Living in the Here and Now

In early June, our family went camping with some dear friends on Mount Desert Island, off the coast of Maine.  It was our first time tenting in years.  The kids (four boys and one girl, ranging from ages 5-11) were in all their glory as they ran wild across the campground, shouting, laughing, fighting, and singing. All the while finding a few too many inappropriate things to throw into our campfire, which was growing alarmingly large.  Given it was our last night together, and the campground was so sparsely populated, with only a handful of other campers in view, we let the kids be kids. Well, that is until one boy accidentally threw fire at an adult. We figured that must be the sign it was bedtime. 

The next morning as we were packing up, an elderly gentleman who was tenting a few sights up gestured for my husband to come see him. Jason headed towards the man, fairly sure he was about to call us to task for letting our children run around like the wild animals which inhabit Acadia National Park. I noticed after several minutes had passed by, they were still talking.  This meant one of two things:  either this man was reading Jason the riot act or Jason had made a new friend.  After fourteen years together, I can assure you, Jason can make friends with anyone, anywhere, in any frame of mind.  It's one of his most lovely qualities, even though it routinely causes us to be late.   Well, this cold-hearted pastor knows a thing or two about drawing him out of these conversations.

As I approached them, the elderly gentleman greeted me warmly and immediately apologized for the movie he and his daughter were watching the prior night.  They confessed their embarrassment over the foul language in the film, and were concerned it had disturbed our lovely children.  Jason and I made eyes--grateful we weren't in trouble--and listened as the man began telling us his story. 

This elderly gentleman was approximately 85 years old, and a retired naval Chief Petty Officer.  During his time in the service he traveled to a variety of places along the East Coast.  All the while, his wife stayed home with their five children.  She died last year. In honor of her life, and their love, he wanted to make this cross-country pilgrimage, stopping at many of the places that had been important to them during their life together.  His daughter, a schoolteacher closing in on 65, had joined him as a travel companion. They were visiting from Dallas, Texas and driving across the country on scenic back roads and tenting the entire way.   

There was something about this man I could not shake, days and weeks after parting ways.  In part, of course, was that he was tenting. At his age, to enthusiastically choose to set up a tent, crawl into it, sleep in a bag on the ground, arise the next morning stiff, take down the tent, drive hundreds of miles, and repeat day after day--well, that was simply stunning. Mind you, much of my vocational ministry involves working with those in early and late retirement--many of whom accomplish great feats day in and day out.  However, most of those feats don't require so much on ones aging body.  I had been unsure how our three nights tenting would go--let alone the eight weeks they were tenting. 

However, what really stayed with me was the man's deep love for his wife, children, grandchildren, and God.  He spoke of his family with a radiating joy.  He knew he belonged to God, and this pilgrimage was a gift.  He urgently wanted Jason and I to know that the time we have with one another and our children was precious.   It doesn't matter if our children are loud, or fighting, or messy.  All that matters is that we appreciate the here and now, this precious time we have with them, with one another, and with God. 

Wisdom is often imparted by the dying as they prepare to move from this world into the next.  It is truth in its most sincere form, and no matter how many times the wisdom is imparted, it resonates.  It is less common from the living.  This man's vigorous energy and radiating joy have been unshakeable.  Primarily because,  from the moment I laid eyes on him, he reminded me of my grandfather.  Tall, lanky in his younger days, wearing a stiff, blue hat indicating he was a veteran over his white hair.  However, that is where their similarities end. 

My grandfather, who is also 85, served in the Army, was a prominent state trooper, and in retirement gave countless hours to the American Legion.  Yet for a man who gave so much to his community, he gave so little to those who loved him, in spite of himself.  For a man who was honorable in public, he was an unfaithful husband too many times over, and a father that was unable to tell his children he loved them, that he was proud of them.  Sure, he had his own ways of trying to say these things, but it's left a wound in each of them. 

As a young child, I remember his smiles, his laughter, his warmth upon receiving a hug or an 'I love you' freely given as only children can given. He would even say, "I love you" back to me, something that never ceased to startle my mother.  But it stopped when I turned sixteen. I would offer myself the same, but the response was less warm, and his "I love you" response became "See you later".  At the time, it stood out, even stung.  But there was such an abundance of love from my two grandmothers that I let it go.

In the coming years, I learned more about his unfaithfulness in both his marriages; about the ways he routinely emotionally wounded his children.  I was, and at times remain, torn between feelings of righteous indignation that he would treat his wives and children this way, and empathy at his own fragility and brokenness.  After all, as a child he had suffered his own deep wounds that had ill prepared him to love and live well. When I would see him, a piece of me wanted to tell him to grow up, to learn to treat those around him better, and the other part wanted to give him a hug and assure him that in spite of all his ways, he is a beloved child of God. The more I grappled with these two contrasting feelings, the more I distanced myself from my grandfather, and honestly, everyone in the family system. I didn't know how to take a role in the circular rhythm that seemed to center around him.  It was easy to do, as I moved further and further away due to college, and then later for work.  The last time I saw my grandfather was when we buried my Aunt Debbie in the spring of 2016. He was a frail man, who needed the help of a walker to move around. 

These days my grandfather is a shadow of his former self. This is the result of Alzheimer’s destroying his brain, causing him to do and say even more outlandish and hurtful things to those around him.  His spouse and children are doing their best to tend to this very broken man, as they try to sort through and set aside the very wounds this man imparted. I watch from a distance, many miles away, only offering my prayers for him and those caring for him.  Yet even from where I sit and watch I can see it is messy, hard work, which leaves one feeling as though they are physically ill. 

I have worked with numerous parishioners with forms of dementia, and parishioners who are caregivers for those with dementia.  It is a cruel and devastating illness, no matter the circumstances.  Yet there is a deep sadness that such a broken man, will never have a chance to make things right.  Unlike the tenting elderly gentleman, he can never apologize to his wife for his shortcomings; he can never call his children by their given name and tell them that he loves them, that he is proud of them.  He will be unable to impart wisdom as he lay dying, instead he will disappear altogether until death finally takes him. 

As I reflect on these two men, who share their age, physique, and love of country, I wonder if there is a lesson on learning to live in the here and now.  I am sure the Texan had his imperfections and shortcomings.  However, his radiating joy and love of family were obvious to us, complete strangers. His willingness to seize the day and spend two months traveling across country and tent with his daughter exemplifies living each day to the fullest.  An illness will prevent my grandfather from ever expressing his love, or to ask for forgiveness, let alone a road trip.  

However, those of us standing by can take note.  We can apologize when we make mistakes.  We can confess our shortcomings, and receive the grace and love of understanding from family.  We can tell our spouse and children that we love them.  We can seize the day and do things we never thought we would.  We can choose love over fear, again, and again, and again.

My ministry centers on a saying by Henri Frederic Amiel, which was adapted and turned into a blessing.  As I continue to reflect on these two different men, I know that I will lean into the sentiment captured in this blessing. Join me, if you will. 

​"My friends life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us, so be quick to love and make haste to be kind. And rest assured that God is infinitely more concerned with the hope of our future than the sins of our past. May the blessing of God Almighty, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be with you now and always. Amen."