And Their Absence Thereof

At 6:30 am, Steve's hospital pager went off. When he called in, they said someone had just died and the family members were asking for a chaplain. (As a rule, if a family doesn't have a pastor of their own, a chaplain is called.)

Steve was out the door in a jiffy and since he's been gone, I've been sitting here thinking of that family, caught up in death's aftermath.

Birth and death are such universal experiences and both of them so drastically change the lives of those around them. One of the privileges of being a pastor (and a pastor's wife) is that we are invited into those most sacred, painful, intimate parts of a person's life. It's a trust we never take lightly.

And speaking of being a pastor, I would like to thank everyone from our previous church, First Assembly in Smithfield, who sent cards, prayers and compassion after my dad's death. You'll never know how much your love and concern meant.

In yesterday's post, I finished out my series on Dad's funeral and my trip to Wisconsin; this week I'll get going again on regular ol' Smith life. I also have an announcement I'll be making soon concerning Life Transition news.

There's lots of good stuff going on, including the fact that I am planning on getting out of my pajamas today and attempting to face the real world. Hurray for me! Hurray for the real world! Hurray for pajamas!

And their absence, thereof.

A Hello To Heaven

It's been a week already since Dad was buried. Hard to believe. Hard to grasp. Hard to get used to.

A few days ago I was driving to the grocery store when the reality of his loss hit me anew and I suddenly just blurted aloud, "Dad is dead."

Almost instantly I felt my throat tighten and the tears well up.

After just a moment or two had passed I changed tactics a little and said instead, "Dad is in heaven!"

For him--what a lovely change of place. For me--what a lovely change of pace.

Sorrow to gladness in 4.5 seconds. How grateful I am for the hope of heaven.


We committed Dad to the hope and the hands of heaven last Saturday in the serene and lovely Shamrock Church and Cemetery.


For me at least, the small family ceremony we had there in the midst of that halcyon piece of heaven was the most meaningful, poignant part of the day.

First, as I've mentioned before, there was the graveside service. . .






And then we walked up the hill to the church so that we could spend a little extra time together. (My brother Phil is to the left of Mom; my brother Mark and his wife, Nancy, are behind them.)








On the way in the door, Mom gave the old bell a good pull which was a really nice way to send a hello to heaven.



The service in that diminutive sanctuary was not formal or excruciatingly well organized; we just meandered happily back and forth between the sharing of memories and the sharing of old hymns.



This is my oldest brother, Tim. His wife, Berit, and son, Andrew, are beside him.


Sarah said that her grandpa's nickname for her was "Bumpee" and that she remembered him coming to the hospital during her cancer treatment to cheer her up.



In between the memories shared, different people would yell out favorite hymns and away we would go on a song. Fortunately, I got cut my teeth on church hymns so I was quite happy to do the "piano honors."



One of the highlights of our informal gathering was when Randy invited the ladies forward to sing. Guess who played the piano for THAT musical number? Not me, that's who!


It was such an inspiration to witness a woman who had just buried her husband still be able to find the emotional strength to sit down at a piano and play, "What A Friend We Have in Jesus."

Although her husband and earthly friend was gone, her best Friend was very present in that room while we sang.



At the end of that lovely hour, we got ourselves organized for a family photo. I've always been the type of person who loves taking pictures before and after the "real photo" and so that's what I did.







Eventually, everyone got lined up and we photographed a memory.


Following the sharing of the pictures, the memories, and the music, all of us joined hands and said The Lord's Prayer together. To my mind, there are few sounds on earth any sweeter than family voices wending their way through the dusty sacredness of a tranquil, country church.

After the final "Amen," was said, some of the family members stayed around to chat.

This is my sister, Ruth, her husband, Arnold (on the left) and our cousin, Jonathan.


As a few of us walked back out to the cemetery, I happened to notice that my nepehws had developed their very own wonderful and wacky way of walking.


My siblings and I have grandparents, great grandparents and great great grandparents who are buried in that cemetery; after a bit of searching, we found some graves with familiar names.

This is the grave of my dad's parents. The last name isn't "Campbell" because Dad's birth dad died when my dad was just a couple days old. His mom later remarried.



Even though the afternoon at that church was so very special, the most meaningful part of the day for me was thinking back to when when I was a young girl and remembering how our family would occasionally drive half an hour or so from our home to the church. (The church was always unlocked back then. It is also also quaint enough that it still has "working" outhouses!) We would go and sit in the sanctuary during the week, just to enjoy its serenity and its beauty.

I remember so well how I would take my little girl self up to that platform (with mom playing the piano) and belt out songs to the empty pews, picturing in my heart the day when I would stand on church platforms and sing for real.

It's hard for me to even express how special it was for me to go back there for the first time in almost forty years and sing in that very same spot, surrounded by the members of my family and accompanied once again on the piano by a lovely, godly, musical mother. (The only difference is that Dad wasn't listening to me sing and cheering me on, which he did for me my entire life.)

During those magical moments last Saturday I kept saying to myself, "Don't rush through this. Don't think about tomorrow or next week. Don't worry about selling the house or finding a new church. Moments like these don't come very often and they're gone almost before they begin.

I reminded myself to honor the memories that brought me there, to honor the memories that were being made, and to honor the man in whose memory my family and I had gathered.

And most of all, I hoped that the memories, the music, and the prayers we had offered that day would all coalesce into a holy hello--a hello to both of my fathers who are in heaven.

__________________________

VIDEO NOTE

I wasn't able to type this info in the video entry below so I'll introduce the video here instead.

In the post below, you'll find a video of us ladies singing, "What a Friend We Have In Jesus," the song that I wrote about in the post above.

Halfway through the video, you will also see my "unofficially adopted brother" Ron looking like he is catching a fly by hand. (Ron has many ways of making our family smile!)

I would also like to add (concerning the video) that it looks like Phil is lending assistance to my Mom because she can't walk easily by herself. The truth of the matter is that Mom takes many walks a week on her own and the fact that Phil is being so solicitous is just a wonderful picture of how thoughtful and caring my big (tough) brother actually is. (Love ya, Phil!)

Large Church People

Once again, I remain in my pajamas at 2:30 pm, trying to get up the gumption to have enough gumption to get any gumption.

Sigh.

I've been working on a long post but got bogged down when my brain dug in its heels and refused to take even one more step. (If brains are, indeed, able to "dig in their heels.") So now I'm going to drop back and punt.

I don't actually know what "drop back and punt" means, but I've ALWAYS wanted to try and use a sports analogy in my writing. And now I have!

Does that mean I can go back to bed now?

For a very long time?

I actually did have a funny thing happen to me yesterday that gave me a good smile. Steve and I had been feverishly working on a letter (having to do with our transition) and a line that we had written was supposed to say, "Becky enjoys having large groups of church people over to our home."

However, when we went back later to proof read the letter we saw that what we had actually written was , "Becky enjoys having large church people over to our home."

With all these calories I've been eating lately, it won't be long until I AM a "large church people."

Anyway, I got a good chuckle out of that.

Steve's beeper just went off and so he is headed out the door to go to the hospital. He's on call this week as a volunteer chaplain and has to wear a beeper and be within a half hour of the hospital twenty-four hours a day.

Here he is in his official uniform.


So he's off to offer help and I'm staying at home to ponder the state of the universe.

And finish a blog post. (Which is actually very therapeutic for me.)

We had Sarah's 14th brithday party last night which will be covered on her site in the next day or two. She had a wonderful time (even though it was the simplest of parties) so that made my mamma heart very happy.

Alrighty then. I think that's the extent of my brain power/emotional reserves for the moment.

Dad Woulda Love It

I honestly think that our family sort of alarmed the funeral home people at the church where Dad's funeral was held. I don't think they were quite used to a semi-rowdy visitation. I think they probably went back to the funeral home and compared bewildered notes saying, "That family! They were so . . . so . . . loud! And . . . and . . . so cheerful!"

Our family is large and our family is loud. And even at Dad's visitation, we were pretty much prone to conversation and laughter.

Dad woulda loved it.

At his funeral, the sanctuary was reserved for the casket and a quiet meditation area and the lobby was set aside for a "visiting with each other" area. During the time right before the funeral, the lobby was full of people who hadn't seen each other in a very long time. In fact, Sarah and Nathan were introduced to so many previously unmet relatives, their heads were no doubt spinning.

"Sarah, this is your Grandpa Campbell's sister's son-in-law's daughter." (Or something like that.)

She and Nathan gamely smiled and shook hands with oodles of Wonderful Relatives Who Were Hitherto Strangers. They hugged and chattered and chatted for ninety minutes straight and seemed to enjoy every moment of the cheery familial chaos.

Sarah actually happened to know these particular relatives--my brother Phil and his daughter, Jessica.



Phil, Sarah, and our "adopted brother," Ron.



Ron loves to act goofy and get other people to act goofy with him.



At one point during the morning, I went into the bathroom which was just off the lobby. I stood for a minute and listened to the hullabaloo going on beyond the bathroom door and I thought to myself, "That doesn't sound like a funeral visitation. It sounds like a party!"

Dad woulda loved it.


The funeral included two 15-minute sermons; one by Steve and the other by my brother-in-law, Rev. Randy Mantik.



The funeral also featured drums (with playing duties shared by Debbie and Nathan), electric bass guitar (Steve), electronic keyboard (me), great harmony, (Debbie and I, singing with Randy) a couple hymns and one really rockin' praise song.

Here's Debbie, in her natural habitat. (This was during rehearsal the night before the funeral.)



And here's Debbie's big sister, doin' her thing.



Randy, filling in on the bass during rehearsal until Steve could get there from the airport.



Steve and Debbie goofing off together after the rehearsal. After traveling seven years together, the two of them are as close as blood brother and sister.


It was so wonderful to make music with my family again. It was great to have a wonderful blend of traditional music (It Is Well With My Soul) mixed in with a kickin,' fast song. And it was especially heartening to see people on their feet, clapping, smiling and singing with the greatest gusto,

When we all get to heaven
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus
We'll sing and shout the victory.

Dad woulda loved it.

Dad loved music. In fact, he and Mom spent the eight years before he died faithfully making the rounds of twenty-two nursing homes in the area, singing and playing their instruments. (Even when failing health should have kept them home.)

He was all about music. He was all about sharing his love of music and his love of the Lord.

We got to join them on a nursing home visit when we were visiting them at Christmas. What a treasured memory.







Immediately following Dad's funeral, my children happened upon this particular item in the youth hall at the church.



I found it especially appropriate that they would be playing Foosball on the day of their grandpa's funeral because for seven years (back when I was a teenager), Mom and Dad ran a youth center in Sparta, WI. It was a place for teens to hang out and listen to Christian music, read, talk, and play games like Foosball, pool and table tennis. (Dad loved Foosball but was especially good at pool. )

His Place attracted a wide variety of people--soldiers from nearby Fort McCoy, drug pushers, church kids, troublemakers, high school sports heroes, troubled kids, good kids--at one time or another, most of the kids in our small town made their way into His Place.

In fact, I got an email yesterday from a dear "lifetime friend" who grew up in Sparta and was often at His Place. She had these memories to share:

I remember your Dad fondly for all of the hours he put into His Place. His love and concern for the youth in Sparta was amazing. I couldn't fully appreciate it at the time, but I look back and see nothing but the unselfish giving of himself and his finances so that others would hear the Word of God, be saved, and walk in new life. His heart and his passion was to see people come to know the Lord.

God used your Dad to make a huge impact on the lives of so many young people, including me and my brothers. During those critical teen years when so many "opportunities" tug on your heart, His Place offered a refuge, a safe haven, and a fun place for kids like myself to hang out, be encouraged in my faith, and have that support from other Christian kids. Your Dad also served as an informal mentor and father figure to the kids who came and went from His Place.

I'll never forget one night I was down there showing you and a few other people my graduation pictures. One guy named Dan was there and looking at the pictures. His comment was something along the line of, "Those pictures are good enough for Playboy."

Your Dad was standing there and immediately corrected that young man, saying that women were to be respected and that comment was out of line.

That conversation continued as your Dad wrapped his arm around Dan's shoulders and walked him away from the where we were all standing, talking in a lowered voice for just the two of them to hear, as a Dad would with a son.

So many memories...God rest his soul.

And so, having said all that and given you all that history, I thought it would be safe for me to close out this post with highly incriminating pictures that will prove to the whole world that I was actually spotted playing Foosball mere moments after my own father's funeral.






Dad woulda loved it.

__________________________________

By the way, I'd like to thank those of you who sent cards (AKA envelopes full of joy) to my favorite Mom. I actually got to be there when she retrieved a few of them from the mailbox and it was so great to see her excitement. She said that cards are still continuing to arrive.

Tomorrow I'll close out the Trip to Wisconsin series with a story about our family's post-funeral jaunt through the Wisconsin countryside to a place where we experienced laughter, music, tears and memories. (Not to mention outhouses.)

The First Call Home

I just talked with my mom on the phone for the first time since getting home from Wisconsin and also for the first time since Dad's death. (I hadn't called her earlier in the week because she had several family members staying with her.)

No one ever told me it would be so hard. No one ever told me that when she picked up the phone, it would be so hard knowing that I could never again ask to speak to Dad. That I would never again hear his voice in the background yelling, "Love you, Becky!"

When I hit the button on the cell phone tonight, the readout came up as, "Mom and Dad." I wondered how long it would take me to erase the "Dad" part of that.

Maybe never?

After I hung up the phone, I sat at the kitchen table and just sobbed. Steve came down, discovered me in my distress and comforted me with hugs and gentleness and Kleenex.

It's only been one week since my Dad's death and already tonight my mom was telling me that she's thinking of volunteering at a local youth center because, "Maybe some of those troubled young ladies could just use a loving grandma to listen to them."

Dad's heart for ministry will continue to live on through her, through his children, and through his grandchildren.

But while his ministry continues, his life doesn't. And that is so hard.

And it's especially hard when I hear the echo of his absence during the first moments of that first call home.

DUH!

After I had written about our recent trip to the coast, I got several comments saying that we shouldn't discount living out there without doing further research and also that we might not want to turn down the opportunity of moving there just because there are a lot of tourists.

I've spent the last couple days mulling over those comments and trying to figure out what they meant. I knew that I had gone on and and on about how much we had actually LIKED the Manteo area and we weren't at all discounting the idea of living out there.

And then it finally HIT me! (Hence, the "Duh" in the title.)

I finally realized, much to my chagrin, that when I had painted Manteo with such a flattering brush, I had inadvertently NOT painted Outer Banks and its towns in an equally positive way.

So to those readers who live on the Outer Banks, please accept my apologies. (Even though all of you were exceedingly gracious in your comments.)

I must say that when we were on the Outer Banks, we did see many lovely places. In fact, we stayed overnight with some church members and absolutely loved their neighborhood and the sea grass and other flora that surrounded their home. I have also visited different areas of the Outer Banks in the past and have enjoyed the quaint towns, picturesque lighthouses, and great natural beauty. It's truly a lovely area.

So having said all of that, let me change gears for a moment and explain a little bit about the decision making process for finding a new church.

First of all, we would never choose (or not choose) a church based solely on its location, just like we would never choose a ministry opportunity based only on the salary package offered.

Just to illustrate that point: When we went on the road full time back in 1989--I was four months pregnant at the time--we took a seventy percent pay cut AND we moved from a custom built house to a 270 square foot travel trailer. (That was our full time residence.) We made our decision based solely on what we perceived God's will to be for our family and we ended up successfully living that lifestyle for fifteen years!

In the same way, when it came to not pursuing the church on the Outer Banks, we made that decision for many reasons, none of them having to do with location.

If you've ever made a big decision like this, you know very well how complicated it can be. Even today, Steve has been on frequent phone calls with a variety of pastors, leaders, and advisers as we try to start putting some pieces together.

It's a scary, exciting, stressful, wonderful time!

In fact, with that many emotional combinations, I think the only thing left to do is to bring out the Little Debbies!

School Question

Sue G. asked in the guest book why I had enrolled Sarah in a school when I had said earlier that I would be home schooling.

Yes, I AM home schooling Sarah, but I'm doing it through an online school called Bridgeway Academy which oversees the process, by offering placement testing, record keeping, academic back up and other helpful stuff.

I'm a bit overwhelmed at the whole prospect right at the moment (it's yet another thing to slam into my already overloaded brain) but once we get it all figured out, I know Sarah and I will have a grand ol' time!

And, Sue, your other rhetorical questions are officially going unanswered because if I answered them, they would no longer be rhetorical.

A Redneck Limo and Hot Rod Lincoln

Today I'm going to take you along with me on yet another leg of the The Wisconsin Journey. And lest you think that all Wisconsin Journey stories are sad, I am hereby going to tell you a funny Wisconsin Journey story.

Well, at least it was funny to me.

Last Thursday night, I was at Mom's house and I needed to borrow a car from someone to run an errand. I was going to use Debbie's car until I realized that it didn't have an automatic transmission. I have driven a manual transmission once or twice in my life, and it was not pretty.

The only other vehicle remaining at the house at that particular moment was my nephew Ben's car, which looks like THIS.






Do you see the spotlight near the driver's door side mirror? Do you see the black painted hubcaps? Do you see the bar "thingie" over the grill? Do you see that the front of the car says, "Interceptor?" Did you notice that it's a Crown Vic? Do you think that the vehicle looks like a former police car?

Well, it IS a former police car.

It is a car that just SCREAMS, "This vehicle is only to be driven by a person who is young, cool and male." It does NOT in any way, shape or form scream, "This car should be driven by a 47-year old, semi-stodgy, carb-inhaling, pastor's wife from North Carolina."

I went outside and stared at the car. It stared back at me from behind its menacing, police car headlights. My brother, Mark (Ben's dad), came out to observe the staring contest.

After a few minutes he said, "I bet you're too dignified to drive that car."

I thought to myself, "Yeah. I really don't have any strong yearning to drive a souped up Interceptor with black hub cabs around town."

But then I thought, "What could be better in life than to prove a big brother wrong?"

So I said to him, "Of COURSE I want to drive this car. Throw me the keys!"

Once he got over his shock, he passed the keys over to me. I managed to get behind the wheel without too much drama and get the car started. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mark was still smirking happily at the thought of his introverted, dignified little sister even sitting in that macho car, let alone driving it.

And then I had a thought.

The thought flashed through my mind in an instant and I knew it was the absolute perfect thing to do. Because how often does one get to step briefly outside ones' persona and do something unexpected?

I knew that Mark was expecting me to slowly creep out into the street and drive away with a dainty dollop of delicate decorum.

So what did I do instead?

Well, first of all, I shifted into neutral and revved the engine a few times. Loudly.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw Mark grinning in delighted disbelief.

And then? Well then, I slammed the car into drive and squeaked the tires as I pulled out!

I was so proud of myself. What other pastor's wife do you know who was out last Thursday night, squeaking the tires on a Crown Vic Interceptor with black hub cabs?

After my impressive "squealing away departure," I drove (a little more sedately) for a couple miles to a nearby convenience store. As soon as I pulled in to the parking lot, it was clear that a couple guys had noticed my arrival.

They stared at the car. Then they stared at me. Then they stared at the car again.

I could hear their thoughts as easily as if they had shouted them out loud.

"WHAT in the world is THAT woman doing driving THAT car?"

You know what? I was asking myself the same question.

But it was still a really fun thing to do.

Here I am, trying to put on my serious, tough, cool expression. Are you intimidated yet?

And just so you know that Ben comes by his love of "interesting" cars naturally, here's a look at the back of Mark's car.



Yessiree. My big bro drives a Redneck Limo and Hot Rod Lincoln.

And guess what? I am now an honorary member of "Mark and Ben Club," since I, yes even I, have morphed from a mini van mama into a redneck woman!

Well, at last I was a redneck woman for a few minutes.

Today, however, I'm back to my mini van.

And I'm okay with that.

Really, I am.

________________________

Alright, let me put aside my redneckedness for a moment and talk about some other things . . .

This morning I sat and read and re-read all the comments that you all have left in recent days. I've been comforted, challenged and inspired by hearing your stories and experiences. Thanks to each one of you who has shared a piece of your heart on this site. I LOVE hearing from you!

I think that today I may actually get out of my pajamas and attempt to get on with my life. I'm a little behind the eight ball in getting Sarah started with school since the last couple weeks of life have been a bit challenging.

So today is crunch time. Whether I feel like it or not, I will do the mound of paperwork that has to be done and get Sarah going on her placement tests. The school she's enrolled in officially starts on September 3rd, but they said we could start a little later than that, due to our unexpected travel and the funeral.

So since I really do need to get a lot of stuff in the mail today, there will be no more lolling about. (Well, at least until tomorrow.)

Hmm. I think I could write a song about that, in "Annie" style.

Tomorrow, I'm lolling
Tomorrow I'm lolling
You're only a day away

Groan. Yes, I know that was bad.

I'm going now.