Category Archives: dad

a walk with dad

What do you do on the day after the most painful day of your life?

I’ll tell you what I did. I drove thirty miles down the road to Lake Benson Park by myself. I walked that familiar trail, over and over again, soaking in the sights and sounds and warmth of the sun. Why?

Because it’s all I knew to do – the closest way I could think of to get to the man I am now separated from…

My dad.

We used to walk that trail together – too many times to count. That trail is Garner, NC – it’s where I fell in love with the town that my mother and dad called home for many years. Whenever I round that familiar bend and spy that weathered red barn set against the backdrop of that sparkling lake, well, my soul breathes better. It feels like home … like mom and dad. Like I could hop in the car and be around their kitchen table in under three minutes.

Mom and dad don’t live in Garner anymore. They moved to Raleigh at the end of 2019 to a senior living community. And then 2020 happened. And then a continuing series of events that could not be helped that have finally culminated in the event that has caused us all great heartache and sorrow.

Yesterday, my mom walked dad down to a different wing of their senior retirement community where some assessing will be done regarding my dad’s care going forward. Accordingly, my mother (along with the rest of us) are separated from my father for the first time in our lives and for a time yet-to-be-determined.

I hope it’s not for long; my spirit tells me it will be longer than any of us would like.

And because of COVID restrictions, visits are limited to one person, one hour a week. To hell with it – really. It’s time for COVID and all its wretchedness to move back to the place from whence it came – to the bowels of hell.

History will not be kind to COVID-19 and all its separation rules, especially as it pertains to the elderly who aren’t sick and who’ve plunged a needle into their arms in hopes of having any measure of freedom. It will go down as one of the cruelest, most inhumane treatments ever perpetrated on humanity. It is wrong; it is evil; it is not living to live apart from those you love. Woe to the men and women who are arbitrarily making ill-fitted rules that keep loved ones apart at, perhaps, the most vulnerable times in their lives.

I believe this to the core of my being; I’ll preach it until my breath is gone. I’ll die on that hill, friends.

And so tonight, on the night after the most painful day of my life, my dad is sitting alone in a new room, probably wondering where we all went. Maybe not. I hope he’s not fully aware of the separation. But the rest of us are … fully aware of it all.

My hands are tied. Sometimes pain cannot be escaped but only embraced as a consequence of a less-than-desirable solution to a complex problem that really doesn’t have any good answers despite our praying toward that end.

And I have prayed … and prayed. Thought and thought. Rammed my will part-way through an impenetrable wall only to be left bloodied and bruised by good intentions.

The deepest desire of my heart is for my parents to have the best care going forward. It is the most natural impulse of my heart to honor the ones who gave me a good beginning by giving them a spectacular ending to their earthly journey – to hold their hands tightly, securely, courageously. To walk them home to Jesus with dignity. That’s how it should be; however, that may not be how it goes.

Accordingly, to date, the most painful day of my life.

I am in good company. I am moved tonight by a similar scene on a Judean hillside 2000 years ago. Jesus, in one of his final acts of love before his death on a cross, wanted to make sure that his mother had a good ending:

“When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.” (John 19:26-27)

In the middle of his doing the work that he came to, while all the sins of the world (past, present, and future) were being strapped to his back and were ripping his flesh apart from top to bottom, Jesus looked beyond his personal pain and noticed his mother’s. It was the most natural impulse of his heart, to make sure that the woman who gave him his very good earthly beginning would, indeed, have a very good ending of her own.

There’s a kinship there on that soil … between Jesus and me. The love he had for his parents mirrors the love I have for mine. I would trade all of my earthly possessions in this moment to fix the separation that now exists between us all. Worldly things mean nothing compared to the eternal reward of getting home safely … securely … hand-in-hand with the ones given to our charge and keep.

That would be bliss. That would be best. And that is how I will continue to pray… for a better ending for the man and the woman I call mom and dad. What was served up yesterday ain’t it – not even close. Instead, it was wretched, terrible, and everything I had hoped it would not be.

So wherever daddy is tonight, I pray that through the gift of the companioning Holy Spirit’s presence in his life, he’ll know deep down the love we all have for him. I pray that, when he looks at our pictures, he’ll remember that we’re here for him, even though we’re separated from him.

And while I will never again have daddy’s companionship while walking around Lake Benson Park, and though I may not get the privilege of walking him home to Jesus hand in hand, he and I will have the fields of heaven to walk through together.

I know this to be true; our citizenship is certain. Of all the gifts he has ever given to me, this is the best one – the gift of Jesus Christ and my eternal residency therein.

That’s my small sliver of silver lining, friends. The only one I can find tonight. It will pull me through to tomorrow.

For those of you who know my folks and some of our story, we appreciate your prayers for brighter days. Would you speak a little favor on my dad and mom tonight? I do heartily believe in the power of prayer, and I know that God’s peace is available to us all.

I just haven’t been able to take hold of it recently.

#muchlove,

Back in 2014, Mayor Ronnie Williams of Garner interviewed my dad as “one of the great people of Garner.” You’ll enjoy seeing that interview by CLICKING HERE!

Carpe Diem (seizing the day with my dad)

Carpe Diem. Seize the Day. It’s one of my daddy’s favorite sayings ever since viewing one of his favorite movies, Dead Poet’s Society. I reminded him of it yesterday in our visit together. I’m not sure if he remembers the movie, but he remembers the shirt. Even more so, he remembers the sentiment; daddy always wants to seize the day even as he struggles to remember what day it actually is.

Dad loved that movie; I think he saw a lot of himself in Robin Williams’s portrayal of John Keating, an unconventional teacher who used poetry to inspire his students to greater heights of expression and creativity.

Like Keating, my daddy is known for his story-telling. “One of the best” they say. Sometimes his stories are hand-made; sometimes, he borrows from others. As a child, I assumed everybody’s dad had that same capacity to spin words into magic. It never occurred to me that his ability was, in fact, a unique gifting from God. Over the years, I’ve come to realize and appreciate that uniqueness about my father, especially now when his words have started to fade.

These days, daddy doesn’t tell me many stories; instead, I’m telling them to him.

“Daddy, remember when …?”

Thankfully, he still does to a degree … remember when. He simply needs a prompt or two or ten therein. Eventually, we get there together, to a memory that brings the old sparkle back to his beautiful blue eyes. And when that happens, the magic returns; for a few minutes, I’m able to set aside my new role as a care-giver in exchange for my old role as simply a child of a story-teller.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

Life shifts like seasons.

Winter’s retreat. Spring’s new. Summer’s heat. Fall’s release.

A cycle of transformation. Sometimes swiftly; sometimes more slowly. Almost always, simultaneously.

Moments have the capacity to hold so very much – a full cycle of seasons that grow a heart in all the right ways. And maybe, in the end, that will be the greatest story ever told –

a heart transformed in all the right ways by a full cycle of seasons.

Indeed, very magical.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

So…

Thank you, Daddy, for telling me your stories – for capturing shifting seasons with just the right words. For doing so with flare, with imagination, with sparkle, and with understanding. For seizing the day, the moments in so many rich, “Chuck Killian” kinds of ways. You’ve come full cycle, living the words you’ve spoken … a heart transformed in all the right ways.

“One of the best,” they say.

One of the best, I know.

In the end and by God’s grace, I hope to hold one too –

a great story of my own … a heart transformed in all the right ways. 

I can’t think of a better legacy for either one of us to leave.

Let’s keep telling stories; let’s keep seizing our moments. Let’s keep walking home together.

The best is yet to be. 

I love you, 
Lainse

Rehearse Your History with God

“Rehearse your history with God.”

This was my recommendation to my family last night as we sat around the dinner table. Our discussions lean toward the “heavy” these days. So much going on in the world. Chaos, confusion, concerns. You know. And out of that deep well of heaviness, I drew forth these words:

“In times like these, family, we need to rehearse our history with God. Trace his faithfulness. Trust in his goodness.”

Billy acknowledged my words with words that my father used to say to me … “You know, Elaine, that’ll preach.”

A smile passed between Billy and me, and then the internal gnawing began within my soul … the rehearsing of my history with God.

There’s a lot to recall, to reflect upon, to remember. Instead of focusing on recent memories, I dug further into my past – twenty-five years in retrospect.

As a single mother of two young boys, I made the decision to return home to Wilmore, KY. If “home is where the heart is,” then I definitely made the right choice to move back to the Bluegrass. Wilmore is the place where I first trusted God and began my long obedience with him. Most importantly, Wilmore was where my parents were living, and I needed the safety, acceptance, and love afforded me therein.

I also needed a job. After a disappointing interview with a Christian school down the road (one where the questions were centered more around the reasons for my divorce rather than my qualifications as an educator), I decided to apply for a job at Asbury Theological Seminary – the vocational home of both of my parents. Dr. Kenneth Kinghorn was looking for an administrative assistant; he’d known me as a child, and now he would better know me as an adult. The interview process went forward, and within a week, I had a job. And while I mostly didn’t have a clue what it meant to be an administrative assistant, I did know that, for the first time in a long while, I was safe. Dr. K had given me a chance to start over, to further “grow up” and mend my heart in an environment that had earlier shaped my beginning days of faith.

For three years, I sat under the great favor of Dr. Kinghorn. He protected me, challenged me, walked alongside me while never judging me. He stocked the supply closet with Diet Dr. Peppers, and he lovingly allowed me long lunches with the Beeson girls (you know who you are), as well as daily walks to my mother’s office on the other side of campus. When the bi-weekly chapel hour came, he put the closed sign on the office door and said, “Let’s go.” When my boys showed up at my office after getting off the bus from school, he ended my work day early. When asked for his counsel, he wisely engaged. He daily prayed over me and, on occasion, trusted me with campus “intel” reserved for the privileged few. He didn’t micro-manage my work nor meddle in my personal affairs. Instead, Dr. Kinghorn allowed me the privilege of personal healing according to God’s time table and his immeasurable grace.

Dr. Kinghorn wasn’t the only one. There were many moments throughout my three years at ATS filled with similar privilege. Dr. Ellsworth Kalas’s mentoring moments – his sermon and directives from Moses on Mt. Nebo. Dr. Steve Seamands’s Ash Wednesday service where a quote from Omar Cabrera took center stage in my heart. The day Reg Johnson handed me an envelope with cash inside – the exact amount I needed to cover an unexpected bill. Bill Goold’s after-chapel walk with me, asking me how my “desert season” was going. Maxie Dunnam – a president never too busy for a hug or a word of soul-stirring encouragement. Albin Whitworth’s exuberance, laughter, and invites for the boys to come and swim at his pool.

The list goes on – I suppose not enough room (or time) in this space to record my thoughts. But in my time of remembering today, in rehearsing my history with God from this limited segment of my past, a tender truth is emerging:

Not all men cast stones. Some men carry them instead.

Stones not to harm the guilty, but rather stones to heal the broken-hearted. To stack and to build a better future rather than to hurl and to re-injure a wounded past.

In that season so long ago, I couldn’t fully appreciate the stones that those giant men of faith were carrying on my behalf. But in rehearsing my history with God today, I am overwhelmed with their willingness to do so. Perhaps they did it, in part, out of their great love for my dad, Chuck Killian. No doubt, because of their great love for their heavenly Father. And just maybe, there was a little part of them that knew something of grace because of their own histories with God. Regardless of their reasons, twenty-five years later, I am stunned by their intentional generosity toward me.

Not all men cast stones. Some men carry them instead.

Indeed.

So today, friends, if you’re feeling heaviness of heart, if confusion is creeping in and around your spirit, I encourage you (even as I am encouraging myself) to rehearse your history with God. Look for the stone carriers from your past, your present. Remember them; be grateful; do likewise.

There’s a broken heart nearby who needs the benefit of your strength and the grace of your history with God.

Those who have ears to hear, let them hear. As always …

Peace for the journey,

(7.11.2020. All rights reserved.)

the restless ache of night…

“When you come to the door, kiss me on the cheek so that I know I am safe.”

I found the piece of paper inside my red diary. I keep treasured notes from days gone by tucked inside its pages. The diary was a Christmas gift to me in 1974. The note inside? Well, it was gift to me in 2012, written by my ten-year-old daughter who needed to know that she was safely tucked in and remembered by her momma. In writing the note, she put her faith into action, knowing that her slumber would more than likely precede the kiss. But the promise of a kiss, the certainty of a final “tucking in” was just enough to soothe the restless ache of night.

I imagine I did kiss her that night. I don’t remember the occasion leading up to the letter’s writing; but I remember seeing the note gently lying outside her bedroom door and thinking to myself,

“I’m going to need this someday. I’m going to tuck this one away.”

And here I am, eight years later, needing it now. Like my daughter, my heart cries out for safety–a tucking in beneath the covers and the covering of a gentle kiss–something just strong enough and tender enough to soothe the reckless ache of my night.

Perhaps that is what led me to make a spontaneous journey to see my folks today. They reside in a senior living community that could, at any moment, be put under quarantine because of the coronavirus. I’m glad I went. We shared a meal and some conversation, and before I left, I did something I’ve never done before. I took my daddy’s hands in mine, and I clipped his nails. Not because he couldn’t, but because I wanted to … wanted to tenderly touch the hands that first held mine. The hands that cradled me. The hands that raised me. The hands that blessed me. The hands that, time and again, tucked me in as a youth and reminded me that I was safe, that I was under the watchful gaze and the tender care of a daddy who loved me very much.

He still does. And while today’s “tucking in” didn’t include a bedtime ritual, the same sentiment was shared between us. Today, we tucked each other in tightly, reminding one another that we are both safe. That even in the restless ache of this night season, our faith is strong. Today, Daddy and I wrote our own note to our Father, a prayer that harkens back to a little girl’s wish from eight years ago:

When you come to the door tonight, Father, when you tiptoe down the hall and see us in our fitful slumbering, kiss us on the cheek so that we’ll know we are safe. Remember we are here. Remember we are hurting. Remember we sometimes get spooked by the shadows surrounding us. Hem us in tightly, behind and before, and place your blanket of peace over the restless ache of our night.

Maybe tonight you seek the same assurance that my daughter sought so long ago … the same I sought today. Perhaps the restless ache of night has gotten the best of you. You’re hurting; you’re worried; the shadows around and the shadows within are dimming faith’s light. It’s been a long time since you’ve experienced a tender tucking in and a sweet slumber therein. You need to know that you are safe; you need to know that your Daddy is watching over you. You need to know that your Father is within reach.

He is, friend. He’s just down the hall, and he’s on his way to your door right now. He has seen your note, and he has noted your need. The restless ache of your night is no match for the peaceful salve of his touch.

He is here, and you are safe. Rest confidently and faithfully in his arms tonight. As always…

Peace for the journey,

the sermon that was never heard…

I had a dream last night. So strong in its witness, I needed to “get it down” on paper this morning. Perhaps in doing so, it will get down to a deeper place inside of me so that I might more fully live it outside of me.

The sermon that was never heard.

Allow me to explain. In May of 2016 my father was scheduled to preach at the Garner UMC. There was nothing particularly unusual about this event. Dad was often called upon to “fill the pulpit” on occasions when the pastor wasn’t available. As a professor of preaching at Asbury Seminary for over thirty years, and as a pastor of several congregations in the last fifty years, my dad has always been a natural choice for such occasions. His spiritual journey, as well as his giftedness in and eloquence for telling a story, have allowed him notable stages from which to deliver God’s message. But no stage was more glorious and important to my father than one holding a wooden pulpit overlooking an audience of Sunday morning seekers. Accordingly, dad rarely refused an opportunity to fill a pulpit.

I had planned to make the two hour trip to Garner to hear my father speak that Sunday. My mother texted me early in the morning to tell me not to come, that dad wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to preach. Later that day, when pressed for more details, dad revealed that he was having trouble reading his sermon notes, that his thoughts were jumbled up inside of him. And while he didn’t have any manifestations of a physical illness, he knew something was wrong. So did we. Thus began the unraveling of the diagnosable mystery known as a stroke.

For the last nineteen months, we’ve walked with dad through this period of redirection. The adjustments have been numerous. And while dad’s aphasia has altered his daily routine, it hasn’t changed his heart or his passion for telling the story. Certainly, the “stage” has changed; they’re smaller now, more intimate. His words are fewer and, sometimes, aren’t delivered as eloquently as he would like. But the warmth is there, the smile, the laughter, the love … always the love from dad. And through it all, we’re all learning to make peace with…

The sermon that was never heard.

The words that were never spoken that Sunday morning. The “text” that (some would say) would be my father’s final declaration from the pulpit. And this morning, after tossing and tumbling all night long, after mulling over what my father’s final benediction might have been from the pulpit that morning in Garner, I have decided that God is still writing that sermon. That after nineteen months of altered steps and interrupted dialogue, the sermon that was never heard is still preaching its witness.

And therein, folks, lives and breathes the greatest story ever told. When the curtains are drawn, the script is lost, when the words won’t come, and the audience has departed, what remains is the sacred echo – the deafening whispers of the sermon that was never heard.  

Like my father, perhaps even like you, I have a few more stories I’d like to share, a few more moments of dialogue I’d like to give to the world. But I am no longer convinced that these are the “sermons” that God will most thoroughly use to live and give his witness. What I am growing convinced of, however, is that…

Not every sermon needs a stage.

Not every manuscript needs eloquence.

Not every word needs to be spoken.

Instead, our “sermons” just need to be lived in the shadow of Almighty God. With warmth. With smiles. With laughter. With love … always the love.

If we can get to that place of settled peace, friends, then the sermon that was never heard surely will be boldly proclaimed with a depth and with a clarity that may not come otherwise. So…

Thank you, Daddy, for teaching me how to live with an unwritten, unspoken, and unfinished script.

And thank you, God, for making it count eternally. As always, 

Peace for the journey,

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