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.

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Burdened Heart

I sit here with a burdened heart, a lump in my throat, and tears in my eyes, unable to separate myself from my own thoughts. Dwelling not on the past, negative, or the dreary, I search for ways to share, to learn, to pray, and to heal. Maybe, just maybe, I’d be fortunate and blessed enough to help someone else along the way. Not that I need to, I am starting to lose track of the stories swirling around me that are heart-breaking, tear-jerking, and just plain sad to hear. My brother-in-law’s father, my aunt’s battle with stage-four cancer, Boston, Texas, and all the daily battles won and lost.

I read the articles today. I watched the video clips, headlines and updates today. There’s so much pain and hurting in the world. There are people far less fortunate than I. People who don’t know God the way I do. They don’t know the peace and comfort found in prayer and in the reading or sharing of the scriptures. They just hurt and they wander in wonderment of the mammoth-sized cloud of darkness and negativity that looms in the day’s headlines.

Then I started thinking about my last week or two. It’s hard to comprehend sometimes how much is happening in every second of every day. The gorgeous, perfect blue sky I looked at this morning brought a smile to my face and inspiring descriptions to my lips. At the same time, God, the Creator of the beautiful sky, has a plan for all of this. I have often thought about how God has a unique way of allowing certain things to happen, or at least to be noticeable to us, at different times so we can create our own way of coping with events bigger than us. For example, I remember when my grandfather died. He was a great man of God, a preacher, a teacher, one who would recite the scriptures; he had a Christian book store, he had preached on the radio, and lived his life for God. I remember the morning of his funeral service, the day he was to be buried, and a light, pure, white snow fell, just enough to cover everything in a beautiful untouched blanket of white. I remember saying to my parents that God had given the ground a purifying coat, a cleansing for my grandfather’s body to be put to rest one final time.

There’s a plan for all of these things. God has a plan, God’s plan. Two words that make many want to turn and run the other way, God’s plan, because it usually means something that we imperfect humans don’t understand, or don’t want to deal with. Whatever the reaction is, it doesn’t change the plan. When I was younger I fought the plan, I am sure I did. I also didn’t always understand how or why things so terrible could happen to people as part of God’s plan. I am certainly not going to pretend to know or understand all these things now either. I do know that almost always, we are a part of a plan that is much bigger than it appears on the surface.

All I have to do is look at recent events within my own family, and certainly the local and national events that everyone is aware of. With one bit of news, one event, somehow thousands, maybe millions of people are linked together by one story. The news that shatters tranquility here on earth for many is the same news that confirms a loved one’s arrival into eternal happiness. In these moments there is more good news than bad in most cases. The immediate outpouring of kindness, support, love, concern, and protection by banding together as one is heart-warming and sends chills up my spine. The images of those lost, those hurt, or the ones we know affected by the tragedies, or sickness, or disease, make us all wonder. These things make us cry, they make us mad, the make us think, and they make us feel. It’s all part of the plan; God’s plan.

Time will tell how the plan unfolds. Even though it’s God’s plan, we have a role in it. We are to be present and participating in His plan. I am in no way trying to down play any of this; this is a serious matter. There’s a message in most everything and I am willing to bet there’s even more of a wonderful message here as well. Think of the things you have heard, the things you have read, the things you have seen yourself, and the stories of the amazing coming from out of a story that is discouraging, evil, or unfortunate. Often times through the most unthinkable loss or sacrifice comes the greatest gift or the most amazing victory.

Please don’t think that this is over when the news stops running, the stories stop circulating, or the services are done. You and I may be a part of the plan. Anyone of us could be instrumental. Our words, our actions, just might be the right thing at the right time for the one who needs that spoken word or the example of God’s love they were looking for. Really it’s always supposed to be that way. We are human, and our best moments are not all of our moments. Yet the more we think our moments are our best, the more they will be. And the moment we decide that we need to be our best might just be the moment that God’s plan includes us to be the message for someone needing to see that deed, action, or thing that helps them cope and overcome.

My thoughts and prayers are with my sister, her husband Adam, their girls, and Adam’s entire family. It’s a tough time for them all. My thoughts and prayers are with my Aunt Janette and my Uncle Lloyd. I pray for a miracle in her life and God’s will in regard to her battle with cancer. I pray for, and hold in thought, their entire family. My thoughts and prayers are with those affected by the Boston Marathon Bombings. People died. People hurt. People saw things they need never see. People were stripped of the beautiful innocence that accompanies the harmonious gathering of strangers when they come together in support of fellow-man, simply because they can. My thoughts and prayers go out to all the people and families affected by the explosion in West, Texas. If we want to settle for the face value, there is pain, suffering, hurt, darkness, and despair all around us. If we look a little harder, there is hope, there is goodness, and there is solidarity in a world filled with more and more independent individuality.

I don’t know God’s plan anymore than you do, but I trust it because it is perfect. I take solace in God’s Word, and communication with Him through prayer. There is comfort in the gathering and sharing among family and friends. God is where I go to get help with my burdens. God is who I ask for peace when my mind gets the best of me. God’s plan; at least He has one, which is more than I can say most of the time. Thank God He has a plan. Amen.

Thanks #2 (God)

This should have come first. I am thankful for God who sent his Son to save us from our sins. The daily reminders of His power, grace, love, and patience are evident all around me. Thank you Lord.