NPR asked me to do a short memo to the president-elect. I chose to do it on the dog he should choose… and why. Check it out.
Livvy is going through an “I’m scared” phase at night. She wants us to sleep in her bed and check on her all the time. As I write, her shades are up, a little nightlight is on, and she’s hugging her Raggedy Ann…and a dozen other stuffed animals… simultaneously.
A few nights ago as I was tucking her in she said, “Daddy. I want to see the angels.”
I didn’t quite get it.
“I want to see the angels that protect me. That way I won’t be so scared.”
I felt like saying, “Yeah, me too.” But I don’t think that she would have understood me. So I told her that no, she couldn’t see them and I couldn’t either but that we knew they are there.
Were she older I would have told her about the one or two times that I felt angelic presence in an almost palpable way.
One of them was 5 1/2 years ago as I recuperated from brain surgery (but not on the sensory part of the brain – just in case you were thinking I was imaging things). Kim and I were so close to God, so dependent on Him for everything. There was no life apart from him. Every night before we went to sleep we spent a good bit of time praying not just for ourselves but for others and also just marveling at God’s goodness.
In the middle of one of those nights I was turning over when I became aware of a presence – an almost electric presence – in the room. It didn’t feel like anything I’d ever come across before. It certainly wasn’t malevolent. But neither did it exude any syrupy niceness. It felt weighty, certain, sturdy, good. As I said, it was was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
I didn’t make the full turn. Instead I just laid there on my back, fully conscious, feeling like I needed to be fully still. And so I was. I wanted to tap Kim and wake her up and try and explain it all but I had this sense that by the time I did that the experience would have been over, the force gone… the sense that this was for me.
But she isn’t older and wouldn’t get that story. So I hold her close and I am teaching her to pray and telling her about the Good Shepherd and all the while reminding myself that I can’t see the angels either but I know that they are there.
Let the world meditate for a moment on this picture:
What an amazing country we are.
We aren’t even up to the peaceful transfer of power moment. That is something extraordinary in its own right – something beyond extraordinary really.
This was just the, “Hey, you just kicked me up and down the football field but you won. Why don’t you drop by for coffee moment.”
I am struck again by President Bush’s decency. He is handling this transition with a dignity and honor that must be recognized. How easy it would be for him to be small and bitter and petty. But by all accounts he is anything but. He is doing honor to the office.
But more than anything I am struck by the symbolism of it all. This newly elected president, this newly elected black president being shown his new office.
It is amazing stuff, wondrous stuff.
Over the past few years, as I’ve lived with the brain tumor in my head, I’ve come across two fellow travelers – people who know, uniquely, the experience of living a life where your brain has already been picked.
One woman, Alicia Sky Kunerth, as diagnosed with the worst of all possible brain tumors in 2002. The other gentleman was diagnosed with a less aggressive tumor in 2004. The latter man, David Welch, started a website called 38lemon.com dedicated to spreading information and news about his own journey and about brain tumors in general.
This week each of them received news. One that they are tumor-free and the other that they are dying and nothing more can be done for them.
Sky is tumor-free. David is dying.
My mind doesn’t know how to assimilate this news. I am SO happy for Sky. SO happy. She has lived her life so fully these years since diagnosis. Frankly, I want to be more like her – and not just in the medical sense.
But I am also so sad about David. Just so very, very sad.
Logically, of course, I understand. In understand the differences between us are just as distinct as the differences between everyone reading this and the child who died just now of malnutrition or starvation or preventable disease. I understand the difference between lives spared and lives lost. My mind gets that.
I suppose it is my heart… my soul… that doesn’t get it.
Recently I was told a story about Steven Curtis Chapman, the Christian musician who lost his young daughter in an accident. A friend who went to the viewing at the funeral home brought his teenage daughter. When Steven saw her he bent down and looked into her eyes and said, “God is not surprised by this. God is not surprised.” My friend’s daughter crumpled in his arms, a bawling girl in a grieving father’s arms.
I think, however, Steven has it right. God is not surprised. God grieves. God mourns. God shares our grief. But but he is not surprised. And he has been here before… it was God, after all, who grieved over losing his own Son… and he knew the end of the story.
This is what faith is ultimately about… not always understanding, but always believing that there is the One who does understand.
So I sit typing on my keyboard with a snoring Newfie sprawled out next to me, five-and-a-half-years after being diagnosed feeling a bit blue but generally quite fine – I ran for the first time in ages yesterday… and made a coffee cake too… the former made me feel like I could indulge in the latter… never knew how easy it was to make that crumbly part on top… potentially a bad thing to discover… rejoicing in the God who is greater than this universe no matter what the news might be, laid bare by the certainty of his love.
