Reflecting on a well-lived life

Three years ago, Carmen lived her last day in this life and her first in the life to come. She was an extraordinary woman whose influence, mostly by the example of her consistent interest, care, and love, has been vast in scope and duration. For nearly 38 years we lived life together fully: raised kids, planted gardens, rode bikes, hiked mountains, read books, were frustrated and angry (mostly her with me), enjoyed the arts, watched lots of kid sports, sang in church, cooked, ate, cleaned up. In other words, we saw and did all of life together. Across the years, I saw in her a consistent godly character and desire to live life well, mindful of, and grateful for her redemption. 

One of the difficulties of a long illness (for those who are the caregivers) is that it is often easier to vividly recall the days of sickness and decline than to remember the times that came before. But I am finding that the more I can recall the days before the cancer journey, the more I can celebrate the person who Carmen was for most of her days.

After she passed away, I had the privilege of reading some of her journals from over the years. While these were her private thoughts when she was living, I share some of what she wrote in this public forum to honor her memory and to celebrate her legacy and example. Soon after we had discovered the first tumor, but before we really knew what we were dealing with, she wrote, "So--I pray that I won't die soon and that I won't be seriously ill or affected with long term physical limitations. These things seem small to ask in light of the greatness of Your purpose in your kingdom; but I know You love me." She was a pragmatist, and not a Pollyanna at all, yet she was able to hold, at the same time, an awareness of the reality of her physical condition and a gratitude and worship of God and His purposes (mysterious as they may be). A year into chemo she also wrote, "Oh Lord, hear my cry, turn toward me and hear my prayer. My heart aches! I love my little girls and it's hard to think that I might not see them grow up. Lord--I guess I've been expecting that I will die sometime soon. That's so sad and hard. Please give me strength and comfort. I need you right now." She felt the feelings deeply, yet her faith did not waver. A week later she wrote, "Lord--there is endless life ahead for me! What an incredible gift. And I do look forward to that--trying to imagine what it might be like."

Around this same time, our pastor in Houston was preaching on the Beatitudes where Jesus taught, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Pastor Jim encouraged people to write down that for which they mourn and to allow God to bring comfort to those losses. Carmen wrote: "Lost--since my diagnosis: time that is carefree; trips to MN and time with the Grandgirls; ability to play and give to them; trip to Mountain Lakes; hair; eyebrows and lashes; the physical strength I had; times biking with Ken; Christmas at the normal time; mental acuity; the freedom to look ahead and plan fun and retirement and even mundane things." Then she went on to write, "Father--I may list more later--but every time I write something down, it seems You remind me of how much better other things are now or how the loss is more than compensated by some good things!!" She followed this by writing, "Next I must list what I have gained--not only the list of what's lost! I've gained--from having cancer: closer walk with God; incredible support from friends and family; deep bond with my girls--they're fighting with me and show love and maturity and we share the sadness too--all of it together; understanding peace and receiving comfort from God; a grasp of today--the present--living in it and resetting priorities; prayer--communicating with my Father and more, more, more."

Our cancer journey followed an up and down path. Several rounds of different types of chemo interspersed with "chemo holidays" to let Carmen's body recover a bit of strength and to see if the tumor growth and spread had been slowed. Even as the journey turned to the long-expected decline, she retained a focus on what was needed for her heart's health and wrote, "I am going to work on being thankful and on who You are instead of looking at myself and my limits -- Yes I have more limitations -- but You are limitless and what is ahead for me is so beyond all these limits!"

About one year before she died we made the decision to discontinue treatment and return to Minnesota to be closer to family for the duration. In those months she remained engaged with family and friends and even started a small group at our church specifically for cancer patients and their caregivers. Her focus and awareness of her need for God and her anticipation of life everlasting in His presence continued to grow. Even in the midst of so much that she/we had lost, she was able to write, "[Lord] You are faithful to Your covenant and don't go back on your promises. If you did--we would all be dust. But instead you care for us and bind up our wounds and tenderly hold us. Lord, I need you to do that these days. I feel the disease and not just the effect of the treatments. I want to LIVE the rest of my life and not just try not to die. Most certainly I need and want to keep very close to You. Jesus, Father, Holy Spirit, draw me close and speak to me. Direct my steps and my words. Help me not to be anxious or to squander my time and energy or even my words. Please Holy, Mighty Lord--use this time for Your glory and for those I live much."

Toward the very end she was unable to write much, but the very last journal entry I have been able to find sums up Carmen's life and legacy:

"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power."

Soli Deo gloria

Best of times; Worst of times

Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities (first completed book of 2025) contains one of my favorite literary bookends:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way ..."

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."

In between this beginning and this ending, opportunities are seized and squandered. Honor is acknowledged and ignored. Love is found, declared, lost, and found anew. Villains are exposed and heroes arise. In short, life is lived in the broad strokes of the French Revolution and the small details of the  expatriate household of a doctor/shoemaker.

Reading the book this week, alongside various news sources, it felt like Dickens was writing about  thoughts and feelings across America. Depending on who you ask, it seems like either the best or worst of times. There is hope for some and despair for others. Some voice eager expectations and others bemoan an impending jeremiad. Many who are far brighter, more connected, and with deeper insights than I, have written, and will continue to write about how these themes play out in contemporary American civic and political life.

But this time through the book I was captivated by a different thought. In the midst of the multi-national turmoil of the French Revolution, Sydney Carton found redemption in a small corner of that upheaval by his very personal choice. Carton did not still the guillotines, or bring peace between the classes. Instead, Carton sacrificed his one life to save one family from the loss and grief that awaited those named  Evremonde. One man's life given made a way for Lucie and Darnay to enjoy life, love, and their family together.

I find myself thinking about immigration issues in contemporary America. I cannot fix that which ails our immigration system. I cannot fix what drives people to feel so desperate that they must leave all that they have known to try to make their way to the U.S. I cannot fix the strong emotions on all sides of these issues that are diving families, friends, and communities across our country. But, like Sydney Carton, I can do what I can to help who I can. In this coming year (and probably beyond), I have committed to working with an agency in the Minneapolis area that works in the area of refugee resettlement. Whether it will be tutoring for citizenship exams, or filing paperwork on behalf of refugee families, I will do what I can to make a difference in small ways, rather than merely lament the conditions in which we all find ourselves.

Perhaps your issue is something other than immigration. Maybe human trafficking. Maybe literacy. Maybe other kinds of education. Maybe health and wellness. Maybe hunger relief. Whatever it is, what small thing can you do in 2025 to make a difference? No one is looking to you (or to me) to fix whatever the big issue may be. But you can make a life-altering difference for one person, one family, one community!

Why Read?

 With what feels like an ambitious goal of reading 65 books in 2025 (and books read to the small grandkids don't count), the question occurred to me, Why do I read? Is it because reading was an integral part of my upbringing? Because I have some thirst for knowledge? To have my horizons expanded and my mind stretched? To be transported to exotic places far away from Minnesota winters? Or perhaps all of the above.

Certainly reading was the norm in my childhood home. We had plenty of books around and were encouraged to read often -- although I do recall my sister Kathy and I being admonished to look outside and stop reading during car trips. Books took me beyond my Indianapolis neighborhood and all that was familiar. The Childcraft series (a subset of World Book Encyclopedia) was my classroom for knowing inventors, explorers, and pioneers. The Hardy Boys and Tom Swift lived lives or adventure and mystery with their good friends. In later years Richard Baxter, John Stott, and J I Packer led me to explore truths about faith and God in ways that went beyond what I could experience in my local church. The poetry of Mary Oliver has forged an even deeper awareness and appreciation for the natural world around me than I have seen with my own observations. Reading and books have enriched my life beyond what I can even imagine!

Yet for me, there is a danger in reading. That is, just because I have read something, or learned something from a book, doesn't mean that I actually "know" the thing. In Jordan Peterson's Maps of Meaning, he recognized that:

"All the things I 'believed' were things I thought sounded good, admirable, respectable, courageous. They weren't my things, however--I had stolen [borrowed?] them. Most of them I had taken from books. Having 'understood' them, abstractly, I presumed I had a right to them--presumed I could adopt them, as if they were mine: presumed that they were me. My head was stuffed full of the ideas of others; stuffed full of arguments that I could not logically refute. I did not know then that an irrefutable argument is not necessarily true, nor that the right to identify with certain ideas has to be earned."  (p. xvii) Perhaps another way of expressing Peterson's observation is "wishing/wanting doesn't make it so."

The purpose of this blog has been to help me to find authenticity in thought, action, and living. For me, a part of living authentically is to differentiate between thoughts, ideas, priorities, and beliefs that are "logically irrefutable", but belong to others, and those that I can legitimately own--that are me. In this coming year as I interact with fresh and unfamiliar ideas, theories, and concepts, I expect to be challenged and to learn. Different perspectives. Unknown (to me) ways of looking at the world. New fields of thought. Plenty of words to look up!

I want to carefully sift all that I take in. I want to remain openminded, yet firmly grounded. I want to keep in the forefront of my mind the words of the Apostle Paul: "whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." (Philippians 4:8)

Now, where is that book?  

Painful Dissonance of Advent

 Advent is one of my favorite, and most challenging, seasons of the year. And perhaps this year more than many. There is a palpable sense of the "painful dissonance between the promise and hope of Christmas and a world wracked with sin and evil." The lights on houses and trees and the sounds of familiar carols stand in stark contrast to the bright flashes of explosions and the cries of the wounded and grieving in the Middle East, Ukraine, and so many other flashpoints around the globe. Hope seems at a premium and joy feels elusive.

Yesterday's Advent reading (I read each year from Watch for the Light by Plough Publishing House) made me sit still and ponder for a while -- and it has percolated in my heart and mind. Alfred Delp was a Jesuit priest who was hanged in 1945 because of his opposition to Adolph Hitler. In a piece written just before his death, he wrote:

"We may ask why God has sent us into this time, why he has sent this whirlwind over the earth, why he keeps us in this chaos where all appears hopeless and dark, and why there seems to be no end to this in sight. The answer to this question is perhaps that we were living on earth in an utterly false and counterfeit security. And now God strikes the earth till it resounds, now he shakes and shatters; not to pound us with fear, but to teach us one thing -- the spirit's innermost moving and being moved."

As I read these nearly 80-year old words, my heart echoed Fr Delp's questions. Why this whirlwind over the earth? Armed conflict. Disregard for basic human dignity. Oppression of women and the powerless. Political turmoil. Why no end in sight? We seem to never learn that violence and deception simply beget more violence and deception. Why are we still haunted by these same questions and issues and troubles? Is there no real hope?

Delp continues:

"The world today needs people who have been shaken by ultimate calamities and emerged from them with the knowledge and awareness that those who look to the Lord will still be preserved by him, even if they are hounded from the earth." 

So perhaps a core message of Advent is not the end of calamity or difficulty or upheaval, but a reminder that what we are experiencing in the here and now is not all that there is -- or will be. That this Advent season of waiting is not just waiting for Christmas 2023, but waiting for God to eventually renew all things.

Press on!

Ice crystals in the morning

 This morning, as I went to my car to head over to City Hall, I noticed a light covering of ice crystals on the windows. Ordinarily I would get out the scraper and dispatch the view-obscuring crystals as quickly as I could. But this morning I slowed down and looked closely at the intricate designs--each one seemingly unique. And I breathed a little deeper.

There is so much these days that can demolish our sense of calm and any feelings of hopefulness. The strife between Israel and the Palestinians. Corruption and deception in American politics. Wars on multiple continents. Innocents slaughtered, enslaved, or forgotten. The seeming triumph of evil over good at almost every turn (or at least that is what gets eyeballs and views in all sorts of media). Accounts of good and beauty seem rare, at best.

I wonder whether the good and beautiful are out there, quietly waiting to be seen and enjoyed--if we just slow down and focus on those things? How might the next few weeks feel different if I slow down and examine the "ice crystals" instead of being in such a hurry to get to the next thing on my to-do list? And longer term, how might my mind be transformed if I can train it to dwell on that which is honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, and worthy of praise?

This winter it may take me a bit longer to get started in the morning, but I will build in the extra time to enjoy the ice crystals, take another deep breath, and calm my soul.

Pressing on,

Ken