carry you away, what of you would remain? In what or whom have you invested cheerfully?
Another phrase caught my ear this week. This time, it wasn't on the radio; it was at a funeral. "I'm not here to impress; I'm here to bless." Those words hung in Ben Birdsong's office. I sat at his funeral this week and heard his friend tell of Ben's happy work. He cared about unity in the body of Christ and that all would be blessed and know Jesus. That was his happy work. God carried him home yet, his happy work remains in the lives of so many he influenced and invested in.
We all leave parts of ourselves in the lives of everyone we touch. If sorrow carries us along a stream of loss and separation that we never intended, we can be buoyed by the hope that our "happy work" will remain long after we leave. So, let us, like Pat and Ben, invest cheerfully and tirelessly in the lives of others.
"So let's not allow ourselves to get fatigued doing good. At the right time we will harvest a good crop if we don't give up or quit. Right now, therefore, every time we get the chance, let us work for the benefit of all, starting with the people closest to us in the community of faith." Gal 6: 9, 10 (The Message)
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