The Truth

Two Sundays ago I sat in my usual spot at church, on the aisle, ten or so rows back from the front. I listened to my absurdly gifted pastor, David Dwight, tell a story about the time he was asked to help his elderly and frail father take a shower. As he described the experience, I felt my throat tighten. Suddenly, the memories came pouring back and I became aware of the beating of my own heart. In David’s telling, the time caring for his Dad felt like something holy and precious. For me it was much more complicated.

When my mother died in her sleep nearly eight years ago, my dad found himself alone for the first time in his life. At the time he was 87 years old and in declining health. He would live two more years before passing away in 2014. For almost all of his last two years, his four children worked round the clock to keep him in his own home. Only his last 60 days would be spent in a nursing home. But with each passing month it became more and more difficult to take care of him. Towards the end, we started taking turns helping him in and out of the shower. My shift was Thursday nights.

The first time for me was neither holy or precious. It was awkward and uncomfortable. When it was over, I got in my car to drive home and for the first time since my mother passed I found my self crying. I actually had to pull over to the side of the road. But these were no tears of joy. These were angry, bitter tears. It was all so unfair. How could God have allowed such an incredible man to fall so far? How could God allow such a faithful servant to lose all of his dignity like this? Is this how God rewarded men and women who spent their entire lives serving him? In the parking lot of what used to be a beer joint, at the corner of 660 and Route 33, I fell apart in a rage of anger and bitterness.

As I listened to David, I realized that a part of me was still holding on to some of that bitterness. Not all of it, much of it had drained away with the passage of time and better experiences on subsequent Thursday nights. Several weeks later in fact Dad and I had an experience that was very much what David had described. After struggling to get Dad’s pajamas on after his shower and tucking him into bed, he reached for my hand just as I was leaving and whispered, “you’re a good son...” As I looked at him I felt overwhelmed with thankfulness that I was lucky enough to have this giant of a man as a father. I kissed him on the forehead and turned the light out. The drive home on that night felt very different, something approaching holiness, I suppose.

David made the observation that when we are confronted with tragedy and disappointment in life we come to a fork in the road. We have to choose either bitterness or beloved-ness. His message convicted me that I had some unfinished business back at that fork in the road. I had to backtrack, go back to that spot and ask forgiveness for the bitterness I was still unconsciously holding on to.

This is why I love my church. I don’t get finger wagging screeds. I don’t have to endure pointless theological dog and pony shows or a bunch of esoteric nonsense that has no relationship to the real world. Instead, I get told the truth about myself, drenched in so much love and compassion it’s almost impossible to take offense. 

Thanks. Hope Church.