Dear Friends,

It was a dark and stormy night with my mother lying in a hospital bed.

I arrived shortly after 8 PM to be told that I had just missed 44 of her friends piling into her room at once to sing Christmas carols - her favorite. They had all come for her; and still more to come! And the banker. And the doctor. And the preacher. Friends of years. Friends of months.

I know you would have been there.

Sometimes she could speak, and sometimes she could not. Some could not find it within themselves to go into the room, to see her as she was.

That morning was foggy and overcast - we could not see the cars from her window, but my mother only had eyes for the people in the room.

I asked her, "Are you afraid?"

She shook her head, "No."

And the day cleared up. And the fog rolled back. And the clouds slowly went from the sky. And night fell.

I whispered in her ear how much she meant to me. She put her arms around me for a little while, as if I were still a child.

"I love you."

Her husband, Tom, and I sat for hours, holding her hand.

On December 15th, 2007 at 7:45 PM, with only one cloud in the Texas sky, with the stars so clear above us, with her mother and father, with her husband, with her sister and nephew, with her neice and her daughter and her son, Tamara Hanson stole away into the night.

"I love you all."

I am not afraid.

Alan Shields
Her Loving-but-Difficult Son

PS: A memorial service will be held on Saturday at St. Andrews United Methodist Church (5801 W. Plano Pkwy, Plano, TX 75093). In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Journey of Hope Grief Support Center or Baylor Health Care System Foundation.

Wait for me, I'll be back

WELL, IT FINALLY HAPPENED TO ME -- the woman who considers herself ultimately organized.

ON THE SECOND SATURDAY MORNING in August of this year, all my accomplishments blew up in a cloud of self-sufficient pride. Surgery followed several days later and here I am, still looking for what was lost in that cloud of pain.

DON'T GIVE UP ON ME, I'll be back. Like McArthur, I'll be back.

You're blessed. Be a blessing!

(transcribed by her son, against whom all grammar mistakes should be blamed)

ROLL ON RIVER

The soft green of the Jordan River swished around my ankles, and little pebbles of the exposed aggregate steps dug into the soles of my feet. I pinched the soft skin of my inner arm to convince myself that I was really so near the place where the heavens had opened, and God had declared His pleasure in His son, the Beloved. (Matt 3:16)

Large trees dipped their branches into the water not far from where a canoe bumped against barricades designed to keep boats out. After tipping their fishing rods at me, the occupants paddled toward the center of the river. Everything seemed so ordinary. So normal. But it wasn’t.

Standing in this lush river, my rite of baptism—that scant sprinkling in a Lutheran church nearly thirty-five years earlier—no longer seem quite enough. I felt let down by my baptism experience. Somehow it should have been MORE.

One afternoon after school I'd stood in the vacated sanctuary of the church I’d occasionally attended and promised to be a Christian with the ardor only a teenager can muster. There was no celebration afterwards. No sense of how special the moment was. We just went home.

Now, here in Canaan, I took my place at the end of a line of friends from our church about to commemorate their baptisms, and as I moved forward I felt the wonderment and joy that had been missing on that day. The moment I touched water from the Jordan to my own head, I knew I had been wrong. I hadn't any need to “redo” my baptism. I hadn’t even needed to rework a bad memory.

For Methodists, baptism is about belonging to the Body of Christ. And that beautiful river reminded me that I did, indeed, belong—and had belonged from that day so many decades before when, standing in the fading light of a stained glass window, I had made God a promise and myself a member.

And the Jordan River . . . rushing over my ankles . . . was a reminder of how many of us have been blessed by this mighty fellowship.

You are blessed. Be a blessing.

THE PAIN PLIGHT

AS SOME OF YOU KNOW, my most recent struggle has been with pain. Greater than simply a challenge, pain is attempting to take over my life. My activities are limited, and what I can do I do with a pillow between my back and wherever I am seated. Standing for any length of time is not an option.

TODAY AT THE SURGEON’S OFFICE I received first-hand proof that I’m no hypochondriac. A tumor the size of a golf ball has wrapped its ugly self around one of the nerve trunks that exits the spinal column. Even on the doctor’s impersonal computer screen, it looked painful.

OF COURSE . . . THE TUMOR IS INOPERABLE. To get permanent relief I’ll have to wait for the treatments I’m currently undergoing to smack that tumor around. LORD, ARE YOU LISTENING?

I WAS SOMEWHAT PREPARED for the surgery-really-isn’t-an-option message. Five years ago on July fifteenth, I heard nearly the same words. Only then the prognosis had been very grim. Today this is only about relief, not life or death.

YET IN SPITE OF THE PREDICTIONS MY POOR FAMILY HAD TO LISTEN TO THEN, here I am--still alive. Still useful. It is, after all, God’s world. He does get a vote on how it’s run, which brings up another point in this crazy Christian faith where many of the answers seem to contradict themselves.

BEFORE I BECAME ILL I never really believed evil had power. I thought that the devil was blamed for choices people made that sent them in the wrong direction. If they suffered, they had only themselves to blame.

ENTER CANCER. Careful in the sun, quick to supplement my diet with vitamins and nutrients to promote health and ward off the Big C, I was the last person I expected to come down with anything, much less this terrible disease. Yet here I am in the midst of a contest between good and evil—conducted in my very own body.

AFTER WATCHING THIS BATTLE for several years, I’d grown to believe that if I lost it would be because I fell under the temptation of despair. Now I’ve come to believe that pain is my personal demon.

PAIN HAS THE POWER to destroy faith. It tempts me to believe that God would never allow any child He cares about to suffer. But then I remember His only son. Even He wasn’t exempt. When He climbed Calvary Hill, pain brought Him to his knees several times. Our God understands suffering.

AND IF I HAVE ANY SENSE, this pain will bring me to my knees as well. Where there’s a problem, there’s a solution. God is still in charge. I just need to wait again for His solution.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

THE 21st CENTURY AND THE BEATITUDES

STANDING ON THE MOUNT where Christ preached the Beatitudes, I fight the wind that only moments before had raced across the Sea of Galilee, and, giving up, I remove my hat. I pause to survey the country side before I look for a seat among the exposed boulders.

MORE THAN ANYTHING, I’m reminded of Texas Hill Country. This is grazing land. Shepherds would have called their flocks together here amongst the outcropping of limestone.

TODAY A CHURCH RUN BY ITALIAN NUNS has preserved several acres from the vineyards and orchards that have long since encroached on most of the ancient pastures.

TIME HAS NOT STOOD STILL even in the land where Christianity was born. The Sea of Galilee has become a hot spot for windsurfers. More than a hundred have congregated in the newly-risen afternoon wind. On the hill I am high enough to let my imagination convince me their sails are sea gulls.

ISRAEL HAS TAUGHT THE LAND to feed its people. Black plastic is wrapped around bunches of dates. More plastic covers fruit trees. Harvest is only days away, and a bird is always eager to bury a sharp little beak into an apricot or a sugary date.

BUT, IF I TURN MY EYES AWAY from the road that brought me here, I can ignore the twenty-first century. I can carry myself back to the time when Rome called this place Palestine. Back to the time when Rome was disgusted with the hard-headed Jews who lived here.

I FIND A ROCK THAT DOESN’T HAVE TOO MANY BIRD DROPPINGS and settle on it among other members of the Bible study classes I’ve attended over the years. They are also hushed, seemingly meditative as the wind tears at their clothes just as it must have torn at the clothing of Christ’s many disciples so long ago.

OUR TEACHER, who struggles with the windblown pages of his Bible, encourages those of us who had enough forethought to bring one (I was not one of them) to open to Matthew 5:3. He begins to read, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

MY MIND IS SWEPT AWAY to the moment those words were first spoken. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at our Jewish tour guide. He too seems caught up in some of the most beautiful, most hopeful words in the New Testament.

I BOW MY HEAD and let the rest of the words flow over me, blessing me again and again with a fresh understanding of grace.

You are blessed. Be a blessing!

ICKTHUS . . . SOMETHING FISHY FOR THE FAITHFUL?

SINCE I BECAME what I sometimes refer to as an Old Testament Christian, I’ve wanted to see Jerusalem and Canaan. I’ve wanted to walk where Jesus walked. I’ve wanted the breezes that grace those ancient hills to grace my own face. I’ve wanted the waters of the Jordan River to swirl around my ankles. I’ve wanted to put my hands in the very Sea of Galilee that Christ walked on.

I’VE DONE ALL THOSE THINGS NOW. I’ve also seen where David slew Goliath, and I’ve knelt down to touch Golgotha. I’ve peeked into the Nazareth home of Joseph, Mary, and family. I’ve seen the tomb of Joseph of Aramethea and prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I KNOW HOW NARROW THE KIDRON VALLEY is and that the arid backside of the Mount of Olives meant freedom was only a hop, skip, and jump away for Christ. And yet He chose to wait for the burning torches He would have seen were meant to take Him away.

OH, YES. I can chalk the number one item off my travel To Do list.

WHEN THOSE WONDERFUL, MYSTERIOUS DAYS were completed, I felt the rest of the trip would be nice, but nothing to write about. I was wrong.

BEING IN THE MINORITY is something I’ve really never experienced. In most of the countries we visited—Egypt, Turkey, and even much of Israel—we pale Christians from a nice north Texas United Methodist Church were often outnumbered by as much as 98 percent of the Muslim population. Now that’s a minority.

IMAGINE AN ARMED GUARD ON A TOUR BUS. Imagine days without Christian symbols or churches. Imagine days without seeing a single woman show her hair.

THAT’S WHY, when I saw the Ickthus carved into the paving stones of Ephesus, Turkey, I was reminded that I was in the ruins of the world Paul had lived and worked in.

TALK ABOUT LIVING IN THE MINORITY! He might have been a super missionary, a force-to-be-contended-with, but much of the time he was alone. No wonder he landed in trouble so many times. (For Ephesus specifically, read Acts 19: 21-41.) Paul was not well-liked by the authorities or most of the citizens. Yet here, deeply etched outside a theater large enough to accommodate the same number of spectators as an NFL stadium, was the secret symbol of Christianity.

THE “Ι” RUNS NORTH AND SOUTH. The “Χ” (which is the “k” sound) is obvious. It takes a moment longer to find the ϑ (which is the “th” sound). The ϒ (the “oo” sound) is easier. And the Σ (the “s”) can easily be traced. Ickthus. The fish. As clear as it was in the early days when it first defaced the road. Christian graffiti. Paul’s legacy.

I PAUSED IN HUNDRED DEGREE PLUS HEAT and thanked God I was lucky enough to be in a time and in a place where I heard the Word. Where what I believe is what most of the people I know also believe. Where we don't have to resort to secrecy to share the truth with others. Feeling how very fortunate I was, I reluctantly followed the elbow in the road toward the bus where the others were waiting.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

FREEDOM?

FIVE YEARS AGO, almost to the day, I was diagnosed with this pesky cancer I drag around with me. July fifteen of that same year after unsuccessful surgery, even my optimistic oncologist was only willing to venture that I might have three months left. Everyone else gave me a month at best.

FOR THAT REASON, each successive July I have had trouble keeping my spunky equilibrium. I should be rejoicing, but instead I find myself in a rare funk, flirting with despair. I find myself looking at my TO DO list as though it might be too long. I find myself thinking that by shortening it, I might be able to alleviate my discomfort and let myself be swept into the hereafter.

PAIN, POOR SCAN REPORTS, or feeling worn out lead me toward the temptation of giving up—like that’s the way to win this game. Right.

WHY AM I WRITING ABOUT THIS? Because I’d be less than honest if I were to tell you I didn’t have dark moments. And while I may lie to myself at times, you deserve better. After all, if I can’t share my bottom-of-the-barrel moments with you, what gives me the right to share my shining moments of faith with you?

THE DAYS SINCE I RETURNED from my once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Holy Land have not been filled with the best of times. Pain from the jiggling I took on the turbulent flight home has not abated, the MRI scan I had on the Monday I returned shows tumor enlargement, and the doctor failed to call in a refill of the prescription I need for pain before the holiday began.

SO, HOW DOES THIS LITANY OF COMPLAINTS relate to “Freedom?” Well, it’s about truth-telling. I’m not pretending everything is wonderful when it’s not. In John 8:32b, Christ said, “and the truth will make you free.” He was talking about understanding the truth of who He was. A very big truth. But the truth is powerful in even smaller doses. Like being honest.

IF I REMEMBER TO BE KIND, being honest will free me from the burden of taking care of those who are capable of standing on their own two feet—or, perhaps even better, falling to their own two knees. But, I have a responsibility. Those who care about me and who have to stand by watching the battle I’m waging deserve my kindness. This is not the time for a drama-queen performance. This is a time to remember that while I may be stumbling right now, while I may be reacting to a date on the calendar, tomorrow all this, even if it is true, may not be as important as it seems now.

TOMORROW I MAY BETTER SEE THE LIGHT of Christ that brightens my path. I may thank God for the challenges He sends my way—even if I don’t understand why. Or like them very much. I may better understand that what I’m enduring just now is nothing more than yet another false low in the cancer journey I was sent out on five years ago.

I DO KNOW ONE THING. If I have to walk this path, I’m glad you’re with me.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!