A Great and Mighty Purpose

 The other morning it was just warm enough for me to open my front door and watch the world go on as it has since its creation.  There is nothing like eternity to humble you and bring you to reality.  The bible says that things go on as they have every day since the beginning.  As I'm enjoying the warm morning sun, I watch as a small group of sparrows are ransacking my herb garden. They are comical as they perch on the lip of the long narrow plastic planters and peck away at the seeds of mustard, dill, thyme, and whatever else was in that packet of seeds I bought.  Next year I'll be more careful with what I plant. Anyway, as I'm watching them fly between my dead vegetable garden and the herb garden, I have one of those moments where I ask myself a profound question: Where do these sparrows live?  I've had Wrens make their nests in some of my door wreaths (which I'll never do during mating season again), and found Wren nests on the top step of ladders that I've left leaned against the garage. Since we moved to our little house back in 2017, I've only seen one nest in a tree on the east side of the house. Where do my sparrows live? What do they do during the winter?  Do sparrows have a bigger purpose than just eating seeds and pooping them out to spread weeds?  If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know I frame my world in terms of sparrows. Next to doves, they are the most mentioned bird in the bible.  Yet, other than being a poor man's sacrifice, they don't have a great, or mighty purpose.  What are they good for?  

Since my beloved wife died a little over two months ago, I've been wondering the same thing about myself. I feel like an old fat sparrow whose mate is gone. I don't have a purpose outside of keeping myself breathing, eating, and moving around.  What's ironic is that for right now I don't want a purpose. Being Glenda's husband was what I lived for. I'm not saying nor have I ever said I was great at it. She'd be the first to tell you I kind of sucked at it, and I'll be the first to tell you that I haven't lived a life of great or mighty purpose.  I haven't been a Joshua, a King David, Moses, Gideon, or like any of the great men of faith I've grown up reading about. Actually, I could be the poster child for a less than exciting life. If there was a grade card for lives lived, I'd be given a score of less than mediocre.  I don't say that so someone will give me pity and tell me how much I mean to them. My singular purpose that I thought God gave me, is gone. Loving my wife was what I woke up for.  So...now what? I'm trying to find that out.  I know I don't want another wife.  I know I don't want to be self-employed anymore.  I know I don't want to do much of anything of what I'd done in the past.  

In a little over sixty days, I'll be sixty nine years old. I truly want to take a year off, and go places I've been, and also go places I haven't been. If I live past my seventieth birthday, I'll make up my mind what I want to do then.  All I know for sure right now is I don't want to be responsible for anyone, or anything for at least a year. I want to be like Bilbo Baggins and put my foot out the door and see where life will take me.  I've never had a sabbatical from any aspect of my life on this earth.  I began working summers with my Dad when I was 10, and have had a job since I was thirteen. Since 2006 I've been self-employed and every vacation I ever took had a purpose other than the year we went to Orlando, Florida.  While I was in the Air Force, we lived near some of the most amazing places in the United States, and we couldn't afford to visit them.  I'd love to see Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, and I'd love to see Yosemite before it explodes and changes life as we know it.  I want to go visit my brothers and not be worried about if I spent too much time there.  I have family I haven't seen in years that I'd like to say hello to before they depart this vale.  I'd like to visit a couple of my departed wife's family, and let them know that I loved her till the day she died.  Lord knows that many of them thought we'd divorce in a year, more than 47 years ago.  

I'm so grateful to God for the little nest that he provided for Glenda and I.  I've spent the last two months working on it, getting it to a place of repair that my children could sell it without any problems should I go unexpectedly.  BUT, for right now, I want to see things, go on adventures, and live beyond the solitary life I'm living right now.  So, to all my brothers and sisters in Christ, if I disappear suddenly, and don't come back for awhile, I haven't backslid.  I'm going to walk off my grief.

Immediately after Glenda died, I didn't want to go on without her.  After everybody went home, I spent a couple of weeks just feeling empty.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I stayed busy, that's what us 'Bragg' men are good at.  Just stay busy and you don't have to confront who you are, or the consequences of what you do.  No great and mighty purpose to worry about or maintain. Just an ordinary life, lived in an ordinary town, eating seeds, pooping seeds, and doing it over and over again ad-infinitum. Maybe during this next year I'll discover whether I had a purpose beyond my wife.  

I've made myself a list of places and things I want to do.  NO, it's not a bucket list.  Actually I feel healthier than I have in a long time.  These are things I either want to experience again with wiser eyes, or new places with eyes of wonder.  I want friends and family to wonder where this old fat sparrow made his nest for a year.  Maybe I'll find another more meaningful purpose.  I just don't want to be some old fat fart wearing a cap and vest with all my badges and war stories pinned to my chest. 

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

I've made it through the first month after Glenda's passing.  I was dreading October 21st, which would have been one month to the day of her death.  I don't know if it was planned, or if it was the Lord orchestrating it, but my Pastor called and asked if I would mind going with him to Russellville, Arkansas to help him replace the alternator in his son's car. I gladly accepted because I was dreading being alone.  I'd thought about going to Little Rock Air Force Base for their annual air show that day, but it was just a little bit too much, too soon.  

I'm not going to claim to have this grieving thing down pat.  Unplanned moments are the worst. Yesterday morning I met with one of the young men from our church at our local diner downtown.  As I was waiting for him to show up, Lee Anne Rimes' song, "How Can I Live Without You?" was playing, and I lost it.  It's moments like that that give me the hardest time.  It was one of Glenda's favorite songs, made even more poignant after she passed. I wouldn't have given myself a snowball's chance in hell of making it past this month, but somehow I have.  

Everyone around me is trying so hard to make me feel better, but the usual platitudes just aren't working.  "Just give it time, it'll get better," or "She's in a better place,"  or "At least she's not suffering,"  just doesn't help.  I thought I would do better at the grieving thing.  Then again why should I?  She was my life and breath, and now she's gone. My love for her didn't diminish with age. We both put a ton of effort into making our marriage work despite our failures.  We were married for over 48 years, and I was hoping for at least fifty.  Just a year ago she was remarking about how well we were doing for our age. It's amazing how a year can make such a difference.

This last month has shown me how unprepared I was for all of the mess of losing my lifelong mate.  Some of my decisions have surprised family and friends alike.  The real stingers were when my kids would say stuff like, "Mom wouldn't have done that," or "Mom would do this," as if I was violating her memory somehow.  Little do they know that "Mom" was not an alone kind of thing.  We were both "mom" in so many ways.  Glenda was the 'idea' person, and I was the bankroll or builder. That's the hard part of being a widower, just trying to make people understand that what was awesome about the departed spouse was a together thing, and part of it is missing.  The worst part is, that I feel as if the better part of me is gone. I never wanted to be alone. I wanted us to die together like some sad movie. Now, I don't go a day without thinking of her and some of the wonderful moments we had together.  My children have all returned to their homes and lives, but they don't have to go to bed alone without their lifelong mate beside them.  So, what does this mean moving forward?  I don't know, I just know that I miss her something terrible.

I do know that the Bible says that his eye is on the sparrow, and he knows when one falls to the ground.  Then Jesus says, "Are you not more valuable than a whole flock of sparrows?"  However, I do know I will find my way through this grief.  In many ways I'm looking forward now instead of backwards, which helps. I haven't lost faith with God, but I sure miss Glenda.  I'm told that sparrows mate for life, and there isn't anyone I'd like to replace her.  I'm sure I'll eventually find peace in being alone, but I hate that I feel that way.  I enjoyed being 'David and Glenda'.  At least my precious, fetching bride, of 48 years will always be in my heart.  If God's eye is on the sparrow, then surely I'll make my way through this time of mourning with my dignity intact.  

  

Glenda, The Fixer

It's been over two weeks since my fetching bride of 48 years passed this vale, and went home to be with Jesus. Let me be transparent up front; writing this to you, whoever YOU are, is my coping mechanism. Glenda's death has rocked me in ways I wasn't expecting.  I've discovered that Glenda was truly my everything.  She was my friend, my lover, my motivator, my sounding board, and most of all, the one person who loved me despite me. The one person in this life who gave me grace, and loved me is gone. I've tried to be brave, and unemotional, but in the end it boils down to the fact that I miss her terribly. Anything else I say will be self-serving, so I'll just say that I miss everything about her. For 48 years of marriage, she was the one person that I trusted with...me.  For everyone else, she was "the fixer." 

My children gave her that name, because if they needed anything, or her grandchildren needed anything, she would move heaven and earth to get it, or do it for them.  There was never any question as to how much it cost, whether it was an imposition, or the logistics of doing it, if they needed it...it had to be done.  AND it had to be done now!! It didn't matter whether they could do it themselves, or had the money to do it, it, whatever it was had to be done.  Being as I was her live in  'handyman', I was the one who was usually tasked with the mechanics of doing it.  If I groused, or complained, it still got done.  If I tried to slow her down, or offer insight it was usually followed with the stinging accusation that I didn't care, or didn't love. Later on, after our Pastor gave a sermon on our being God's kingdom on earth, she would simply say, "That's not Kingdom, Dave."   To which point the conversation was over.  

Her need to 'fix' things wasn't just exclusively for family.  It usually found its way to co-workers, neighbors, friends, and even the occasional stranger.  If you were a stray, injured, or broken, she had to fix whatever was broken in your life. Over the course of our marriage, her legacy is the people she helped.  At one point in her life she thought she wanted to be a para-legal so she could work in a free clinic and help people fight for their rights.  Instead, she ended up working for a big law firm and quickly became disenchanted with the legal system.  Then she discovered she could help the mentally and physically challenged by advocating for their rights, and helping them procure the help they needed.  She did this for four years, and it was really the first time I'd seen her 'happy.'  There wasn't anyone too broken, messed up, or incomplete for her to reach out to. Heaven help you if you stood in the way of her desire to help someone.  When we had to leave that job behind, she went into a severe depression.  It was the worst time in our marriage, and I'm sure in her life.  

Everything else she's done has been a compromise from that wonderful time in her life until...the grandchildren came.  All of a sudden she had these helpless, defenseless, and needing babies to fill her every waking moment.  Nothing else mattered.  Our own children were just the means by which these babies came into her life.  I called it the 'grandmother anointing', and she had it in an endless supply.  Her mission was to make their lives as fun as she could.  Her greatest frustration was that she didn't have enough money or time to make it happen the way she wanted it to happen.  I can still remember her coming to me and asking me if I could make them a swimming pool.  For her, we had a backhoe, we had water, and I knew how to pour concrete.  SIMPLE!!  This became her mission for nearly two weeks, and no matter what I said, I simply didn't love them enough.  Finally I asked her to go online and see how much the pumps, filtration system, and chemicals cost.  Without explanation, the in-ground pool idea ended.  Reality is cruel, and she would sulk for months if she got defeated by it. Then shortly before summer she drove up with a huge box containing a big above ground pool.  Reality may be cruel, but it didn't stand a chance once Glenda made her mind up to something. Every one of her grandchildren were given what their parents denied them simply because it was a grandma's job to give them what they want.  This was her lifestyle to the day she died.

Glenda was the embodiment of grace. If you were addicted, busted down broke, mentally, or physically challenged, she was your champion.  When I would see people taking advantage of her grace, I'd try and warn her they were just using her. It didn't take me long to figure out that she needed to discover this for herself.  Her need to 'fix' things found its greatest expression in Operation Christmas Child.  Every Sunday morning they would play a video of children opening the shoe-boxes packed with toys and goodies, and our discussion over Sunday dinner was what did the church need to make this happen. This same attitude went to those she called her friends.  She'd grown up dirt poor, the daughter of a baptist preacher, and the granddaughter of sharecroppers in the Mississippi delta.  She knew what it was like to grow up hungry, destitute, and living in conditions that were desperate at best.  If someone needed groceries, she bought it.  If someone needed shelter she'd help them get it.  If someone needed money, she would give it. She never gave it in a way to make you feel bad, or that you owed her.

Glenda's grace was never more evident than when she was given the diagnosis of brain cancer.  Death didn't scare her, but leaving behind her loved ones terrified her.  She was good with going to heaven, she just couldn't handle knowing that she would be a burden upon those who loved her.  About halfway through her chemo and radiation therapy she confronted me with her decision to do palliative care at a facility in St. Louis. To say I was devastated would be an understatement.  I was ready and willing to take care of her till her dying day.  In her own simple way of putting things she said, "I don't want you or the kids wiping my butt."  I thought she was rejecting me, but she was actually being kind and loving.  It was her desire to go out in joy. So, she went on her joy journey, which sometimes didn't include me, and other times it did.  Then at the end of two months we capped it off with a trip to Mackinaw island, from the movie "Somewhere in Time."   On our last day there, she posed in front of the world famous gazebo at Mission Point as the sun rose on a crisp clear May morning.  It was romantic, and everything I wanted. Then the water sprinklers came on dousing both of us from head to toe.  She laughed as we headed back to the sidewalk and said, "So much for wishing I was a movie star."  Then without warning she said "Darling, kiss me."  Not because she wanted a kiss, but because she knew I was the hopeless romantic, and needed her kiss.

Glenda's last moments on earth were the result of her being a fixer.  One of her friends from work was going to meet us at Silver Dollar City, which she was looking forward to. I had to wake her up and remind her.  She told me she wanted to get a shower, so I went to my office to kill time.  She was humming as she often did, and suddenly I heard her stop, and then I heard a loud thump against the tub.  I got up and rushed to the bathroom to find her crumpled up on the floor having seizures. I'd called 911 on my way down the hall, and by the time I got her turned over I could tell she was in trouble. Somehow the phone had become disconnected while I worked to get her turned over.  I called 911 again and pleaded with them to get here as quickly as they could.  I pulled her up onto my lap and cradled her head because I thought that was the problem.  She softly said she couldn't breathe twice and then I felt her pulse stop.   I knew she'd died, but EMT people pull off miracles all the time.  A couple of minutes later they arrived, and did everything they could to bring her back to no avail.  Forty-five minutes after they began working on her, they declared her dead.  The fixer could not be fixed.  Years of diabetes, high blood pressure, and the ravages of chemo therapy had taken their toll.  The brain cancer didn't kill her, her heart did.  

So, now here I sit, that lone sparrow sitting on the telephone wire.  My mate for life is gone.  I'll go on, but less so for her absence.  I never was a fixer like her.  She taught it to me, sometimes with me protesting through the whole process.  The favor she gained with others has flowed to me in many surprising ways, and I've learned to take it in as a gesture of kindness to her.  In the end, the grace she gave to others was shown to her by the all gracious God above.  She didn't want to die an undignified death, with her loved ones 'nursing' her through the last days of her life.  God fixed it so that she could go quickly without being an imposition.  

Since her passing, I've given away her clothes, and the 'stuff' she gathered in her nest to people who 'need' them.  The other day I was trying to find a home for her many scarves, and walked into a local charity suggested to me by our Pastor's wife.  It also helped that this was one of Glenda's favorite charities in town.  As I approached the counter I asked the woman if they could use a mess load of scarfs.  Without warning the woman began to cry and told me that her sister had cancer and had lost her hair during chemo therapy.  She pulled one of the scarves out of the box and clutched it to her heart. "She'll love these." she said through broken sobs.  Glenda had once again fixed something, and I got to see it. My beautiful mate may be gone, but her legacy will continue.  

Big Man, Gentle Heart: Mike Lowe

Yesterday, a gentle spirit left the earth to find his home with the Lord and Savior he served.  

I had the great honor to work with Mike Lowe for four years from 2007 till 2010. I could spend hours telling you hundreds of funny stories about Mike, and the power of his indestructible spirit. Every once in a while you meet someone who is utterly unique in their faith, filled with vast quantities of love, and who shine with a  joyous spirit born of their faith, and love.  Mike had faith, and love in abundance.  It is impossible to relate Mike's faith and love without injecting myself into his story, because his faith, and love shaped much of who I am today.  

From the very first minute I met Mike, he called me Mr. Bragg.  It never wavered even to the end of his life. We bumped into each other the other day while at a local grocery store.  I was at the register, and I felt this big hand grab my shoulder and a familiar voice: "Hey, Mr. Bragg.  How are you doing?"  I turned around and got pulled into a big bear hug.  We slapped each other's backs and that was when I felt something on his chest. "What's this I asked?"  It's a heart monitor, they found I had an irregular heartbeat.  They think I might need a pacemaker."  I guess I gasped because he immediately said; "Don't worry, Mr. Bragg.  How's Glenda?"  

That was typical Mike.  He could be in the midst of a crisis, and he was always thinking about others.  One day about two weeks ago I was going through a particularly bad day, and was feeling down.  Suddenly I get this phone call while shopping with Glenda: "Hey, Mr. Bragg, how are you doing?  The Holy Spirit put you on my heart this morning and told me to pray for you.  Is everything alright?"  I told him about a new situation with Glenda's medicines, and how I was feeling so inadequate as her caregiver." 

There was a long pause and then his sweet melodic voice said; "The Lord told me to tell you, you're doing just fine.  Keep on loving her."  It would be an understatement to say I lost it.  Typical Mike, listening to Holy Spirit even when he'd just been diagnosed with irregular heart rhythm.

Mike was a virtuous man, who gave honor to everyone.  I only saw him raise his voice to others twice in four years of working with him.  He was patient, and a marvelous teacher.  I thought I knew how to do framing until I met him.  He showed me stuff that has helped me throughout the years, and he did it with infinite patience, and joy. Mike was a physically imposing figure, but tender and soft of heart. He was clumsy, whimsical, and always filled with joy. He was a mighty man of faith who listened to the Lord for even small everyday tasks.  Anytime he had an accident (which was often) he would say; "The Lord, told me not to do that.  I should have listened."  He would often make major life corrections based upon what he heard from the Lord.  At first I would question those decisions because they seemed crazy, but eventually I would see God do wondrous things I never expected.

After the housing market collapsed in 2009, we parted ways and I went into the handyman business.  Our paths often crossed during citywide church events and we'd pick right up where we'd left off.  He would deliberately drive by my house to see if I was out in the yard working and we'd spend a couple of hours talking about the Lord.  If he saw my truck somewhere on a job, he would stop in to visit.  "How are you, Mr. Bragg?  The Lord told me I needed to see you."  And,...he was right everytime.  

Mike was a big fat, joyous sparrow, who loved to live in the shadow of El Shadai. He exuded peace, faith, and love.  At 52 years of age, he was much too young to pass this vale.  I think his big ol' heart just gave out because he'd given so much of it away to others over the years.  I'll never meet another man like Mike.  No one will ever greet me with the respect, and humility that he lavished upon me.  There will be a Mike sized hole in my heart till I meet him again in heaven.  Then we'll hang out in the rafters of the temple together and marvel at the wonders of God.  

 I never thought I'd come back to this blog after my last post.  The past three years have been extremely trying in ways that are hard to express without making it seem as if I'm feeling sorry for myself. The entire purpose of this blog was to highlight the peace that is to be found in the presence of God.  As I wrote my last blog, that peace had become harder to hold onto.  Not that it wasn't there, but it was harder for me to hold on to.  

Since my last blog post, my Dad died shortly before his 88th birthday, and right after my fetching wife Glenda was diagnosed with Glioblastoma multiforma.  Glioblastoma has no cure, and very limited treatment.  The prognosis is never good, and measured in months, not years.  So, lest I melt into a puddle of misery, and the aforementioned self pity, let me say it has been a strange time of growth.  

This blog came about because of something my wife said the other day as we were driving to Branson, Missouri. As we were leaving our driveway she pointed to the telephone wire loaded with sparrows.  "They're waiting for someone to say it's time to leave, but the line is busy."   Yep, that's how her mind works as of late.

I don't know how much longer she has.  That's a tough statement to make, but in this modern age when we can stave off death with the miracles of medicine and machines, I've forgotten the better statement.  I know how long she has had. That is the real measure.  Years aren't worth anything if they aren't filled with joy.  This was brought home to me yesterday morning as our Pastor was teaching on Matthew chapter 10.  When he read verses 28 - 31, my mind went immediately to Glenda's observation of the sparrows on the telephone line. In those verses, Jesus talks about the sparrows being sold 2 for a copper coin, and then if one of them falls the Father knows it, and never forgets.  My study bible does a cross reference to Luke 12:6 where Jesus says that five sparrows are sold for two copper coins. When Jesus says that the Father doesn't forget a single one of them, we are reminded of what he just said about the four.  It is easy to think that the fifth sparrow didn't cost anything.  

Sometimes we feel like the fifth sparrow.  We get lost in the deal, and we're seemingly worthless.  I think that is what happens when we don't value the life we've lived.  I've personally never been to a funeral where they talked about the life the person could have had, but rather they celebrate the life they lived.  So, I'm celebrating my wife while she still lives, serving her to the best of my ability, and filling her days with as much joy as she can muster the strength for.  God set this time up for me to be able to be home all the time thanks to my parents leaving me a nice inheritance.  He also gave me the opportunity to learn how to take care of someone through what my parents went through.  I'm not the noble loving son, or even a noble loving husband.  What I do now can't even make up for the many years of being self-centered, and oblivious to the needs of my loved ones.  So please don't ascribe anything to me I'm not.  I simply love my wife, have always loved her, and will love her to the end.  

If you are a young person reading this, please learn from this old man.  The person you chose to walk this life with is the greatest joy you'll ever know.  Work is empty and useless when you are used up.  Friends are wonderful, but they have lives of their own.  Your children can be there for you, and help you walk through the last stages of your life, but only that one you chose to love can give you true joy.  

So what about the presence of God in all of this?  I've discovered Him more in these last few years than I ever had.  Everything that comes with death is only possible if we've lived. I'll let you know how it all ends once I know.