Joy and Sorrow

Yesterday I received some very bad news. My aunt Ginny, who has been very much a mother to me in the past 30 years, raised my sister, and has been a grandmother to my children, has terminal cancer. What she initially thought was a rotator cuff problem turned out to be a bone tumor, which was actually a secondary tumor, having spread from one in her lung. We got through the initial shock of that, and she was starting radiation for the shoulder, when more tests turned up tumors in her brain, liver, adrenal gland, and lymph system. The estimate is that she has between 3 and 12 months to live.

Needless to say, it has been a hard time for all of the family, none moreso than her husband Jim. I've been fighting a sense of deadness over this news. I haven't really been in denial, but I've had trouble grasping the reality of it. This is a vital, vibrant woman. She has had some tough times in her life, but has always fought back hard, bringing joy and blessing to all those around her. And she will continue to do that, I'm sure. It's not within her to be morose and self-pitying. Her biggest concern is for those she will be leaving.

It is hard for me to imagine a world without Ginny. She has been Nana to my kids since my oldest was born. After my parents died, she traveled down to Mexico to take care of my sister Alison, who was injured in the crash that killed our parents. She and Alison have shared a special bond since then. When my new wife and I moved to this area, we naturally leaned on Ginny, and really chose to go to Richland Hills Church of Christ because she was there. What a blessing that has been!

It was in this semi-dazed, somewhat mournful frame of mind that I went to our Wednesday worship service. I spoke to a couple of people coming in, answering their "How are you's?" truthfully with "I've been better." As the worship started, take a guess what the first song was.

The Joy of the Lord.

Here I am, grieving over the news I still have not completely taken in, and we sing The Joy of the Lord. If you're not familiar with the song, these are the beginning lyrics.

The joy of the Lord will be my strength

I will not falter, I will not faint.

He is my shepherd, I am not afraid

For the joy of the Lord is my strength.

It continues in that vein. As you might guess, it is a very joyful, exuberant song. Not exactly in line with my mood, right? And yet as we sang the spirit of the song overtook me, and I began to sing wholeheartedly and with conviction. Before long I lost myself in the joy of the Lord, in praise and worship of the one whose gift is joy.

Joy comes not from easy times, or from a life that lacks hardship. There is no such life. Joy is sometimes unexpected, but always welcome. It can come through new life, as when a child is born. It can come through beauty, as when the sun shines through clouds to highlight a flower. It can come through laughter, through meeting old friends, through victory, through learning. It can even come through sorrow.

I am reminded of the time the family had gathered for my Grandma Gill's funeral. It was a time of sorrow, to be sure. We were saying goodbye, and that always hurts. But a time of joy also came out of that sorrow. Several of us gathered at Grandma's house (a trailer, really), and went through her things. Understand that Grandma was not wealthy by any means. She had no great store of possessions, and what she did have was of no great quality. But there was meaning there. We all found little things that meant something to us, often gifts we had given to her and Grandpa over the years. I came away with a cheap weather set, barometer, thermometer, and hygrometer, which I had give to Grandpa for Christmas many years before. We found old snapshots, jars of Grandma's pear preserves, rusty knives, beat up fishing lures. All worthless, all precious. And we found joy in the midst of sorrow.

That's not quite what it was like for me as I sang last night. The joy I found came not from memories. It came entirely as a gift from God. I cannot truly explain it, but I did feel joy in the moment, joy in praising God, and strength that came from somewhere else. It certainly didn't come from me. It didn't eliminate my sorrow. But it made the sorrow seem more distant and infinitely more bearable. It's odd, but joy and sorrow can coexist. But joy so outshines sorrow. Sorrow becomes like the moon in daylight. You can see it, but it's not the light source.

There's more here, I know. There will be more sorrow coming. That is the condition in which we live. And there is more God wants to teach me about both joy and sorrow. Because sorrow, too, can be from God. I pray I am open to the teaching. And I pray peace for Ginny, Jim, and our whole family. I ask for your prayers as well.

My Christmas Story

On Christmas Eve, my kids and I went hunting. We were at my father-in-law's house outside Plainview, and we traditionally go pheasant and rabbit hunting at some time during our Christmas stay. This year it was me along with all three of my children—my 25- and 21-year-old sons Brian and Duncan, and my 16-year-old daughter Rachel.

It was really a lovely day, with mild temperatures, blue skies, and—rare for West Texas—light winds. We had a list of dry lakes, milo fields, and brushy areas to visit, and set out in mid-morning to hunt the first one.

We saw no birds there, although both Rachel and Brian saw rabbits. (We're still waiting for Rachel to get her first bird, or her first cottontail.) It was incredibly dusty and dry. Not much rain this year. At the next place, it was the same story. And the next. In fact, we saw no roosters that day, only a couple of hens (not legal to shoot), and a couple of rabbits. That was it. Yet in spite of our lack of game, it was a wonderful day. Rachel, after tromping through brush that came up past her elbows, enduring scratches from sticker burrs, yelled out, "This is so much fun!" And we all agreed.

What did it? What made it such a great day? Partly it was just being outdoors, walking in a land where you can see for miles, and knowing that all of this great sweep of earth and sky is just a small piece of God's good earth. Partly it was the anticipation that at any moment a rooster might flush cackling into the sky, or a rabbit might dash out of the brush at your feet. Hunting gives you a heightened awareness that brings everything into focus in a way that nothing else does.

But mostly it was just being together, enjoying each other's company, talking, laughing, loving.
I am blessed by my children. They are all bright, articulate, funny, and healthy. They poke fun at each other constantly (sometimes a little too constantly), and enjoy the verbal thrust and parry of conversation. They are so different, yet so alike. And, oh, how I love to spend time with them.

When they were younger, we made short hunting forays, and we always enjoyed the time. Each of them was a bird dog before becoming a hunter. Yet they tired more easily of the hunting than I did, and I spent a lot of time hunting on my own with just Paco, my Chesapeake Bay Retriever. Paco is long gone now, and we all miss him. I loved hunting with him. I cannot remember a single bird he failed to bring back, if I did my job and brought it down. There is a special joy in bird hunting with a good dog, and Paco was one of the best. But I wouldn't trade one moment of our hunt this Christmas Eve for all the time I spent with Paco, much as I loved him. I often wish I had spent less time hunting with Paco, and more time with my kids when they were small. But such wishes are pointless. We possess the time we have now, and that time is precious.

I love our Christmases. They are always spent with my wife Shan's family, which has become my family over the years. Usually we have lots of cousins, uncles, and aunts around on at least one day. Those days are okay, and I know they are precious to Shan, who grew up with all those cousins and such. But the best times for me are when we are with just the immediate family. The kids are always eager to open their presents, of course, but over the years they have become even more eager to give presents to others. And there is all the other time we spend together; playing ping pong, watching movies and ball games, looking at old pictures, and our family specialty: our cut-throat card games. We play a game called Liverpool Rummy, and in the midst of the hard competition, we laugh almost constantly.

In times past I used to resent that Christmas didn't go the way I wanted. Shan and I sometimes argued over the amount of gifts we gave to the kids. They are the only grandkids, and Christmas was a big deal for their grandparents. I sometimes resented the fact that Christmas was never at our house (barring one year), and that we didn't establish our own traditions like the ones we had when I was growing up. Over the years, God has taught me to love the traditions we have. I tease that "Santa can't find our house," but in reality I've come to take a kind of joy in that. And I know that I'm blessed to have Shan's family. We are not a perfect family, by any means. We all have warts and flaws and foibles. We disagree, and feelings are sometimes hurt. Yet in spite of it all, everyone looks forward to our Christmas time together. It is the highlight of our year. I thank God for that. I pray it will continue. And when Shan and I are the grandparents, I pray our kids and grandkids always want to be with us at Christmas.

May all your Christmases be equally loving and joyous.