Papa Wilson, my grandfather, died when I was eight years old. This was in 1964. I don’t remember many details about his actual death, but I do remember that he was 84 when he died. I thought that was positively ancient.

Mama was part of a family of twelve kids. At some point you cross the threshold of having a family and it becomes a litter. She was close to her daddy, and she indeed grieved.

There was some debate with Daddy and her about whether or not I should go to the funeral. Maybe they thought I’d be traumatized. I was up for it. I had sort of a morbid fascination with the whole process. I had a nebulous idea about how all this worked from TV shows and movies. I knew it was all about preparing the body for burial, picking out a casket, having the funeral itself (which these days more often referred to as a “memorial service,” as if the term “funeral” is too archaic or disturbing. Maybe they’re two different things.)

I also knew that there’d be a procession – that Papa Wilson’s casket would be carried by the pallbearers across the road from the church to the cemetery itself, and there he’d be “interred” (another infrequently used word) by being dropped into a vault in the ground and subsequently sealed and covered up in dirt. I remember thinking “what IS a pall anyway?” The whole thing, from the time the body was prepared for burial until the time it was lowered in the ground, was choreographed with the panache of a Broadway musical.

The most intriguing part of the process was what was called the “viewing.” “Wake” is another term. The excitement I felt at the time was knowing that I was going to be able to see a dead person. I loved Papa Wilson too, but I had no fear about seeing his body. I found the term “viewing” to be very accurate. We all had to take a look at him. It was part of the process, and was supposed to bring some closure. I’d add, too, that in southeast Alabama, another term was prior to the funeral you had a “sitting up,” aka wake, where someone spent the night at the funeral home or the house and sat with the body, as if it were going anywhere. The custom came from the need to keep mice and other vermin from making themselves at home in the casket – they needed to be shooed off. Or to keep the cat from sitting on the body. It didn’t matter if there were mice or cats around. You were simply expected to keep the departed company.

Papa Wilson lay in state in his house, in the parlor. I remember relatives and friends milling around on the front porch, talking in subdued whispers, as though if you were too loud it might disturb Papa Wilson. When you walked in the front door of the house, you came in the living room, and through French doors from the living room you’d enter the parlor/dining room.

So here’s young Tony, standing on the front porch, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Mama said, “Would you like to say goodbye to Papa?” I didn’t know about that … I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear me, but I also figured the goodbye was more for me than him. I said yes, but it was more of me wanting to see what he looked like than say any farewells.

So I was ushered into the parlor. People parted to let us come in. I saw the casket, gleaming in the subdued light, with the top opened, or at least half of it. I saw a white ruffle of pleated fabric spilling over the side. But because I wasn’t tall enough, I couldn’t really see into it. I could see Papa Wilson’s nose and not much else.

At we approached the side of the casket I was able to peek in. Papa Wilson was dressed in a fine suit. I heard Mama sniffling, and I glanced up at Daddy. His jaws were working, his teeth clenched.

“Doesn’t he look sweet,” Mama said.

“He looks like he’s asleep,” Daddy said.

My thought? “He looks like he’s dead.” I wasn’t fooled.

Like his grandson is now, Papa Wilson was bald. Typically his head shone like a polished hubcap. This time, however, it was so powdered that it looked like parchment. His face was stretched tight, almost like a mask. His mouth was what disturbed me – it was though it was made of wax. (I’ve since learned that mouths can be a real problem for undertakers – because the mouth is always in motion, to see it perfectly still is an anomaly.)

I stood still and examined him with frank curiosity. I think my folks expected me to cry, or run, or something. I did none of these. Candidly, I didn’t feel anything. My primary thought was, “That’s not Papa Wilson. That’s just the horse he rode in on.”

Since that day I’ve been to many more funerals and performed a fair share, too. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to observe grief. Here’s your takeaway – everyone grieves differently, and you are in no place to judge if someone doesn’t grieve the way you would. Grief is necessary.

To an observer of the eight-year-old Tony, they might feel that I didn’t grieve appropriately, if at all. That may be so.

When you think about it, grief is a part of closure, or should be. The overarching need is to move on. Grief, whatever its source, is a milestone, a transitional point from what was to what is. To get stuck in the what was can be a recipe for despair. Losses will happen, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. But staying bogged down in that loss, refusing to move on, is to doubt the bigness and sovereignty of God, who has no desire for us to be mired in the past, and is aware and present in our loss and perhaps even engineered it.

How do you move on?

This may be shallow, but … you just do. While your emotions may be raging and drowning you, understand that they are transient (unless there is some clinical problem, which we won’t go into here. I understand the reality of chronic depression, anxiety, anger, etc.).

There is no proper way to grieve. Every individual deals with loss in a way unique to themselves. Be wary of saying, “I know how you feel.” Uh, no. You might know how you would feel or have felt, but the other person? They aren’t you, and don’t cast them in your autobiography.

Say this familiar biblical phrase: “And it came to pass…”

What is isn’t what will always be. And while we may always have a sense of loss after a tragedy, the reality is that it doesn’t have to cripple us. It is legitimate to miss what once was. But, armed with the knowledge that you can’t go back, and by listening to your head as well as your heart, it is possible – and necessary – to move forward toward a new horizon. What happens tomorrow may be a mystery, but it is no mystery in knowing that no matter where you’re headed, God is already there.

Here’s an organization you don’t want to be a part of – the Dead Parents Society.

The name tells it all. It’s reserved for those who’ve lost one or both of their parents.

I suppose when you’ve lost both your parents, then you are technically an orphan. If that’s a proper definition, then I’ve been orphaned since 2002, when Mama died. Daddy died some years earlier. I was 46, but for some reason we think orphans are children. Maybe you can’t be an orphan past the age of 18, or 21. That seems arbitrary, but I didn’t make those rules.

When Mama was in the final stages of cancer, and we’d enlisted the services of hospice (which was a true holy godsend), I started the grieving process. When Mama actually died, I’d done most of my grieving in advance, so her actual passing was peaceful.

Like a combat veteran, I realized quickly that only those who’d been through the same experience could truly empathize. That’s not to say others weren’t appreciated – I heard plenty of sincere expressions of sympathy, and the condolences, cards, and the food (of course!) were more than welcome.

What was odd is that I found leaning into the grief was more helpful than ignoring it or tucking it away. It sounds morbid to talk about embracing pain, but that may be part of the healing process (more on that in a bit.)

There is that component, too, of people not knowing what to say to you as a newly-minted member of the Dead Parents Society. It’s like they mean well, because they do, but they’re afraid of making you hurt more than you already do. “I’m sorry about your loss,” people say, and they genuinely are. That’s a pretty safe statement. The companion question – “How are you?” – is much tougher to wrestle.

The impulse may be to simply say, “I’m fine,” which is totally bogus, because you aren’t fine. You say it anyway, because it lets the questioner off the hook. If, however, you shared how you really feel, you’d come across as being dark and unhealthy. The compromise statement might be, “I reckon I’m doing as well as could be expected,” which just reinforces the idea of loss and pain, even with other people who care.

Grieving is a solo activity. What you come to understand is that you can grieve appropriately and after a period get on with living. People lose loved ones all the time. Most make peace with their hearts; others don’t. What has happened is a rip in the fabric of life. Even as a believer, there is a horrific separation. We as humans want resolution, but there are some wounds that time does not heal.

So why all this talk about the Dead Parents Society?

I can broaden this conversation to apply to the loss of other loved ones – a spouse, a sibling, or most grievous, a child. Heck, I’ll extend this to the loss of a beloved pet.

Going for broke – how about the loss of a job, a friend, a dream? They are all painfully similar. Others may see your loss as a matter of degree. They may say “I’m sorry,” but in their minds they’re saying, “No big deal. Get over it.”

Loss is loss, and grief is grief, and don’t let anyone script that for you. It’s yours to carry.

I wish there was some way I could fix this for you and me and the rest of us. Fact is, when you’re orphaned because of a loss of something, anything meaningful to you, there is a loneliness that only you can experience.

As a believer, I’m tempted to talk about God, who has promised to never leave or forsake you. This is, of course, true. He is ever-present. He does heal. But for some reason, He didn’t design us to be carefree and just ignore the loss we experience. His presence is tangible. That is comfort, indeed, and it causes us to turn to Him.

And yet – dang, it hurts.

We are fearfully and wonderfully made, this is true. Part of our makeup is the capacity to mourn. What are we to learn in that valley of death?

Again, I’m going broad here. You don’t have to be part of the Dead Parents Society to find reason to mourn, even if you haven’t been touched by physical death.

Point is – there is nothing wrong with grief. It is a part of our human experience. Unless you’re a psychopath, at times you will grieve.

So. Lament. Lament loudly and cry out. I give you permission. The hurt we experience now will prepare us for joy in the future. Your wounds are a foundation to your calling.

I know that sounds pat. When some friends of ours lost their son in a horrific accident, I asked – rightly or wrongly – how I could pray for them. The dad’s answer? “Pray that I don’t waste this.”

Read what you will into this statement. I’ve thought about it often. My conclusion is that every life event, even those that involve unspeakable loss, are moments to grapple with what I believe about God, what I am to learn, and how I can, in turn, be an encouragement to others. My lessons aren’t your lessons, nor my experiences your experience. God has custom designed you, and handcrafted the events that you experience.

Yes, you will mourn. You will lament. But your loss doesn’t have to define your life. Those wounds prepare you to experience more joy.

Talk later.

There is a recently published book, Redeeming Heartache, by Dan Allender and Cathy Loerzel, that provided the seed for some of my thoughts. I highly recommend it.

10 things you’d want to be said at your funeral! Have you ever thought about that?

I have. (Yeah, unfortunately, that’s how my mind works.)

My grandmother had a term she used about aging. She called it “the approaching Shade.” That’s so poetic and melancholy.

Sometimes I think about the approaching Shade. Not in a morbid way at all. It’s just a sweet way of realizing that I have more behind me than I do ahead of me, and that’s okay.

BUT – I have zero desire to be leaving this physical plane anytime soon. I have a lot to do yet.

So. 10 things you’d want to be said at your funeral. Coming up with that list can be an enlightening exercise.

Here’s my 10.

1. Tony was my go-to person for all things Disney. By his own admission, his passion for the Mouse was inexplicable. He was a fountain of Disney trivia, he considered Walt Disney World his second home, and if you were planning a trip yourself, he’d put together the ultimate experience for you. I’m surprised he’s not being buried in mouse ears.
2. Tony loved performing magic. He never was all that good, but people laughed and enjoyed themselves. That was more than sufficient.
3. Tony was a more-than-decent cook. He was absorbed by the Food Network. Turn him loose in the kitchen and he was a happy guy. And grilling? Give that boy a spatula, a properly heated and prepared grill, and some red meat, and he was good to go. He was an unrepentant carnivore. Well, actually an omnivore. There was only one food in all creation he wouldn’t eat – coconut. He didn’t like the way it looked, the way it smelled, its texture. He didn’t want to see a picture of it on a box. He didn’t even want you to eat it. He wanted to at least be able to tolerate it before he died. That didn’t happen.
4. Tony loved to travel. There was always somewhere else to go and see and do. He was as comfortable in an urban setting as he was in nature. Well rounded, yes? He’d soak up those experiences like a sponge. He always said he preferred mountains to the beach, but in later years decided the beach was okay. He liked the water. If told, “Here’s a towel. I want you to spread it out on that unbearably hot white dirt and lay on it. I want the sun to cook you to a neon pink,” then he would scream and run.
5. Tony was not vain. He would have like to have been “dapper,” but that involved too much work, and he cordially detested having to wear a necktie.
6. Tony was self-depreciating. He was never hesitant to poke fun at himself, and he never, ever wanted to take himself too seriously. “Contempt” might be too strong a word, but he tended to be annoyed by people who did take themselves too seriously. He believed that many of the problems of the world stemmed from humorless people who couldn’t see the absurdity of their own words and deeds. “Lighten up,” he’d say.
7. Tony’s sense of humor was warped. He loved satire. He loved seeing the high and mighty lampooned. His humor wasn’t vulgar, but it could sometimes be construed as inappropriate. For instance, he loved a good meme dealing with COVID-19. Some folks didn’t get that. At all.
8. Tony was an introvert. A textbook introvert. He loved his own company. He could mix and mingle and engage with the best of them, because he genuinely loved people. But after having to people too much, he’d have to go lay down. Sometimes he’d just get tired of folks. He could engage in small talk, but only in limited doses. When he was with you, he’d try to steer the conversation toward the meaning of life, what you’d observed about the unfolding of the world, and your dreams, goals, and aspirations. He wanted to know what you believed was your purpose in being here. He could do that for hours. He was an INFJ, and took some sort of misplaced pride in being part of the rarest of personality types – like anyone else cared!
9. Tony loved his family with a passion that was terrifying. His wife Teresa was his helpmeet and his pillar. He loved his extraordinarily different kids, Jeremy and Amy, who grew up to be honorable, ambitious young adults, and loved his in-laws, Kathleen and Stone. But those grandkids – Katherine and Levi – would absolutely cause him to lose his mind and all semblance of control. In his latter years those two were the best thing that ever happened to him.
10. Tony loved God. He was a disciple of Jesus Christ and served at His pleasure. The most important words he ever wanted to hear were “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Because of that relationship, Tony felt that his calling was simply to be an encourager.

That, folks, is what I would want to be said at my funeral. What are 10 things you’d want to be said at your funeral?

I have a lot to do to live up to my own desires. But I have some time yo work on that still. Don’t I, Lord?

Be blessed.

Tony’s Question: How about you?? What 10 things would you want to be said at your funeral? How about sharing just one of those below.

Oh, yeah … I’m taking a week-long break from the blog while I do a little vacay action. See y’all later!

This, A Tale of Two Suicides,  is a blog I wrote back in September. Perhaps you think I’m taking a shortcut by republishing old material. Truth is – I have a sense that this simply needed to be revisited because there is someone who needs to see this and be encouraged. ~ Tony ~

Two suicides. Actually, one was a singular suicide. The other was a group of 19 men who committed suicide on the same day.

One was performed as a final act of hopelessness. The other, the group suicide, was performed as a noble act of victory.

On September 11, 2001, nineteen terrorists who were members of al-Qaeda, an Islamist extremist network, hijacked four commercial airplanes. In a coordinated attack, the hijackers intentionally flew two of the planes into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, and a third into the Pentagon. Learning about the other hijackings, passengers and crew members on the fourth plane launched a counterattack, spurring the hijacker pilot to crash the plane into a field in Pennsylvania. Nearly 3,000 people were killed on that day, the single largest loss of life resulting from a foreign attack on American soil.

Image: Harvest Christian Fellowship

On September 9, 2019, Jarrid Wilson, a California church leader, author, and mental health advocate, died by suicide at age 30.Wilson, known as a passionate preacher, most recently was an associate pastor at megachurch Harvest Christian Fellowship in Riverside, California. A co-founder of the mental health nonprofit Anthem of Hope, Wilson was open about his own depression, often posting on his social media accounts about his battles with the mental illness.

A tale of two suicides. I am struggling to wrap my head around this.

Looking back at  previous blogs, I see that I’ve tended to bring up this topic often. My intent is not to camp out on this one issue. In light of this last week, though, I feel compelled to talk about this, because the intent of this blog is encouragement and hope.

Think about this again. Wilson’s suicide grew from him feeling that there was nothing else to live for. The terrorists’ motive was virtually the opposite. They were giving their lives to what they felt was the most honorable of causes. They died with the belief that their act would gloriously further the al-Qaeda goal of bringing the United States of America down. (There were other motives, I’m sure.)

I don’t want to pick apart motives in either of these cases.The number of suicides in the United States increased 24 percent from 1999 to 2014, gaining momentum after 2006 when the increase each year jumped between 1 and 2 percent, according to the Centers for Disease Control. The biggest jump was among adolescent girls and men aged 45 to 64.

There is one common trait between these two suicides, though. Both Wilson and the terrorists believed there was a better world awaiting them both.

In a  series of Tweets on September 9, Wilson wrote:

Loving Jesus doesn’t always cure suicidal thoughts.

Loving Jesus doesn’t always cure depression.

Loving Jesus doesn’t always cure PTSD.

Loving Jesus doesn’t always cure anxiety.

But that doesn’t mean Jesus doesn’t offer us companionship and comfort.

He ALWAYS does that.

There are many factors that lead to suicide. It is always by choice, or else it wouldn’t be suicide. It is borne out of a perceived need, whatever that may be.

A couple of years ago, The Gospel Coalition published an article titled “Why Pastors Are Committing Suicide.” It was sobering stuff – factors cited included church conflict, comparison to other ministers, and unrealistic expectations. Certainly depression factors into this terminal choice – and depression often has biological roots.

So there’s that. In Wilson’s case, his death was of his own choosing. There are no evidences that he wasn’t a Christian. While I’d never, ever presume to know someone else’s heart, I believe he took his life convinced by his faith that he would spend eternity in heaven with Jesus.

Now we are on dangerous ground. This almost implies that suicide is a solution to the woes of this earth. Because, after all, for the believer, this world is not our home. Right?

That’s absolutely true. But suicide is not a solution to the griefs and sorrows of anyone except the person committing the act.

Now, regarding the terrorists, the 19 who also willingly gave up their lives. It appears they did this with joy, believing in an eternity with Allah, blessed with virgins, all that. They were, in their worldview, sacrificing themselves for their faith … and taking thousands along with them.

We have this juxtaposition:

• al-Qaeda suicide = joy.
• Wilson suicide = hopelessness.

Thinking about this will keep you up late. Both suicides had a “why.”

To further complicate things, what about the soldier who jumps on a live grenade to save the lives of his comrades? Is that a suicide in the same vein as the two I’ve already cited? Or is this kind of sacrifice of voluntarily laying one’s life down – literally, not metaphorically – something different altogether?

I’d contend that it is. But that’s not what I’m addressing today.

Remember that Wilson and the terrorists both had a belief that their afterlife would be better than their current reality? I won’t say anything more about the differences in Islam and Christianity other than (1) they are most assuredly different, and  (2) if you subscribe to belief in absolute truth – and I do – then they both can’t be right.

I know I’m flailing about here. So let me get to my points.

• Suicide always has goal of bodily self-destruction.
• There are many motives for suicide. We see, though, that they can be motives borne out of hope or hopelessness. There can be biological or physiological factors at work here.
• Factoring out the terrorists’ suicide, we realize that hopelessness is at the root of Wilson’s suicide, and others in a similar state.
• There is nothing noble or glamorous about suicide. It unleashes torrents of sorrow.
• With all due respects to Wilson – who may have been in the grip of sorrows we can never comprehend – there is always hope. Always, always, always. He had moved to a place where even what he taught others wasn’t taking root in his own heart.
• There is always hope because Jesus is who He said He was, and He made unarguable promises – not the least of which is that He would never  leave or forsake us.
• And – more importantly – He understands us totally, even when we’re in a pit of despair.
• When thinking about reasons, we have to remember that mental illness is a disease. Depression can be terminal. But God has all sorts of tools to bring healing. There are so, so many resources available through counseling, appropriate medications, all that. There is no shame in availing yourself of treatments available. And while medical and psychological professionals are equipped to do their jobs with excellence, God is the Great Physician, and all healing ultimately comes from Him. He has the liberty to use human tools, too.

I hope this is self-evident: If you find yourself in this place, get some help. No shame. No guilt. It’s  available to you.

If someone you love is in this place, get them some help.

Remember none of this takes God by surprise, and He is not wringing His hands wondering what He is supposed to do. He always gives the gift of His presence to the believer, even if He feels far away.

Our takeaway? You never walk alone.

I asked my good pastor friend Bobby McKay to write a guest blog today. Bobby sent me this little meditation out of the blue a day or so ago, and I was so impressed and moved I wanted y’all to experience it, too.

“Some folks remember the first time; some can’t forget the last.”

From the song Come On Come On by Mary Chapin Carpenter

I buried my last grandparent a month ago. Well, “buried” is not an altogether accurate description. A graveside service was not requested by the family so there was no formal gathering of folded chairs covered with the weird felt-like substance and no funeral home tent. Also absent was the green turf covering the ground. Minus the public internment, the outcome was just the same. The man in which I was partly named after was dead after nearly 90 years on planet earth. He was buried within a short distance of where he grew up, lived, left, returned to, and left again throughout his life. This time would be the last stop for his physical body; not too far from his parents and his wife of nearly 60 years who died 10 years earlier.

I was asked and elected to share a message for one simple reason: to honor my grandfather. Being the only grandson, I knew if I did not, I would have regret. My words in their entirety were short, totaling less than 20 minutes. The service was done in a seamless and anticlimactic fashion. I was able to get through the service without tears.

For me, tears (if they come) are always much later and in solitude. I am more cerebral in my grief. Grief is to be mostly processed, not proliferated.

I did not grow up near any of my family from either my mother or father’s side. I probably saw my grandparents on average 5 times a year. Cousins were people I saw on Thanksgiving and Christmas and aunts and uncles were almost like strangers to me.

However, there was one thing that has come to my realization within the last few days. There would be no more Christmases with the family members I grew up with. With the last passing of my grandparents, there would be no more gatherings, nothing to draw the tribe together in the future.

For my grandfather and for me, unbeknownst to either of us last year, this year will be the first Christmas with the presence of an empty chair (or in his case, recliner) in his house. Of course, no one enjoys going into a Christmas season looking through the lens of sadness or loneliness. Rather, we avoid such melancholy by often burying ourselves in busyness. Some of which is enjoyable. Parties, parades, and presents all have their place, but something about getting older I find each Holiday a bit more bittersweet than the previous.

Why must we lose such simple innocence?

Adding to this is the fact this will probably be the last year my youngest daughter sees Christmas with the eyes of a child. She still has trouble sleeping at night at just the thought of Christmas morning. Why must we lose such simple innocence?

This Christmas is setting itself up to be one of the heaviest in my life. If the doctors are correct, this will also be the last Christmas my dad will attempt to enjoy. While the details are too many to detail, his health is declining at a rapid pace. For him, it could be his last Christmas.

So, I am wrestling with how to make it memorable for him, but mostly for my children (his grandchildren). How would you approach Christmas if you knew it was your last? How do you approach Christmas if it is your first without a loved one? Is the answer to those two questions the same or entirely different? I think of the word “guarded.”

If I knew I would be entering my last Christmas season, I feel as I would carefully measure both my words and my time with great precision.

My youngest daughter loves Christmas music…all year long. I believe I wouldn’t complain about hearing the familiar jingles if I knew it could be the last time doing so. I would listen to my oldest daughter sing, but this time with my eyes closed and thank God for the talents she has been given. I think I would enjoy the town’s parade a bit more. I would drink an extra cup of Amy’s homemade hot chocolate. I wouldn’t even be bothered by the mass of people shopping for gifts. I surmise Advent would take on a more holy and personal tone in my expressions of faith.

I may or may not spend time thinking about the gifts I were to give, but I am sure I would be more concerned with the memories I would leave. I would sit down and have a good cry…and a good laugh. I would call some folks, hug some, and tell a few how much I loved them and thank them for loving me. I would eat the veal cutlets at Crystal Grill in Greenwood, Mississippi. I would go back to Standing Pine Baptist Church and remember it was there Jesus became real to me for the first time.

I would tell Amy I loved her and ask her to forgive me for the times I have ever hurt her or disappointed her. I would find a way to take Amy and the girls to the beach in Seaside, Florida. It is a place that is not my favorite, but I would cherish seeing them happy and smile one more time. I would make sure my life insurance premium was paid. I would tell my daughters they are my greatest gifts to the world. I would tell them nothing can bring you peace like Jesus and He is always faithful even when we are not. I would tell them when they chose to marry; if the man loves God, He will love you.

Maybe if I knew I was staring at my last Christmas in the face I would discover there is no real need to worry because it changes nothing. The opinions and expectations of others would diminish as my mortality began slipping away.

I think I would go hear more sermons and less time preparing and preaching them. Truthfully, I am reaching to guess anything I would do with my remaining time.

For each of us, there will come a time when we have celebrated our last Christmas and for the vast majority, we will not know when that will be. Maybe the key is to live and love as if each Holiday could be our last or at least be fully involved in the present tense by engaging each of the five senses God bestowed upon us.

At the same time, we should be mindful of many this Christmas as they navigate through these days for the first time without a loved one.

There is no guide for such things. There is no box to check to indicate you agree with the terms and conditions. You make the way by going forward, cherishing what you have and expressing thanks for the things and people that are no longer at arm’s length.

Life is to be lived, pondered and as much as possible; enjoy. It is a gift and there is no return policy. A life without serving others is one that is wasted.

In some of His last recorded words recorded in Scripture, Christ tells us He is the First and the Last. That means He is eternal. It is beyond our understanding to grasp the fact He is both indwelling the past and future at the same time. While such theological truths may escape our intellect, it does not mean it should escape our interest.

For most believers, knowing the fact that Christ is the Beginning and the End results in a great deal of comfort. To recognize He was there with us from the formation in the womb until we draw our last breath provides us with the hope needed to trust Him literally with life and death.

Let us not forget Christ Himself wants to be real to each of us. He desires to be with us much more than we desire to be with Him.

The real test is not the First and the Last aspects of Jesus’ benevolence, but rather it is the middle we wrestle with. It is the in-between times and seasons of our life where we so desperately need Jesus to be real to us. Let us not forget Christ Himself wants to be real to each of us. He desires to be with us much more than we desire to be with Him. His incarnation and atonement prove that.

It is in these “middle times” where we discover how much we really love Christ and how well we choose to worship Him in uncertain times.

The middle is where we spend most of our lives. Just as you have only one birthday, you will have onlyone death day. The middle is filled with weddings, birthday parties, vacations, school plays, soccer games, church services, traffic, entertainment, sunrises, sunsets, and a million other events, when collected, equal a life lived. Perhaps you go into your last Christmas like you should any other day: thankful and keenly aware that while our days may indeed be limited, they are of great importance.

This Christmas, thank God for the middle and celebrate Christ and the life provided byHim.

When you and I die, our life will be reduced by some to a couple of dates in an obituary. The first breath and the last one. This Christmas, thank God for the middle and celebrate Christ and the life provided by Him. While you are celebrating, take in every moment. Enjoy each moment as if it were your first…or your last. You won’t regret it.

My grandmother had a phrase she used from time to time as she aged. She would speak of “the approaching Shade.”

There’s a certain poetry to that. The imagery of a sweet darkness enveloping us as we move from this world to the next is compelling.

I never got the sense that Mama Wilson wanted to pass. (Another old term is to be “translated.” Again, that sounds so much more elegiac than just “dying.”) It was just a matter of being ready.

Death is certain, unless Jesus returns first. Talking about death is sort of taboo. We tend to look on it as an intrusion, when in fact it is the reasonable and expected end of living.

Today’s blog is not a meditation on death. But I did want to use that reality as a backdrop to what I’d like to share.

”The approaching Shade.” How about this as a companion image … sunset.

Now we’re talking. Who of us has not been moved by the glory of the setting sun? When the sky is turned into a riot of color – oranges, yellows, reds … transitioning into powder golds and even purples. Lovely.

Sunsets occur with regularity. It’s a signal that now the day is over. And that’s proper and good.

But can sunset be a verb? Can “sunsetting” be an action taken rather than just a phenomena to be observed?

I think so.

Here’s what I mean. There have been plenty of times in my life when a season was over (yeah, I’m mixing metaphors. Stick with me.) When I graduated in 12th grade, I “sunsetted” my high school years. When Teresa and I got married, I “sunsetted” my single life. When I resigned from a church to move to a new place of service, I “sunsetted” my ministry.

So. Is there anything you need to sunset? Is there something in your life that needs to die? 

That might sound pleasant or unpleasant, depending on where you are and what this would mean to you individually.

Here’s where I’m coming from personally. This will be my annoying autobiographical pause, and then we’ll move on:

• I have ministered to teenagers vocationally for 40 years. This time span includes full-time church staff work, as well as part-time and interim. This also includes a stint with a parachurch ministry. This is nuts.
• This was/is a calling. I have never doubted for a nanosecond that work with students was what God intended for me to do. That was determined before I was even born. There is great security in that.
• At the same time, I know that God’s call is not static. If it pleases Him and brings honor to Him, He can move us in and out of places, engineer circumstances, and bring (and remove) people from our lives.
• Now, in these days, I have come to realize – based on prayer, scripture, circumstances, and the counsel of others – that my vocational work with students is over. In other words, I am “sunsetting” that aspect of my life and call, and I do that knowing God is at work clearly and definitively. Part of this has to do with my brain injury from last year. While I’m not incapacitated by a long shot, and I think some days that I’m showing some gradual improvement, I have to realistically acknowledge what I can do with excellence and be aware that some things don’t come as easily as they once did. Youth ministry is a challenge even on good days, and on those tougher days – holy cow. It can be utterly draining. Rewarding, for sure, but dang hard – physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, relationally, every way. (I’d be happy to serve you some cheese with that whine.)
• Since I’ve made that public, people have been gracious. I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean that I need to be treated like an invalid. I got lots and lots of good stuff left in me.
• The white-knuckled excitement I’m feeling in these days has to do with knowing God is still at work, giving me new opportunities of ministry that He’s custom-designed for me in these sunset days. How cool is that?
• I still get to volunteer with youth. I’ll do that as long as there is breath in me. Some of my former students can come to the nursing home and feed me oatmeal.

Thus endeth the autobiographical pause.

So why did I share that? Simply because it might be true of you.

Back to my question. Is there anything in your life that needs sunsetting?

• Are you in a life stage in which you realize that some things that were once important to you are no longer as urgent? It may be that what have become trivial issues simply need to be set aside so you can focus on what’s really important.
• Do you have a vague sense of dissatisfaction with your life in general? Would it be beneficial for you to sit down with paper and pen and actually write out what’s bothering you? The act of getting thoughts out of your head and into tangible form on paper can be oh-so-helpful. I’m all about journaling. Based on what you discover, you may find that you have thoughts and feelings that need to be sunsetted.
• Is there someone in your life – a relationship – that needs to be sunsetted? Let’s be careful here. I’m not talking about just randomly slamming the door on someone just because you’re unhappy with them or something they’ve done. Redemption and forgiveness should be your default position. But – and I’ll be candid and tell you it’s taken me years to understand this – not loving someone is unacceptable and unchristlike. I do think it is perfectly proper, though, to separate yourself from someone who devalues your soul. Everyone in your life is there because God put them there; and in the same fashion, He can remove them. You are commanded to love everyone unconditionally. But sometimes you have to simply love the memory of them, perhaps yearn quietly for what once was, and move on. This is hard – I wish I could help you more with this one.
• Are there desires you need to sunset? I’ve historically had problems with my “wanter.” I like stuff. I like to have things. There have been times, though, when I let my desire for stuff override common sense. I’ll bet that, even now, you have everything you need and plenty of things you want. Can you be satisfied with that?
• Here’s a scary one. Do you need to sunset a cherished belief? I don’t mean abandoning your faith or anything as radical as that. But it may just be that you are more open than you once were to opposing viewpoints. This all has to do with having a teachable spirit. I have yet to meet anyone that I couldn’t learn something from – if nothing else, just having confirmed that what I believed was right in the first place. Still, you can learn an awful lot from those who don’t see the world the same way you do. Who knows? You may be wrong. Wouldn’t you like to know if you’re wrong so you can sunset your mistaken opinion? I think it’s so wonderful to be taught something by someone not even close to your own age, your gender, your upbringing, or your worldview.

I think you understand what I’m saying. Sunsets, by nature, are quiet, transitional events. It’s not like flipping a cosmic switch. It’s a slow fade, a gentle move from light to darkness, and … it’s beautiful.

This is about you taking a sincere look at yourself, being circumspect, and doing some earnest self-examination. Most people are afraid to do that.

I’d encourage it. We are all works in progress. Sometimes there are things in life that need to be led into the darkness. That shouldn’t be scary. If it makes you into something positive that you weren’t beforehand, this is a good thing.

It’s a natural progression, just like so much in creation. The light fades. The night descends. While it is night, it is natural to fear the dark.

Yet there is the promise, the guarantee of dawn. A new day comes filled with new possibilities and opportunities. Embrace that.

Don’t fight the sunset. It will come whether you like it or not. Fortunately (and here’s where the analogy breaks down), we do have some authority as to the timing and reality of some sunsets. Choose those wisely. Sunset what needs to be moved on from. It will go well with your soul. Quoting that great theologian, Scarlett O’Hara, “Tomorrow is another day.”

This is a sequel of sorts to my last blog, “Grieve Appropriately.” I have a bit more to say, and for some reason that particular blog seemed to resonate with many of you. So there’s this.

Papa Wilson died when I was eight years old. This was in 1964. I don’t remember many details about his actual death, but I do remember that he was 84 when he died. I thought that was positively ancient.

Mama was part of a family of twelve kids. At some point you cross the threshold of having a family and it becomes a litter. She was close to her daddy, and she indeed grieved.

There was some debate with Daddy and her about whether or not I should go to the funeral. Maybe they thought I’d be traumatized. I was up for it. I had sort of a morbid fascination with the whole process. I had a nebulous idea about how all this worked from TV shows and movies. I knew it was all about preparing the body for burial, picking out a casket, having the funeral itself (which these days more often referred to as a “memorial service,” as if the term “funeral” is too archaic or disturbing. Maybe they’re two different things.)

I also knew that there’d be a procession – that Papa Wilson’s casket would be carried by the pallbearers across the road from the church to the cemetery itself, and there he’d be “interred” (another infrequently used word) by being dropped into a vault in the ground and subsequently sealed and covered up in dirt. I remember thinking “what IS a pall anyway?” The whole thing, from the time the body was prepared for burial until the time it was lowered in the ground, was choreographed with the panache of a Broadway musical.

The most intriguing part of the process was what was called the “viewing.” “Wake” is another term. The excitement I felt at the time was knowing that I was going to be able to see a dead person. I loved Papa Wilson too, but I had no fear about seeing his body. I found the term “viewing” to be very accurate. We all had to take a look at him. It was part of the process, and was supposed to bring some closure. I’d add, too, that in southeast Alabama, another term was prior to the funeral you had a “sitting up,” aka wake, where someone spent the night at the funeral home or the house and sat with the body, as if it were going anywhere. The custom came from the need to keep mice and other vermin from making themselves at home in the casket – they needed to be shooed off. Or to keep the cat from sitting on the body. It didn’t matter if there were mice or cats around. You were simply expected to keep the departed company.

Papa Wilson lay in state in his house, in the parlor. I remember relatives and friends milling around on the front porch, talking in subdued whispers, as though if you were too loud it might disturb Papa Wilson. When you walked in the front door of the house, you came in the living room, and through French doors from the living room you’d enter the parlor/dining room.

So here’s young Tony, standing on the front porch, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Mama said, “Would you like to say goodbye to Papa?” I didn’t know about that … I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear me, but I also figured the goodbye was more for me than him. I said yes, but it was more of me wanting to see what he looked like than say any farewells.

So I was ushered into the parlor. People parted to let us come in. I saw the casket, gleaming in the subdued light, with the top opened, or at least half of it. I saw a white ruffle of pleated fabric spilling over the side. But because I was not grown, I couldn’t really see into it. I could see Papa Wilson’s nose and not much else.

At we approached the side of the casket I was able to peek in. Papa Wilson was dressed in a fine suit. I heard Mama sniffling, and I glanced up at Daddy. His jaws were working, his teeth clenched.

“Doesn’t he look sweet,” Mama said.

“He looks like he’s asleep,” Daddy said.

My thought? “He looks like he’s dead.” I wasn’t fooled.

Like his grandson, Papa Wilson was bald. Typically his head shone like a polished hubcap. This time, however, it was so powdered that it looked like parchment. His face was stretched tight, almost like a mask. His mouth was what disturbed me – it was though it was made of wax. (I’ve since learned that mouths can be a real problem for undertakers – because the mouth is always in motion, to see it perfectly still is an anomaly.)

I stood still and examined him with frank curiosity. I think my folks expected me to cry, or run, or something. I did none of these. Candidly, I didn’t feel anything. My primary thought was, “That’s not Papa Wilson. That’s just the horse he rode in on.”

Since that day I’ve been to many more funerals and performed a fair share, too. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to observe grief. Here’s your takeaway – everyone grieves differently, and you are in no place to judge if someone doesn’t grieve the way you would.

Which brings me back to “grieve appropriately.” I’ve already discussed that. To an observer of the eight-year-old Tony, they might feel that I didn’t grieve appropriately, if at all. That may be so.

When you think about it, grief is a part of closure, or should be. The overarching need is to move on. Grief, whatever its source, is a milestone, a transitional point from what was to what is. To get stuck in the what was can be a recipe for despair. Losses will happen, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. But staying bogged down in that loss, refusing to move on, is to doubt the bigness and sovereignty of God, who has no desire for us to be mired in the past, and is aware and present in our loss and perhaps even engineered it.

How do you move on?

This may be shallow, but … you just do. While your emotions may be raging and drowning you, understand that they are transient (unless there is some clinical problem, which we won’t go into here. I understand the reality of chronic depression, anxiety, anger, etc.).

Say this familiar biblical phrase: “And it came to pass…”

What is isn’t what will always be. And while we may always have a sense of loss after a tragedy, the reality is that it doesn’t have to cripple us. It is legitimate to miss what once was. But, armed with the knowledge that you can’t go back, and by listening to your head as well as your heart, it is possible – and necessary – to move forward toward a new horizon. What lies beyond may be a mystery, but it is no mystery in knowing that no matter where you’re headed, God is already there.

All change involves an element of loss.

Even good changes.

If you’re single and marry the love of your life, you lose some independence. If you begin a new job, you lose the familiarity of where you once worked. If you move to a new place, you lose the comfort that comes from knowing your way around.

Then there are the bad changes. You lose your health. You lose your job. You lose a loved one.

Change = loss. Ponder that a moment. Change is inevitable in life, and by my simple equation, it follows that loss is inevitable.

We grieve when we lose. I grieve when Auburn loses a ball game, but it’s not a crushing grief (well, sometimes it comes close.) I grieve when we’ve lost a pet. That’s family. In all my years of youth ministry, I’ve grieved when I’ve lost a student … when a kid I’ve invested in and loved on gets spiritually shipwrecked, man, that hurts.

I could go on. Certainly we grieve over lost relationships. There are times when people leave our lives, either benignly or by some incident. There may be times to legitimately say “good riddance” and other times when even after multiple attempts to make things right, they’re just – gone. Heartbreaking.

And loss of a loved one? What pure, unadulterated pain. It could be a grandparent, parent, child, or spouse. If you’re a believer, and you know the one you’ve said goodbye to is also a believer, you understand that your “goodbye” is more accurately a “see you later.” You’ve made arrangements to meet again.

Mama lost her fourth bout with cancer. She began with renal cell carcinoma, a kidney cancer that is rarely life-threatening and relatively easy to treat. (I’ve had that one, and I’m fine.)

Some years later she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Surgery, and she had several cancer-free years. Then, lung cancer v.2. Surgery. Done.

Finally, she found herself complaining of rapidly increasing back pain. This time, it was cancer, and it was everywhere, in her bones. She didn’t last long after that. But she died with dignity, just as she’d lived.

I’m an only child, and we’d already buried Daddy some years earlier. So this was it. I was to be an orphan (albeit a middle-aged one.) We had several good conversations as the day approached and she was lucid. It really wasn’t until a couple of days before her death that she slipped into a quiet, sweet darkness and didn’t communicate. And when she passed, it was expected and I was prepared.

It was still hard. But interestingly enough, I’d done most of my grieving before she actually died. There was time for me to prepare, and my comfort during those days had an awful lot to do with grace. I often wondered in earlier years how I’d react after both my parents were gone, and I think I’ve done fine. Of course there are times when I’d love to visit with them today, but that’s just going to have to stay on hold for a while longer.

So, we have this: Change = loss = grief.

How does one grieve appropriately? More succinctly, how do we grieve as one who has hope?

1. You have to identify your source of hope. This is an immutable, unchanging factor in your life. If your hope is based on how you feel at any given point in time, you are not going to handle loss well. Feelings are the great betrayers. They are ever-changing. They are often based on circumstances. So your hope has to be based not on how you feel, but what (and who) your security is in.

2. You look to those who have hope in that similar source. This is where you look for living testimonies. You know scores of people who’ve dealt with a loss, and I’m not restricting that to the loss of a loved one. It could be some of the other losses I’ve mentioned. And they’ve managed fine. It may have taken a while for them to adjust to their new normal, but often they’ve flourished. (I could riff on “failure” here, but the bottom line is that failure, which is also a loss, can and should lead to a fresh start and eventual success.) Be encouraged by them.

3. Don’t let others drag you down. We all know those people who darken a room by their very presence. They are negative and cynical. You aren’t allowed not to love them, but you are allowed to avoid them, or at least not get trapped in their negativity.

4. Realize your loss can be someone else’s gain. This is a companion thought to that last point. Everything – and I mean everything – happens for at least two reasons. One is to teach you something about yourself and give you inspiration to do something about it if you aren’t happy with what you’ve learned. Second, you can lead and comfort someone going through the same thing you did. It goes from saying “I understand” (which you may or may not) to “I identify,” because you’ve been there. In the ultimate manifestation of empathy, you may be able to honestly say, “I feel (or have felt) what you feel.” Tell me that won’t impact someone else’s life.

5. Accept the fact that you can’t go back. I could say a lot about regrets here, but that’s fodder for another day. What I can say is that you don’t get do-overs. You do get second chances, but that’s not the same. There are moments in our collective past that are forever fixed in time, and they can’t be undone. Sometimes grief grows out of “I should have’s.” Do what you can to internalize this thought: Whatever it was, you can’t take it back. You can learn from it, grow from it, but it won’t change what was, or wasn’t, done. It’s called moving forward.

6. Finally, you can’t place your hope in something that can change. If your total source of hope is found in a person, realize that people change, leave, die. Where’s your hope then? And surely you know better than to place your hope in a paycheck, or modern medicine, or the government. Those can all change, too. From where I sit, that hope is found in a personal relationship with God.

Ancient script says “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.”* Change is inevitable, but it should never lead to hopelessness. Hopelessness is not an option. Be encouraged.

*James 1:17