Tag Archives: believe

It’s Been a Year Dad: Lessen or Lesson

It’s been a year now, 12 whole months since a life here expired. I remember the weeks leading to the day that we all knew would come sometime. There was so much support, many prayers and efforts, regardless of being tired. Amid the details though, it wasn’t too difficult, a beautiful love, to find.

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A Dad and This Boy

I thought that I was doing pretty well, then came along, this day

Two weeks ago today, Dad you were called home, out of the fray

 

Dad, I sat down at my laptop to start writing these thoughts I kept

An alert blinked, so I clicked, a picture of us opened up, I wept

 

I have said, I was blessed to do what God has allowed me time to do

I wasn’t done Dad, why did you have to leave now, I trust God knew

 

I always acted in love, knowing that one distant day you’d be gone

Leaving a hole here in my world, rhythm broken, no tasks to be done

 

You would just get better, together we would move on, more time to share

Then one April morning I rushed, to be with you, but you weren’t there

 

When do we get to share a coffee and relive the moments we love?

Now I sit here by myself, mulling over this and that, I look above

 

What about the road trips we talked of Dad, where would we go?

I drive for hours, all over the place, and creation, let me know

 

Dad, who is going to tell me stop, or to turn, on our way to Canada?

Dad, I’d stop every time you needed, regardless of my own stamina

 

Dad, can we gather round the table one more time and just let loose?

Oh, we’d laugh til tears, you, my siblings, Mom, this boy you called moose

 

I look at the hoop and wonder if I’ll ever see that arch ever again

Dad, you were one the best lefty shooters there has ever been

 

You weren’t well, but I never thought this day would come so soon

Dimly, I thought that maybe when the day came, I’d be somehow immune

 

Dad, I am not immune, I can barely get through a day, maybe even two

I can’t imagine the despair of those who don’t know the Truth you knew

 

I wouldn’t make it were it not for the message, the way to heaven’s door

As a child, I’d lay in bed and pray that prayer every night just to be sure

 

It was you Dad, you shared the gospel and led me to the foot of the cross

It was you Dad, you put it out there, heaven bound, no longer lost

 

And, Dad, one day it will be our great day of celebration and joy

When, we all get together in heaven, it’ll always be a dad and this boy

 

How we will laugh, and in perfect health, we will walk the streets of gold

Dad, we will all see you again, in the land where we will never grow old

 

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This is the picture that popped up on my laptop today.

The Dearest and Best

Many times I sit and think about things that have been. I listen to music the way that it was. Most times I find that so many things were done right the first time. I love to enjoy the creativity of lyrics, words written, and music compiled beautifully. Then sometimes I delve into these things a little bit deeper, maybe just to feel them, or maybe to record memories that I’ll hold close to me for always. Then in this moment I was captivated by the simple words “the dearest and best”.

dearest: most loved or cherished

bestthat which is the most excellent, outstanding, or desirable Continue reading

Our Dear Marjorie

I was so happy to get home late last night. Mom and I made amazing time returning from an emotional afternoon spent in Woodstock, NB. We are so thankful for the opportunity we had to get up to Canada and celebrate Marjorie’s life with everyone, even if only for the afternoon. I rolled into my yard at around 11:30pm last night, after a 770 mile round-trip that had started some 18 hours prior. For my own personal reference, our family trip to the Outer Banks this summer to celebrate Mom and Dad’s 50th Anniversary was only a 714 mile ride to get there. Anyways, I move on.

I am far more exhausted this morning than I thought I would be, honestly. The drives are tiring, but the emotions and thoughts that overcome me on days like yesterday take more of a toll on me I think. Certainly, the combination is powerful, and I am feeling it today for sure. That said, I would do it again today if I had to.

Honestly, since I wrote the poem and tribute to Marjorie on Friday night, I think I have actually experienced more memories, more thoughts, certainly more emotions, and at least a few dozen moments wishing I could concisely share what rambles through my mind.

I will start here. To the family and friends who cared for, saw things through, planned and executed the last few days’ events, and who lingered until all got their fill, thank you. Thank you so very much. You’re all awesome and our dear Marjorie would have been proud I am sure, smiling somewhere just outside of the limelight, at all of you, the ones she loved so very much.

I pulled into a parking spot, assessing my own ability to park symmetrically between the painted lines, upon my exit of the vehicle. Truthfully, I could have squared the vehicle up a bit better, maybe giving myself a grade of a B- for the parking job, but I was tired, and too focused on getting across the street and into the awaiting funeral home to do anything about it then. That thought only stayed with me for a few steps thankfully.

Mom and I crossed the street and found seats, oddly enough next to relatives (pretty good chance that happens at any gathering where Peterson’s are present), once we entered the funeral home. I sat there, silent for the most part, looking around the room. I counted seats on both sides of the aisle, 9 on one side, 8 on the other. There were 8 full rows of 17 seats and then some more seats behind, a small standing room area, and then more seats off to the side. I saw people I knew, people I thought I knew, others I figured I should have known, and then others I knew that I didn’t know.

I glanced forward from my seat six rows deep. The distance was perfect I thought because being any closer to the open casket might have been more than I could of handled. I don’t really have a problem with seeing my loved ones in that state, but this time I had decided that the pictures I had in my mind from my numerous visits with Marjorie last year and this year were far more authentic Marjorie than anything I knew I would see again here on earth. I could see her from where I sat and I allowed my eyes to wander her way numerous times as a human being would be prone to do. Eventually the casket was closed and I wasn’t upset about that either. Before it closed though, I had told myself to focus my glances to the area around, and including, Marjorie’s lips for one very good reason, in my mind anyways. I had observed in recent years that Marjorie could say a lot in just the positioning of her lips. Happy. Content. Stern. Commanding respect. Pleased. These are just a few words that I felt she could portray without saying a word.

I noticed that the crowd was large, maybe 150 people or so. Many of these folks grew up with Marjorie, literally within a couple of miles of the old farm. Many, of course, were from the massive Peterson family, who mostly started their lives within a few miles of each other too. There were others too, people who Marjorie met and became dear friends with along her way through life. Maybe you’re impressed with crowds or numbers, and maybe you’re not. But I would be willing to bet that the numbers I would find most impressive would be something along the lines of the number one, and then words numbering a few. I’ll explain. The number one would be the answer to the question of Who or How many were at the center of Marjorie’s life. The One, God. That was clear and everyone knew it. Beautiful. Numbering in maybe a few would be the number of different words used to describe Marjorie if each of the 150 or so people present yesterday were asked to describe what she represented to them personally. I say “numbering a few” because Marjorie was Marjorie, to you, to me, to the old, to the young, to all. I found that she was consistent, she was constant, she was a Christian, and she was conscious. No matter how you would assess her, she was those things, over and over. She was Marjorie.

The service continued. The stories were shared. I thought to myself how privileged I had been. Privileged because almost every single story told, I had heard before. Not because I need to know it all, and clearly you must have figured by now, that I don’t know much. But because I had either heard the stories from Marjorie directly or in her presence, which of course offered her a chance to refute or to expand on any shared story. See; I was the fortunate one. As the stories unfolded, and the message was shared through words and song, my mind wandered, but never left the room. I thought more on Marjorie, her life, the impact she had and the legacy she left. Then I heard something I hadn’t fully expected to hear.

“There was a cousin…There was someone…Stephen Beal. Is Stephen Beal here…Can you raise your hand or stand up if you’re here…” Ummm, yes, I think that would be me, my mind answered. My hand went up. And from the podium I was asked if I wanted to read a poem I had written. Rising from my seat, I responded, “I’ll give it a shot.” Honestly I was hoping my legs would actually lift me and carry me to the podium at the front of the room. They did. Thankfully.

In total honestly, the next, I have no idea how many minutes I was up there, were and are a total blur to me. In my mind I picture a tornado spinning quickly, randomly, spilling forth a few words here and there, none of which make sense together. That’s how I remember my moments at the front of the room until I started reading the poem. The poem, which was really some rearranging and rewriting of the words of an old Ray Charles/Willie Nelson song, that for some unknown reason I had connected to the state of Marjorie as I pictured it in the moments before she was called home. This summer I had visited with her in July and she was so calm as it related to her end of days. Somewhere in my mind’s eye, while listening to the original song and lyrics, a picture started to develop in my imagination and the words followed. Ultimately it became a simple revision to the words of the song, a poem if you will. The poem, I renamed simply, Seven Irish Angels. I read the first verse and I think it went alright. Then I heard what I thought was someone in one of the front rows, let out a sob, then another. I paused. The pastor (sitting behind me) prayed a one line prayer for me, I heard it, and it helped me get over the lump in my throat and I finished the little poem. I think I said something mildly coherent upon finishing the poem and I returned to my seat. I was happy that nobody escorted me from the building as I felt my performance was probably worthy of sitting out in the parking lot until the grown ups were all done.

I poke fun at myself and try to stay grounded completely. I try not to pretend to be something I am not. With complete sincerity, I am deeply honored and genuinely thankful that I was called upon yesterday, and it will be a memory, blurry or not, that I will hold dear for the rest of my life. Thank you all for the opportunity to be included in the celebration and remembrance of our dear Marjorie.

Marjorie’s daughter-in-law Sherry, whom I had never met before yesterday, called me at home on Saturday and asked me if I was coming up to the funeral, and if I wouldn’t mind sharing something from the things I had written during the service. I told her I honestly might not get through it because I do get emotional pretty easily about things near and dear to my heart. But I wasn’t opposed to it either. I never did hear what the final plan was until I was sitting in the service and my name was called. Which, honestly, was completely perfect.

Before I went up front to fumble around with the seemingly millions of thoughts running through my mind, none of which included reading the poem, and sometime since Saturday’s phone call, I had been thinking about being in the presence of Marjorie. I had shared the news of Marjorie’s passing with another friend of mine while at my son’s hockey game on Saturday evening. I described to her how I felt to sit down, alone, and just to talk with Marjorie. And had I the time, and control over my mind at the front of the room, I would have shared something like this.

We all have our place. Our place where we can melt into the backdrop just a little bit, and just be. A place where time doesn’t seem to be measured and, if it is being measured, we really don’t care. A place where sound is optional. Silence is golden but so is any other sound in this special place that we allow to reach our ears, or our conscious minds. A place where upon arrival little effort is needed to just be there and take in the things we find so special about the place. One such place for me is alongside a cold, gentle flowing, quietly babbling, forest stream. Seeking out the hollow of an old stream-side tree, or the comfort found on a moss covered log or stump where I can rest my weary bones, ease my saturated mind, and listen to the things I feel like letting in, all of which come directly from the creatures and landscapes that God Himself created. So, as I mentally cozy up to this little stream, this place where I can just be; I think also of time with Marjorie. Sitting with Marjorie, to me, was a similar experience. There was peace. There was calm. There was no agenda or preconceived anything. In her peace, behind her smile which shone through her eyes, you knew there was something bigger, something better, that she fully knew, understood, and trusted. She was at peace with God. And so, there was just time spent with her. I don’t think it would have mattered whether words were spoken or not, I think being around someone so unassuming, so completely at peace, and so at ease being in her own skin, was a refreshing trip all in its own.

Back to the service…back in my seat…back in my mind…I was sure I had butchered the entire time I spent up front. Trying to focus, gather myself, and listen to my three cousins sing Because He Lives, I realized that I had quoted lyrics from this same song in the tribute I had written three nights before. Wow! That’s pretty awesome I thought.

Quickly, or so it seemed, the service came to a close and it was time for the immediate family to proceed to the cemetery for the burial. The rest of us would cross the street and await at the family reception set up in the church cafeteria/gymnasium of sorts.

The reception, I was anxious to attend. This was the time and place to meet those I had not yet met and to visit with the many dear family members, among others, from the generation I so revere. What came next was more than I could have imagined and was more proof to me just how feeble my mind is and how singular my thoughts can be. I thank God because the picture He sees is so much bigger than the picture I see and I am so glad to have the relationship with Him that I do. He is great. I am nothing without Him. As it should be.

I picked a seat in the corner and although I had already driven more than 370 miles and sat through a funeral service to get to this seat, I just wanted to sit. Well sort of. I also wanted to visit with family. I wanted to stand and give loving, supportive hugs to those so many around me that I love so much. I wanted also to stand and talk with people while visiting, but for the immediate future, I just wanted to sit. So I did.

Family filtered into the big room. And I don’t think the background matters no matter where we might be or for what reason, when I see those familiar faces present, the place is more secure, it’s safer, it’s better, it’s more friendly, and more importantly, God is among us. Mostly they migrated toward the corner of the room that Mom and I, and a few others were already in. I stood, I gave hugs. I visited. I laughed, we laughed. I received a lot of attention; attention I was not expecting, nor was I looking for it. I was pleased and relieved to receive positive feedback regarding my time up front. I shared with my Aunt, as I had earlier in the day with my Mom, that I felt we were in the right place by deciding to make the trip to attend. I explained my justification by saying that when I am 80 years old I would not like to look back at the last 48 hours and wonder how it was possible that I could not have been there. Then Marjorie’s immediate family returned from the cemetery to join us all.

More people than I can remember meeting, introduced themselves and offered positive words about my time up front, about the choice of song to rearrange words too, and also to share the emotions upon reading what I had written as well as their own connections to Marjorie. I was overwhelmed. I was humbled. I was deeply honored. I was talking to one person after another. Did I mention how humbling this was? Wow. Overwhelming to say the least. In my mind, I was just another among many who was fortunate enough to know Marjorie.

I just wanted to be big and strong enough to hold up anyone and everyone in the immediate family who had pretty much been at Marjorie’s side day and night for hours, and days at a time as her time drew near. I wanted to be the assurance that everything was going to be okay and to redirect the suffering and pain toward the glory Marjorie now understood fully. I wanted to hug and to hold the sisters until their weary, saddened faces were alive and bright again with loving smiles. I wanted to be the man in person, not just behind a tribute or a poem, to her boys and their spouses of whom Marjorie spoke so often and spoke so highly of. I wanted to be the message anyone needed to hear, or to be the living example of how I felt about dear Marjorie. I had asked God for strength, for peace, and for direction in all of these matters. He delivered.

I write because I have found that after many years on this earth that I actually enjoy it. Nobody from my school days would ever believe it to be true, but it is quite true. In these situations I write also to feel. Yes, I cry. I cry a lot when I write on these matters, these tributes, these memories, but I figure if I can’t cry by immersing myself wholly into these scenarios where others flee for the fear of feeling pain or due to the real uncertainty of where their loved one may have ended up, then when am I supposed to feel, to cry? I jump in and let the feeling, the pain, the joy, the whatever it is just wash over me and allow each second upon second to fully develop revealing ultimately, peace with the situation. I also talk to God a lot in these moments. A lot. It’s how I deal with it. I truthfully hope that my sharing then is a help to others in some way, shape, or form.

My parents don’t know this fully, I don’t think, but there’s some history here for me. When I was a boy I would often times sit at the desk in my room and write out simple sermons that my Dad might be able to use from the pulpit. I think I only gave him one actual sermon in writing of which I am sure he didn’t use, but he thought it was good. I wrote out others, and wrote still more thoughts and ideas that never formulated into anything of structure. My Dad, my Uncle, and my Grandfather were all preachers, among others. Honestly I can say that as my father’s oldest son, I never did want to be a preacher. Nor, did I ever become one. But I did pray often, throughout my whole life and even into the present, for the opportunity to be the message or share a message, or to somehow possess the tools in order to do either. Now, as I alluded to before, I am not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and I don’t always see the forest through the trees, and I am certain I have missed signs, ignored them, or misread them, or all of the above over the years. Writing though seems to be a medium by which I have been able to reach people and share a message, a mindset, a belief, a faith, or even a way of looking differently at things that perhaps should have been noticed all along. I can’t say for sure really, but I share my perspective honestly.

So, there I was in the corner of a big room, in a church in which I had never been in before. There were many, many people around me that I knew well, many I knew of, and many I didn’t know at all. The outpouring of thanks, and recognition of similar perspectives, among heart-felt feelings for our dear Marjorie followed me all around the room. I am still overwhelmed and humbled by all of the greetings, kind words, well wishes, warm thoughts, hugs, tears, outpouring of emotions regarding this person we all loved so much, and on it goes. I told many of you that there were more thoughts I might share. I just needed to try to arrange this load some. Hopefully, among these more than 3500 words I have shared here, there is some resemblance of organized thought here with what you are reading.

Finally, this isn’t about me. This about our dear Marjorie and even more important than that, it’s about her faith. Because to know Marjorie and not know her faith was to have never met Marjorie at all. These last few months, or even years, Marjorie showed us, even if we were barely paying attention what a presence God had in her life. No one in their sane mind having gone through what she went through over the last few years could sit across the table from me and talk in complete peace, with laser focus, unwavering courage, and the gentle smiling eyes of a farmer about their own mortality without the knowledge of an eternal Saviour and the faith in our Lord. That is what this is about. Marjorie was just one of the Lord’s vessels from which we could each drink. I am a better person for having spent time with her. I am thankful for her life and I cannot wait to see her again some day. Our dear Marjorie.

Sunday Series – The Old Rugged Cross

I always pictured the hill far away, with the cross standing there for all to see. The cross there was never as finished as the ones seen in churches everywhere. The one I picture is crude, barely a cross, just enough to get the job done by those who put our Lord there to die. The picture in my mind is a sacred place where a stand was taken for all of us, past, present, and future. This space is near and dear to my heart, as without it we are all lost.

I think on the things we gather, the achievements we garner, the trophies we win, the awards bestowed upon us while we are here on earth. I can still hear my grandfather say “it’s all going to burn” as it relates to earthly possessions. Whether you believe or not, the possessions we have here on earth matter not once we are gone. Continue reading

Sunday Series – Just as I am

The sermon closes, the organ and/or piano plays, the congregation is standing and singing. Those singing are on the edge of tears, pulling for those who battle the urge to come forward. One steps to the aisle to come forward. A tear runs down the face of many who fight the urge to walk the aisle with someone they don’t even know. The sermon was moving, powerful, maybe even memorable. This wasn’t a sermon scripted to fit the hour between 11 and noon. Rather, this was molded from a combination of the scriptures and the life those in attendance brush up against each and every day. The preacher stands at the front of the church, he’s come down from the podium to join the rest. There’s equality at pew level, man and women alike. The feeling is strong, emotions are high, you can hear the intensity in the sound of the hymn perfectly sung by an imperfect choir of many. The hymn of course is, Just as I am.

I can’t even tell you how many times I saw this scenario play out while growing up. I guess I didn’t understand fully then, and maybe I still miss it now, that silence in solitude is so much more comfortable than a voice in the midst of many. I was in so many church services over the years, and I heard so many incredible preachers and evangelists bring their best to the pulpit on any given Sunday. Just as I am was often times the closing hymn of the service. As it should be.

I may be biased here, but my dad, the preacher, the man at the front of the church, was the best I ever heard. Not because he’s my dad, but because he poured all he had into each sermon, he left nothing in the sanctuary. When I got older and spoke passionately on various subjects in meetings, or coaching sessions and presentations, I too, learned what that meant. Remember, I was a teen for many of those church services. I wanted to be anywhere but in that church a lot of times. Like many teens I wanted to challenge my parents on what I thought I knew better than them. So, I wasn’t sitting there in my pew with stars in my eyes, although I wish I had more of that then. Dad just knew how to bring the message to everyone in terms they could relate to, even for a teenage boy who fought going to hear dad speak yet again.

I can hear it now, the sound of everyone singing the simple, powerful words of Just as I am. Listen to the words, read them, know how simple they are, but how much power they contain. Just as I am, there is no prerequisite. None.

I can’t think of another way to put my thoughts on this. The preacher wears it on his sleeve, gives it all he has, heart and soul committed completely to the words he speaks. Then to level the playing field, this imperfect human steps out from behind the barrier between man and many. He invites those searching for answers, or even those who don’t know what questions to ask, they just know something is missing, to come forward and join him and pray the prayer of salvation.

Here’s how this played out and still plays out in my own mind. I never made that walk physically. I believed. I just believed, and still do. But I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that I made that walk in my mind, in my heart, and with my eyes following someone else who did, dozens of times. It was emotional EVERY time. The emotions still hit me, even as I listen to the hymn while I write this. So in my own words, in perhaps an odd approach, and this may get deep into the walk itself and what it represents to me. This me sharing this with all the layers peeled back, just as I see it. So, here we go.

Just as I am, I come. There is no other way for me to come forward, this is me, who, and how I am. I have no plea. No excuse. No urgent request. It’s me and I come because I was asked. And because I know there seems to be more here at the front of this church, filled with strangers, for me than in the world I closed the door on at 11. I don’t have the answers and maybe neither does this preacher, but this is most sense I have made in an hour since I can remember. Oh, and I have conflict, I have doubt. That’s why it took six verses for me to leave my spot at the end of the pew. The spot I chose in case I needed to leave without commotion. I figure the folks can start singing verses over again if it helps me or anyone else avoid the door without addressing the void in our lives. I took several steps before my heart signaled my brain that I was really walking. Now I can’t go back. Oh yes, there’s conflict. But this walk is less conflict than the internal conflicts that play out each night while I should be sleeping in heavenly peace.

I come. I am poor. I have nothing to offer. Maybe even less. I am out on a limb here. What happens next? I get to the front, completely in tears. Feeling about as small as the person I have been. Then the preacher welcomes me and another puts their arm around me, just because. It’s genuine, and it feels right. The preacher says God will receive me, welcome me, relieve me, if I believe. I believe something very real is happening here, because I wouldn’t have walked to the front of a classroom to write on the blackboard among friends, but here I am in front of strangers singing at me. Yes, maybe its God’s love, because, today, in this moment, I can’t find any barriers. The people around me, the pew in front of me, the sense that I was more calm, cooler, than the rest; those were barriers just to name a few, but here I am. So, just as I am, I come. Just plain old me. I come. I pray. I believe. Just as I am at noon. I feel better already.

As I watched that walk time and time again, I wanted to walk with them. I wanted to hold their hand. I wanted to wipe their tears. I wanted to comfort them with a hug, or with my arm around them for support. There’s strength in numbers even if that number is just two. EVERY time. I wanted them to know that everything would be alright. I wanted that feeling to never end. The feelings, the emotions, the fearlessness of some, the song, the presence of God in our midst, all of it. I never wanted it to end. There were always several reasons why, but mostly it was the powerful sermon and the song. Those words. Simple. True. Powerful. Just as I am.

1. Just as I am, without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me, and that thou bidst me come to thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

2. Just as I am, and waiting not to rid my soul of one dark blot, to thee whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

3. Just as I am, though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

4. Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind; sight, riches, healing of the mind, yea, all I need in thee to find, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

5. Just as I am, thou wilt receive, wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve; because thy promise I believe, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

6. Just as I am, thy love unknown hath broken every barrier down; now, to be thine, yea thine alone, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.