Choreographed heavenly worship in three dimensions

Several nights ago, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning worshiping God in my spirit - singing to Him about how wonderful He is, how magnificent, how merciful, how loving, exalting and praising him in poetry set to music. And I could see myself doing this, like watching a television set, as part of a group of worshipers in heaven. But it did not resemble any sort of worship service I've ever been a part of or seen in my life!

We were singing and dancing as we flew around in perfect synchronized three-dimensional twirls and swirls and bows and leaps. In my mind's eye I continued to watch all of this, yet also continued to worship and praise and magnify God. It was the most amazing experience.

I enjoyed and participated in this exquisite worship for some time, then fell sound asleep again. The next morning I remembered it all very clearly. I thought about it and prayed, wondering about what I had experienced.

Remember Esther Williams and her troupe's synchronized swimming routines in the movies? the Lord reminded me. They were so graceful and lovely, those three-dimensional movements in the water that are not possible on land. That's what it was like in that heavenly scene, except without water. Indeed, those graceful 3-D movements were in the atmosphere of heaven, where the worshipers are not limited by earth's gravity.

What an awesome experience this is to look forward to, and what an incredible gift this was, this glimpse of heavenly worship from our awesome God who is so very worthy of our worship!

Musicians, orchestras, etc.

Most nights I watch a program on TV, usually a Law and Order or CSI, while also reading, usually a murder mystery. When it's getting close to bedtime I just move to the bedroom and continue the same until 11:00 or so, then maybe watch five minutes of the news before turning off the television. Then I start thinking about what kind of day Tim had in heaven, talking to the Lord, praying and listening to his reply.

One night this week the reply to my prayer was about musical instruments in the orchestra Tim is part of. Although he could choose to learn and play a different instrument in heaven than the french horn he played here on earth, that's how I visualize him.

There are many orchestras, bands and musical groups in heaven, too many to count. Combinations of eras, types of instruments, types of music, numbers of people. No-one is perfect just because they're there - they have to learn the music, rehearse, then "perform" it. Although it's worship, not just performance, and the audience consists of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit.

Who are all the other people in the orchestra? Where did they live on earth? What was their time frame? What else do they do in heaven, in addition to music? And then, who made their instruments?

These are questions Tim has been investigating this week, the Lord seemed to be telling me. Getting to know other musicians, learning about their lives and their musical instruments, and sharing about his own. What a fascinating, fun thing to do.

Cleaning out the closets and chest of drawers

My closets are still full of Tim's clothes, his shirts, slacks, blazers and neckties. And his windbreakers, jackets, rain ponchos and all-weather coat. His chest of drawers is still full of his tee shirts, underwear, golf shirts and sweaters. I actually sat an empty box in front of the chest of drawers, thinking if I left it there long enough I'd be able to start moving Tim's clothing out of that chest. But I just can't do it. I'm not ready.

Some of my own clothes are stacked atop a bookshelf in the bedroom, others folded neatly atop the clothes dryer. I've gained some weight this past year, not adjusting my eating quite enough while unable to exercise due to hip and foot problems. Not good. After losing a battle with bluejean zippers, I finally purchased some new ones that fit. But of course I have hopes for the future, that returning to peddling my exercise bike and eating smaller, healthier meals will result in a reversal of this trend. Therefore, I haven't thrown any of my smaller clothing away. (That is, donated somewhere, which is what I always do.)

It made sense that after a year plus three months I'd be able to donate Tim's things to the boy's home in Darlington, or to the Hispanic ministry. He and I did that in the past whenever his own clothing size changed. Then I'd have more space to get my own shirts and pants off the tops of furniture, right?

But I can't do it. I bought most of Tim's things, especially the neckties. I love neckties. Tim only wore one a week, but he had enough to wear a different one every day for several weeks - back when we worked from an office downtown, that's what he did. How can I part with those?

I've taken a photo of my favorites, some new, some old. I especially like the Norman Rockwell Christmas one, the horn player rehearsing. That's the one Tim was wearing the Sunday before he died, the one in the photos I took of him that day. In those photos you don't see the horn player, but you do see a french horn - Tim's instrument - showing above the vee of the blue sweater vest he had on. See the photo below.

And the shirts! I can't part with them, not just yet. Tim looked so good in those colors, the burgundy sweaters, navy blue golf shirts, solid or striped pullovers, baby blue or red and white striped dress shirts. Now and then I pull something out and just smell it. Most things smell a little like dryer sheets, but some of the heavy sweaters haven't been washed. They still have a lingering fragrance of Tim's Pierre Cardin cologne.

He kept one cologne bottle in the pocket of the car, another on top of his chest of drawers with his hairbrush. He always put a little on when we went to church or out to lunch, to visit somebody or attend a meeting. He'd always lean over and ask "Can you smell me?" knowing how much I liked it. I'd sniff real big and tell him how good it smelled. And it did. I had bought him a new bottle of the same cologne recently so it's mostly full. Now whenever I want to wear fragrance, that's what I choose. Who cares if it's not a "woman's scent." It's Tim's and that's what matters to me.

I remember too many occasions, too many times I saw Tim smiling, heard him laughing while wearing a particular shirt or sweater. And that hat! His "Indiana Jones" hat, he called it. It's a waterproof khaki hat I'd bought years ago to go with his long all-weather coat. He wore that hat all the time when the weather was cold, rainy, or windy. I wish I had a picture of him wearing that hat - but I still have the hat, and I probably always will.

Because the hat was a little wrinkled from having been sat on by accident, and a little dirty from having been rained on, I had bought him a new almost identical one for Christmas. He never got to wear it or even "see" it - that is, feel it and examine it with his hands. It fit Tim's brother Dale, so I gave it to him. After all, I had the one that counted, the one Tim had always worn.

Angie wanted Tim's button-up sweater of many colors that he wore the most. She put it on after he died and wore it that whole weekend. She asked to keep it and I didn't have the heart or selfishness to say no. She wore it home.

I did give several articles of clothing away, especially to Dale, things I knew he could wear and would probably like to have. But that's all. Everything else I kept. There's still too much of Tim in all those shirts and ties, slacks, pullovers, tee shirts and sweaters. And hat.

As I was writing this, I could hear the Lord (and Tim) point out that he doesn't wear that style of clothing any more and he won't need those items ever again - he has a whole new wardrobe now which I would love, if I could see it. I'm sure that's true, but they understand. I'm not ready to part with Tim's old wardrobe. Not yet.

So, for the time being I'll still stack some of my own stuff on top of the bookcase in the bedroom and clothes dryer in the hall. And I'll still pull out a shirt now and then for a good smell, and wear his cologne when I go out.

March 25, 2008

Reading old prayer lists and remembering

I rummaged through a stack of stuff in the china cabinet I use for a bookcase this afternoon, and pulled out an old composition book. Curious, I started reading. The first pages were Bible study notes for a class I was teaching back in 1986. As I flipped through the pages, I came to notes on the first meeting of the Board for Tim's Transplant Fund in October, 1988. I had taken pretty good notes on the discussion, which covered a lot of financial and legal questions.

Then I came to prayer meeting notes. Back in the days after Tim's transplant surgery, we had a Friday night prayer group at the house on Hobart Drive. Most of the people went to the same church we did, but not everyone. Every week we prayed for each other, the church, friends and family, and the moral / political / legislative issues in the country.

I stood at the kitchen counter, determined to read through those notes, despite the fact that it was hurting me to do it.

I had forgotten so many things, so many of the people and situations. The names mentioned - some of them are dead now, like Tim. Others divorced from each other, moved away from Florence or even out of state. As I read, I hurt. Anger, sadness, disappointment, frustration, regret, loss, all washed over me. Occasionally there was gladness and joy but all too rarely.

The last prayer group notes stopped the end of 1989 when the group stopped meeting at our home but I had continued writing my own prayer requests in that book for some time. The last item is dated 1997 but it's just one page and just a few lines on that page.

I have other prayer and Bible study notebooks stored in the bottom of that china cabinet, but I don't want to pull them out to read right now. Maybe later. I still do some prayer lists and some Bible study, but not much writing in a composition book. Most of my writing these days is on computer. I don't usually even print those pages out.

But those composition books contain a treasure, a tangible record of the years of our lives, Tim and mine. Reading those notes takes me back and I remember, and then I begin once again to miss him so very much.

And once again I hear the Lord gently, patiently, repeatedly remind me that Tim's life is so wonderful and fascinating and full, that it would be a dreadful thing for me to pull him back here with me. I just ask him to patiently forgive me again.

I know it's selfish of me to miss Tim that way, and I get over it pretty quickly once my attention is refocused off the past and onto the present - the heavenly present, especially. "Look forward, not back," the Lord reminds me. Maybe I should write that in big letters on index cards and tape them up around the house.

"Grieving Alone" (re Dear Abby 3/2/08)

I'm an avid newspaper reader. First thing every morning while a cup of instant coffer heats up in the microwave, I go to the front door and collect my two daily newspapers, The (Florence) Morning News and The State. As I sip my coffee, I flip through the pages of The State paper first, skipping the sports sections and advertisements, but never missing the news, editorials, comics, or Dear Abby.

This morning's Dear Abby column hit me hard, making me a little sad and a little angry, and it opened my eyes a little. So I'm not the only one, huh. Here's a quote:

"Dear Abby, could you please share suggestions on how to offer support to someone who is grieving? Well-meaning friends have used my loss as an opportunity to relive their past losses with grisly and sad details. Perhaps these people are trying to relate, but it's torture. I have a feeling I'm not the only person who has suffered through this ignorance."

No, you're not the only one. In the months after Tim died, several people called me to "express their sympathy," but after one or two sentences they spent the next thirty minutes or more dumping on me all of their own troubles and grief, grisly details included. They weren't interested in me. They were using me to vent.

Two of these people were women Tim and I barely knew. But one had been a good friend of Tim's in their youth and over the years since, and she was genuinely grieving the loss of his friendship. Yet she too spent only a couple of minutes talking about Tim, and nearly an hour talking about herself, her many ailments and her multiple other problems.

And it's not just women. A couple of men who were friends of Tim's have called me this past year to see how I'm doing, or so they claimed. After I said, I'm okay, how are you? they spent many minutes telling me how bad off they are, how broke, or sick, or troubled in some other way.

Maybe they wanted me to know they understand my pain. If so, they could have said so in one of two minutes, surely, and then added something positive, uplifting, helpful. There was no comfort in what they said, no real concern or caring for me.

Maybe they thought I was such a "rock," so strong, so close to the Lord, that I didn't have any real need for their comfort, concern or caring. If that's how they felt, they were wrong.

As I think back, I realize that if they had called Tim, he would have helped them get through their current crisis situation, with his humor, his genuine friendship, his listening ear and "shoulder to cry on." In his absence, I was a Tim-substitute to them. I listened, and where appropriate shared scripture verses, or my own personal experiences of the Lord's comfort, strength and grace. I promised to pray, and in some cases I prayed right then, over the phone.

After all, I did ask How are you, and I did want to know. I did care. But at the same time, I hope I remember what it felt like to get those non-comforting sympathy calls and never treat someone else who is grieving that way.

Thanks, Dear Abby, for running that column today.

Fly north to Nova Scotia and turn right...

Since my last entry, I've flown to Germany and back. Via Delta I flew from Florence to Atlanta, via Lufthansa from Atlanta to Frankfurt, then via bus from Frankfurt to Mosbach where the January GO (Global Orientation) Conference of Operation Mobilisation was taking place. It took over 24 hours start to finish, with only a few short naps on the plane. That was a looooong day!

Ten days and several adventures later, especially about my sprained ankle and torn ligament caused from falling down several steps my first day in Mosbach (I'll write about that separately), I traveled one full day via bus from Mosbach to Kiel with the new OM Ships mission recruits, an enthusiastic, lively group, where I spent six days aboard the Logos Hope.

Arriving after dark and leaving before daylight, I really didn't get to see this gorgeous view of the ship from the outside. But I can tell you one thing,it is BIG. B-I-G!! The gangplank looked a mile high to me, and it did enter deck five so it was pretty tall. Helpful hands in front and in back got me up (and down on departure day), thank goodness.

I had more adventures there! After touring four decks my first day and having more aches and pains in my foot, the ship doctor said the sprained ankle was now infected and wanted to put me on antibiotics, five days of bed rest, no walking much, no more touring the ship, no ship stairs, and at first she said no flying! (I'm thankful for the tiny ship elevator, stuck door and all - I had an escort up and down because of that.) After explaining I was only there for a week, she relented to half-day bed rest, keeping my foot elevated the rest of the time, and flying home at the end of the week.

The Lord provided me excellent care by way of one of the ship project workers, Geri Weirich, who took it upon herself to assist me every day until I left. I would have been "up the creek without a paddle" without her help. Truly.

Then via car to Hamburg, via Lufthansa airlines to Frankfurt. Bad weather resulted in a missed connection to Atlanta, so Lufthansa paid for me to stay overnight in the posh Sheraton Hotel adjacent to the airport, complete with wheelchair and attendant. It would have been a mite more enjoyable without the achy foot and with clean clothes, but the room and the food were super first-class.

The next day, Lufthansa left on-time to Atlanta without any further delays or problems. I can't tell you what a relief it was to have Lufthansa personnel look after me, making all the necessary arrangements to take care of me. Wonderful wheelchair and attendants everywhere got me where I needed to go every time and I am so grateful to the ship personnel for making those arrangements.

Lufthansa couldn't control the weather and they didn't cause the delay, but they tried every way possible to make up for the inconvenience. Vouchers for meals (which I ordered by room service, feeling too grungy to appear in the nice restaurant), big screen television complete with old English murder mysteries, etc., etc. made my stay a lot more pleasant than the last overnight delay caused by Delta and paid for by me, myself and I. Here's a photo I took through the airplane window as we ascended over Frankfurt on sunny Sunday morning.

Finally, after three gate changes, Delta took me home from Atlanta to Florence, minus one important piece of luggage containing my prescription medicines, which was delivered to me only 24 hours later. I was fortunate. Some folks' luggage didn't arrive at all in Florence, none of it. All those gate changes... par for the (Delta) course.

Prayer is a must when traveling as I know very well, confirmed and emphasized and stressed quite a few times on this trip. I'm tired of airlines, airports, delays, lost luggage, just plain tired physically and mentally and emotionally. But the Lord encouraged me and enabled me to do most things, I saw a lot of beautiful German countryside, met a lot of great people, did a lot of good interviews, took lots of photographs, and now I'm ready to start writing stories.

As I traveled, I kept thinking how much better it would have been with Tim along. But the Lord kept reminding me that Tim can see everything I see now, he enjoys witnessing my travels and adventures right along with me, and we are still partners though in different stages of our lives. What a wonderful thought.

Learning contentment...

In his thank-you letter to the Philippians, the apostle Paul states that he has learned to be content no matter what state he is in. He goes on to say that he can do everything through him who gives him strength – that is, the Lord. He thanks the Philippians for sending him some support, saying that he is now amply supplied, and then he adds “And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.” (NIV)

This section of Philippians 4 has to do with our attitude, whether we have everything we need or whether we don’t. And what is our attitude supposed to be, when we don’t have food or clothing or rent money?

I know what the attitude of many of us would be. Panic. Fear. Anger. Anger at God, who we feel has let us down. Didn’t God know we needed money? Job security? Good health? Stable marriage? Well if he knew it, why didn’t he do something about it? And so we’re angry at God. We're definitely not content!

Paul didn’t say how long it took him to learn to be content, but it did take some learning for him and I’m certain it takes some learning for every believer.

I remember the days when with clenched teeth I spiritually "yelled" at God, I WILL learn to be content, I WILL. And eventually I did, but it wasn't easy.

Over the years, especially this last year, I've found this is a lesson that has to be repeated occasionally.

Tim has a new pet in heaven

Smokey, Tim's pet, had to be put to sleep Thursday, December 20th. She was 16-1/2 years old and we'd had her since she was about 6 weeks old. The last week or so she'd gotten to feeling bad, didn't play with her companion and niece, 14 year old Misty like usual, didn't really want to do anything except lie down, and then the last couple of days Smokey didn't want to eat. I don't know if she was even drinking anything. I took her to Hewitt's Animal Hospital and veterinarian Amanda Lewis examined her, drew blood, then x-rayed her. Smokey's belly and chest cavity seemed to be filled with fluid, so they drew some off with a syringe. It was all blood. She was extremely anemic and had lost a lot of weight. The vet couldn't tell me where the blood was coming from, just that Smokey was extremely sick. There just weren't any good options. The probability was that a tumor was eroding a blood vessel in her abdomen. At her age, exploratory surgery would require a specialist in Columbia to perform, and even then there was a low likelihood of finding something treatable. The only kind, compassionate thing to do was to put her to sleep.

I was so horrified and grief-stricken that I just broke down. I called Shelby and she came down to be with Smokey and me, we held her and talked to her, stroked her head and told her she was my pretty girl, and the vet gave her an injection. One little breath and it was over.

I had thought maybe Smokey needed insulin again or perhaps an antibiotic, but nothing really too serious. She'd been so strong, so beautiful, except for a supposedly benign growth on her lower lip -- now I have to wonder if that growth was indicative of other internal growths or tumors. The vet had told us several years ago that it wasn't anything to worry about, it probably wouldn't heal up if they tried to remove it and it didn't interfere with Smokey eating or drinking.

Smokey had been Tim's pet for the last several years, always sitting on top of Tim's talking book machine on his desk (where it was warm) or in his lap. After Tim died, Smokey grieved right along with me. She wouldn't even get up on his desk, although I left the book machine there for a while before returning it to the Library for the Blind. She wouldn't go into his office and sit on his windowsill or anything, just seemed to revert to me, wanting to be in my lap if I was in the living room, or by feet if I was in my office.

Last night I could hear Tim telling me how beautiful Smokey is - is, not was - and that she's strong and healthy, able to go in and outside at will, looking all around her new home and getting used to being there. In my mind several months ago I'd seen Tim running across a field, playing with his white German Shepherd Star. Now I'm seeing Tim petting Smokey.

Misty came and sat in my lap Thursday for almost the first time, even before I took Smokey to the vet. She seemed to know that Smokey was sick. Misty had never wanted to sit on anyone's lap before, although she would sit by my side on the chair or down by my feet in the recliner. And she usually sleeps on the bed beside me. From Thursday afternoon until now, she's quietly, softly walked from room to room, looking for Smokey. I talk to her and try to play with her as much as possible.

She and Smokey had sort of a stand-offish relationship. They chased each other around the house, spit and clawed occasionally, but then would call a truce and lie down near each other. Smokey usually let Misty eat first, although sometimes Misty would just back up and let Smokey get to a food dish first. Misty was the offspring of one of Smokey's sisters and they were shaped alike, medium sized, sleek, Siamese type -- Smokey's mom was a full-blooded seal point.

I really miss having Smokey but if there are pets in heaven, and I'm sure there are, then she and Tim are back together.





Smokey was solid black, Misty is solid gray.

Visions

Ora Lee has had several "visions" or hallucinations lately, seeing Tim, Theron, and her mom standing together and looking over at her, as if to say, we're waiting for you. It's not unpleasant for her, rather sort of comforting. She never sees her dad or anyone else, for that matter. But these three people are those who have loved her the most and who she has loved the most, here on earth. I have no doubt that they are indeed waiting to welcome her.

There will be a lot to do, see and absorb when she arrives there. I don't think she has any idea of just what excitement and joy she's in for at that moment, but she is looking forward to it more and more these days.

After being in the hospital three days again last week for more IV treatment with Lasix (third time in the last month), she returned to health care at Bethea on Saturday evening. Bryan and Sam, T.C. and Olivia, Angie and Liam, as well as Dale, were all there. The "Come to Bethlehem" event was going on at Bethea and Dale was very involved in that so it was good that Bryan and everyone else were there.

Ora Lee has now signed a DNR order - do not resuscitate. She says she is tired of hospitals, and since there is very little they can do to help her now I can understand that. Her kidney function has gone downhill a lot in the last month and she is having more and more problems with fluid retention, including around her heart.

Tonight is the Christmas Dinner at Bethea and Ora Lee invited John and me to come as her guests, and Dale said this morning that she was going to try her best to be at the dinner. I sure hope she can.

Imagine "Friar Tuck..."

The other night I was meditating and praying about whether heaven has any kind of entertainment... you know, plays, movies, books, etc. , and an interesting scenario began playing out in my mind.

I was totally fascinated as I was given a glimpse of a group of people talking and laughing among themselves. After watching them for a while, here's what I concluded.

Heaven is definitely not boring. There is laughter, fun, joy, playing, singing, dancing, and even drama. Serious drama and comedy!

People don't become all-knowing just because they're in heaven. Some have been there for hundreds, even thousands of years, and they still don't know everything. They have to learn the scriptures, just like we do. They have to learn self-discipline, and worship, and getting along together, and how to do certain kinds of work and assignments.

There are classes and workshops, auditoriums, laboratories, libraries, universities, archives, studios, theaters, amphitheaters, cathedrals, concert halls and rehearsal halls, low-tech and high-tech everything. All in addition to the Throne Room and individual homes and villages and rolling hills and seas and lakes and the wonderful city full of activity, both above ground and below ground.

There's continuous learning and inventing and trying-out and practicing, improving and modifying, and just plain having a fascinating, exciting and fulfilling life. Everyone's work assignment from the Lord is designed especially for him/her and changes from time to time. Nobody ever gets bored or sad.

So back to my question about entertainment. First I was given a little lesson about how some things are taught, scriptural things and historical things. Some past events are portrayed in holographic-type skits, designed and sometimes even performed by those who were there at the time.

Newcomers who want to know what it was like in the days of Elijah can go see a reenactment of his miracles, Elijah himself explaining and describing what they're seeing! Now that would be worth getting in line for.

So what does all that have to do with Friar Tuck? I asked the Lord whether all this was strictly for educational purposes, or was there ever anything fictional, you know, just for fun. For entertainment.

And then in my mind I was taken to a Robin Hood play rehearsal, to be performed by a group of folks just for their own enjoyment -- a "limited engagement." It was hilarious. Modern-day believers, most of them, had no idea what to do with some of the props. They had researched and created what looked right, but they'd never worn clothing like that and they looked so funny getting into costume.

The funniest was the fellow playing Friar Tuck -- nobody in heaven is overweight, you see, but every Robin Hood movie I've ever seen shows Friar Tuck as roly-poly. Pillows? No pillows handy. Some other kind of stuffing -- layers of clothing, maybe? It was like some skinny fellow playing Santa Claus in a shopping mall.

Everybody was having a wonderful time with this rehearsal, laughing at themselves and each other. Then I asked -- so, Robin Hood was really a fictional character, wasn't he. Here's what I heard in reply:

Well, actually there was a "Robin Hood" but he was more than one person. He was a composite character, many people written up in English traditions as just one for the sake of the story. Lots of embellishment was added as the years went by.

And the various "Robin Hoods" weren't all honest, either. Some of them robbed the rich and gave to the poor today, but then robbed the rich and kept the loot for themselves the next day. Still, the traditional story had a nice moral to it, good triumphing over evil and all.

These actors were going to play it that way, if they ever got their costumes on and started the rehearsal! One of these days I'm going to ask the Lord to show me their finished production.