Marilyn: A Life in Focus

Mom was ready for a better place. One by one we each filed in, said our final goodbyes, and told Mom we loved her. With the meds dialed back she was able to quietly but clearly tell us she loved us. Her time was short; she was ready to go home.

We gathered around her at Olathe Medical Center, a small circle of family and friends, aware of the sacredness of these moments. We prayed, we conversed, we waited. We laughed occasionally, sharing a favorite memory. We listened for the rhythms of Mom’s breathing, noticing the beeps and buzzes of the medical equipment. Occasionally Mom would pause a bit between breaths: Was she gone?

Then she was escorted from us, borne upward on unseen wings, quietly and gently lifted from this planet to a better space. Her departure was simple and natural; she was not alone as she left us.

One year later we remember her, more aware than ever of Mom’s love, her life, and her witness. We watch as the choir files in at her favorite church, waiting to see the tall soprano on the left. We listen to a stirring anthem or a favorite hymn, and instinctively we glance around to see the blessing and enjoyment on Mom’s face.

We hear a note or two of music, played perhaps on a keyboard, and we picture Mom at the piano bench, entertaining us with her own arrangement of a classical favorite. We smell something baking, and we wander into Mom’s kitchen, half expecting to find her there. So many happy memories.

Mom’s life had clarity and purpose, focused clearly on the eternal truths. There is no way to remember her without looking up, beyond the chaos and the misfortune of daily life, toward a higher calling and a greater love. With consistency and integrity Mom lived a life of faith and virtue, showing us the way to eternal peace.

One year later her life is no less true, no less virtuous. Out beyond the limits of pain and loss -- in a place where there is no suffering and there are no tears -- Mom walks beside still waters, thinking of us. There can be no doubt of Mom’s prayers and her intentions: That we, each in our own time, will go to be where she is. Mom’s life and her example are still pointing us in the same direction. Her life and her example show us the Only Son of our Heavenly Father, who as an act of love stretches out His arms to invite us home.

Creating Moments and Memories --- While You Can

To celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary we flew them to Canada, First Class. We met them at the Calgary airport as they arrived, helping them navigate Customs and collect their luggage. Then we escorted them on a week-long tour of the Canadian Rockies, all expenses paid.

They were 73 and 71 years young at the time, still vital enough to enjoy the journey. Dad had been injured a few years earlier in a hit-and-run; his replacement joints and sockets couldn’t manage long bursts of hiking. Mom’s arthritis hindered her a bit too. We did a lot of our traveling by car, with short strolls to scenic vistas. With a bit of encouragement from us they rode a tramway to the top of a Banff peak, thrilling to the sights below.

It was the trip of a lifetime for both of them; they talked about it for more than a decade until Mom’s sudden passing. Mom died two months ago today; it still seems surreal. We spent those last difficult days and weeks in hospital rooms and rehab centers, running errands for the two of them and doing anything possible to make things more manageable and serene.

Looking back --- we recognize the value of doing things for those you love --- while you can. We saved for most of a year to pull off the anniversary trip. Used some hotel points and some airline miles, then blazed through a stack of carefully hoarded cash. But regardless of our total expenses, the value of the trip was “priceless.” We knew it then; we are even more certain of it today.

Mom’s in heaven now. We assume her eternal surroundings look pretty much like the Canadian Rockies. We’ve seen much of the world so far --- 42 nations and counting --- and we’ve witnessed a lot of beauty.  Switzerland, Austria and many other places are awe-inspiring. But for sheer scenic beauty it’s hard to top the vistas along the Bow Valley Parkway through Canada’s Rocky Mountains.

Here’s a pic of Mom and Dad, one of our favorite photos of them. They’re standing on a bridge in Waterton Lakes National Park in Canada. They’re happy, relaxed --- going places they’ve never gone, seeing things they’ve never seen. We sacrificed a lot to make it possible for them; we would do it again in a heartbeat.

Who do you love, and how might you choose to express what you feel? The journey of life is fragile and quickly over; this present life is comes down to intentionality and setting priorities. Do what you can, while you can.  Tomorrow is uncertain; the only thing you own for certain is today.

Teaching My Dad to Shave

            Forty years ago, give or take a whisker, my father taught me how to shave. We stood at the big sink in the hall bath, both of our razors at the ready. My dad, a vintage straight-blade man, showed me how to hold the handle at an angle, how to glide across my face instead of slicing. His hands steady, Dad was the very picture of confidence.

            Me, not so much. I had waited so long for this moment, only to discover that I was clumsy with a razor. I was introduced to the styptic pencil, a painful invention that somehow worked miracles despite the sting. I learned how to tear off the smallest piece of tissue, loft it onto a fresh wound, and wait for the blood to congeal behind it.

            I sliced and diced a lot, but eventually I learned how to shave. Mostly I wondered why I had wasted so much time looking forward to this ritual. For what? So I could carve open a fresh wound, sting myself with a wax pencil, then go off on my date with a scar?

            Shaving is so overrated.

            All of those memories came flooding back on Wednesday morning as I stepped into my father’s small apartment in suburban Kansas City. It’s a tidy place every Sunday evening, after my wife and I have finished the laundry, washed the dishes, and picked up the week’s mess. Then we kiss dad goodbye, shut the door, and the apartment swiftly reverts to its normal chaos.

            Wednesday, as we made our regular midweek appearance, Dad greeted us at the door unshaven. Paul Newman’s eyes with white wisps of beard clinging to his shaggy chin. “Dad,” I chided him gently, “maybe it’s time for a shave.”

            Expecting to find him this way, I was carrying a new shaver mixed in with the week’s groceries --- an electric appliance hidden among the hot dogs and Easy Mac. “Dad,” I told him, “I think maybe shaving would be easier with this.” I pulled the shaver out of its plastic cocoon and set it down on the table beside him.

            Dad picked it up, admiring its heft and design. “This is a Norelco,” Dad beamed, “I can tell by the three heads.” He bounced it back and forth in his hands a bit, smiling.

            A few wobbly steps on the worn carpet and there we stood, in the hall bath of his seniors-only apartment. I plugged in the new shaver and showed Dad how to work the pop-out trimmer on the side. “Use this on the longer stuff,” I advised him. “Then when you’re down to just the stubble, let those three heads do the work.”

            Dad grinned at that, and I saw my youthful self in his face. Tentative, maybe a little uncertain, but happy to be learning a new ritual. We were back in our usual places, but this time our roles had switched up a little.

This time I was the confident one, calmly playing the part of teacher and mentor.  I showed Dad a few tricks of the electric shaving trade, then wisely got out of his way. Dad is a man --- older and slower but no less a man than he’s ever been. He takes direction well, but he’ll want to figure this stuff out on his own. That’s what we men do.

That’s what I did, all those years ago, and it’s worked out pretty well overall. We men study and learn, but after a point we end up figuring things out on our own, by trial and error, by stupidity and repetition, by consequences and outcomes.

Dad will be a pro with his new razor soon, I have no doubt.

He’ll find some unshaven guy, somewhere down there on the second floor, and Dad will tell the guy he really ought to get a Norelco. And before the guy can even defend himself, Dad will be telling him exactly how the thing works, step by step.

Calm and confident, Dad will use his natural gifts as a teacher.

A mentor’s work is never done.

A Faithful Servant Goes Home

Standing along the shore of a beautiful Wisconsin lake on a perfect fall day, I smile at the groom as both of us wait for the bride to descend to the grassy lawn. All eyes turn in the same direction --- atop a long wooden flight of stairs, a bride will appear --- radiant and beautiful on her special day.

She won't be alone when we see her. On her arm will be the dad who has raised her, the Godly man who has been an example to this bride, and to all of us --- devoted husband, loving father, loyal churchman, mission-minded believer. We are eager to see the bride today, but we also want to watch her father beam with evident pride.

We've rehearsed all this on the day before, and it went well --- more casual, a little more

laughter, a few pranks. Today is

the wedding and even the littlest cousins are on their best behavior. There's room for good humor, but also room for respect. We are counting our blessings as we unite Hunter and Meghan in happy and lasting union. Even the weather cooperates; answered prayers.

Two loving family circles and a great group of supportive friends have gathered here for a wedding celebration. This is a time for joy.

In those first few moments after learning that Paul Dennis was gone, God took our thoughts to the weddings ---- Jeremy's wedding, Meghan's wedding. Lisa and I were praying for Lori and Jeremy and Meghan --- and almost instantly, God brought the two weddings into our thoughts and prayers. Right there in our grief, not fully understanding what was happening, we stopped and just thanked God that Paul lived to see both of his children grow into adulthood, marry wisely, and form families of their own.

So many brides walk down the aisle alone, never having known the love of a father. So many grooms grow up without a Godly male example to respect and follow. Meghan and Jeremy grew up with a warm and wonderful dad who loved God, loved his wife, loved his kids, and loved helping others --- at home or far away. Paul Dennis showed us what Godly manhood looks like --- humility, service to others, faithfulness to marriage and family, compassion for those in need.

Paul has gone home. It seems too soon, too early --- Paul seems too young. We must trust the timing of our Heavenly Father even though we don't understand the why and the when. As for the where --- well, that was Paul. He served on so many trips to so many places --- always showing up, always helping, always caring, always giving, always loving --- it seems natural for him to go home while serving and helping in a faraway land. Those trips defined his life among us.

Paul has crossed the finish line. He lived to see his kids grown and married; he lived to share his son, give away his daughter, and welcome two new adults into the family circle. He saw a lot, gave a lot, lived a lot --- and now he's gone home.

He leaves a legacy that all of us will respect and remember. And there is no doubt that Paul crossed the finish line and was welcomed into the arms of a loving Heavenly Father. There is no doubt that Paul heard, as he entered his heart's true home: "Well done, good and faithful servant."

Soul Mates & Sopaipillas

A mellow evening welcomes us as the sun sets slowly over the Sandia Mountains. We're winding our way through Old Town Albuquerque toward one of our favorite restaurants, Monica's El Portal. We're in search of some delicious oxymoronic food: Old New Mexican.

The byway is busy with peds like us: The chatter of children is everywhere, mostly in Spanish. We window-shop --- pottery and beads, turquoise and silver, images and icons. Hand-crafted by artisans and reasonably priced; our slender sales resistance weakens and wanes. Eventually we reach Monica's, seat ourselves by a window with lace curtains, and wait for our first basket of fresh chips. You can have any salsa you'd like, as long as it's Monica's. It's hot, about an 8 on a fire scale of 10, yet you can still taste the delicate edge of cilantro.

We nosh on chips and salsa (complementary), carne adovado (a house specialty), frijoles refritos (crispy out, soft in), and sopaipillas (five of them, all complementary, perched next to a squeeze bottle of honey). Our total indulgence, including tip, will run about $20 this evening. We'll be sated and stuffed as we wander back through Old Town after dinner.

Soul-mates. That's what we are this evening, as a perfect fall day in New Mexico yields gradually to the risen moon. Sharply outlined peaks tower over us. The chatter of children has moved indoors, now joined by the clink of dinner dishes. We are lazy and well-fed with no schedule to keep, thirty years together and much in love. Why did we approach our grandparenting years before figuring out life/work balance? Are we slow learners?

We have another book releasing soon, "The Soul-Mate Marriage," and we'll be busy promoting it, traveling to speak and work, but that is for another day. Tonight we are merely soul-mates, not authors or speakers. Tonight we are full up on sopaipillas, carbed out on comfort food and feelin' no pain. Nondescript and anonymous, we are just two more tourists here.

But tonight, if we could be anywhere on earth, it would be just down the street from Monica's El Portal, talking softly and walking side-by-side through Old Town. We linger, savor, sample, stop, celebrate. Far up above --- la luna, semi-circular and self-satisfied, whispers to us and we can almost hear it.

Goodnight, moon.

(This encore edition post originally published in October, 2008.)

400 Weddings & My Funeral

After I die, someone will discover among my personal effects this item: a small wooden plaque with a brass plate. The plaque congratulates “Dave & Lisa Frisbie” for exploring all 65 Minnesota State Parks. My wife and I earned that plaque over a ten year time span from 1990 to 2000, purchasing a passport from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources, then having that passport stamped and validated as we camped and hiked our way through Minnesota’s state park system.

We loved that process, and along the way we earned patches, badges and I believe also a baseball cap. The culmination (if you explored every single state park) was the aforementioned plaque. That plaque doesn’t matter to any living persons except Lisa and I --- for us, it has a value that is beyond priceless. Instantly, that little plaque reminds us of our lakeside campsite at Father Hennepin, our hikes along the shores of Lake Superior, and an early August snowfall as we tent-camped near Fergus Falls. That little wooden plaque on the wall holds a decade of happy memories for us: We love camping!

The plaque represents a milestone in our lives together. In much the same way, we celebrated a major milestone recently as I performed my 400^th wedding. Far from being “just a number” every wedding I’ve shared in has been designed as uniquely personal, about the bride and the groom, never a generic or standard service. Each wedding has been personalized and meaningful --- at least to us! And for us, reaching 400 weddings is a milestone we treasure.

The bride in this milestone was Abigail Stranz, radiant and beautiful on the day of her wedding. (See photo above left.) I had the privilege of preaching the wedding of Abigail’s parents, Barry and Pam, back in 1983. At that time I was not yet ordained and could not yet legally sign a marriage license. But apparently Barry and Pam thought I could preach: they asked me to do so. They sang to each other, someone else signed the license, and I crafted the best sermon I could think of (literally).

This I did again for Wedding Number 400 --- and every wedding I’ve ever done. I’m sure there are busy little wedding chapels in Las Vegas that do 400 weddings on a summer weekend --- but for me, it’s taken a lifetime of learning and sharing, listening and counseling, speaking and teaching. And although I can’t claim to remember every single detail of every wedding experience, I certainly remember the brides and the grooms and the parents and the relatives and many of the friends. People matter.

Since weddings tend to involve people, weddings end up mattering too. I loved doing Wedding # 400 and the next few are already getting scheduled. If I die before Wedding Number 401, no worries. You can make me a little plaque for my gravesite which reads “He performed 400 weddings” and no one will read it or care, but thank you anyway. Or if you prefer, you can put the following on my tombstone, after you cremate my remains. You can just put “He was my friend.” It will be a true statement.

Season's End: The Promise of New Beginnings

Winter whispers in the late summer wind, even in Southern California. The cool breeze chases teens into hoodies, adults into jackets, swimmers into street clothes. Summer is winding down; we are moving toward a season's end.

Farewell whispers in the late Sunday afternoon, even on Mission Bay. Nostalgia chases teens into chatter, adults into cherished memories, parents into quiet tears. Child-raising is winding down; we are moving toward a season's end.

Frank brings barbecue and waits patiently for a new heart. Melvin brings a devotional message, reminding us all that better days are ahead. Sam mixes bass and percussion while he sings and strums, solos and syncopates. Pat mixes with her guests, orchestrates a sumptuous feast, and charms us all.

Analicia -- she of the soon departure -- is at the center of it. Such a rare vocal talent. The same crystal quality of voice that graces Norah Jones, Sara Groves, or Corinne Bailey Rae. Fluid and resonant and ever more confident, relaxed into the rhythms of her father's smooth and professional arrangements.

Analicia -- she of the plays and musicals -- is at the center of it. Such an accomplished actress. Capable of stealing the show or nailing a supporting role. She moves on to Westmont to pursue drama and music; the Designer's good purposes are evident in her.

A season is winding down but for now: What a concert! Passers-by -- arrested by the voice and the confidence and the grace and the band -- stop and listen, frozen on the spot. Strollers wheel to a stop. Conversations cease. The dog can be walked later. Crown Point is not often a venue for concerts of this caliber.

We gather as friends and family, neighbors and supporters, an intergenerational and multicultural mix of people that feels more like heaven than earth. Smiles and songs, beans and rice, hot links and cold drinks. Those who were strangers five minutes ago are connecting at a deep heart level. Children run in and out, laughing out loud.

Gradually the sun arcs lower; the wind's whisper seems more insistent. Across the park, the bay sparkles quietly. For Sam and Pat, a labor of love is ending -- their work of raising Analicia is nearly done. Now comes a new season -- an empty nest, visits to campus, a transition from parents to mentors to friends.

These two will make the adjustments with wisdom and strength. Over time they will realize a central truth: They have raised their daughter well. Her talent, her gifts, her heart for God, her heart for others --- these and other qualities were nourished and nurtured and taught and transmitted by two people whose work may be mostly done, but whose influence will endure and thrive.

To Sam and Pat: Well done. To Analicia: We love you and we are proud of you! May your future pathways be illuminated by God's light, God's love, God's truth, God's purposes. The way ahead may seem unknown --- but when you get to the future, you'll find that God is already there.