Pain is Exhausting

A friend of mine recently asked, “What makes life changing moments stick, what makes them significant. Moments pass by all the time, habits come and go. What makes things real versus just fading.” To be honest I do not have a profound answer as I write this, but I do have moments that stick with me, in this case, moments of pain. I called my father on his birthday, August 13 2019, we spoke, maybe I played him a ditty on my harmonica, who knows. After we spoke, he put my mother on the phone. We talked for sometime, she sounded tired, but was happy to connect. That was the last time I ever heard her voice. Sometimes I wonder if my conversations with people are the last and I try to make it sound super inspiring, most likely because that person has inspired me in some way. There is no way to know which conversation is the last I suppose.

        A week after I spoke to my mom, my sister called. “Moses, you better get out here. It’s not looking good.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Mami is not doing well, she says she is ready to go.”

Ready to go? Why would she say that? I was stunned. How do I process my mother wanting to leave this world. I hung up, couldn’t talk much with a face full of tears. 

Soon after, I flew out there. I live in Chattanooga and my mother was in Spokane, Washington. My father picked me up from the airport and we drove straight to the hospital. It’s a daunting feeling being so helpless, so out of control. This massive and strange institution is in charge of saving my mother? Are they competent? I ran into the room. Where was my mother? I saw my sister, then on the bed was an unrecognizable shadow of my mother. She probably weighed around 80lbs at this point, her skin had completely changed, tubes ran everywhere, she was intubated. I looked at my sister in shock for a moment, then ran to hold my mother. She cried, I cried. She pushed me back and asked for a pen. By this point, she had gone through several note pads, she liked to talk but now she had to write. The plus side is, we will never forget her last words (unless we lose those papers, in which case I will be absolutely devastated). She wrote, go with Michelle, get food, you need strength. No way, there is no way I am leaving what precious moments I may have with her to get food I don’t want from a subpar cafeteria. However, there was no use arguing with my mother. By all accounts, the hospital cafeteria was actually a solid 7.5, not bad at all. Michelle and I sat for a couple minutes trying to eat, forget it. We went back up. The pulmonologist stopped us. “Essentially, this is it. Excluding a miracle, ¾ of her lungs are not functioning at all, the last ¼ is going downhill fast. We will need to extubate her soon if there is to be any chance.” A nice ending would be that a miracle happened and it was a beautiful testimony, etc. That is not how it ended, but perhaps there was still beauty. “Give me a moment, I need to talk to her" I said trying to hold back tears. What do you say when you know this will be the last conversation, the last words. I went in, sat down and held her hand. We were just in the moment, emotion at its rawest form. Eventually I started speaking, the life she had inspired me by, the moments she taught me lessons, the moments of frustration, the moments of joy, I spoke of it all. I looked up at a painting on the wall, it was peaceful. Beautiful mountains, a pleasant creek ran through a valley with lush vegetation all around. It was so devoid of pain. “One day I want to walk in that painting with you” I told her “I want to see flowers, or the flowers you have grown, you love growing flowers and they are beautiful, just like you.” She looked at me, she had peace. She wrote something along the lines of, “I do want to live, Moses, I want to live, but the Lord will guide. What matters is that we live life for Jesus. Live for Jesus, Moses.” I held her for several minutes, it was time to go. Lindsey, (my wife) was flying over to Spokane, she talked on the phone with my mother. That was the last my mother wrote words to someone. She was extubated and for the next 12 hours teetered on the line of death and life. Around 2am I looked across the room, Michelle (my dear sister) was sleeping on a rough hospital chair. My mother struggled for every breath. On my harmonica, I played the songs my mother loved. Pain is exhausting. 

Around 9:30 the next morning she died. My father, Lindsey, Michelle and I all stood around in silence. Tears were flowing, they would for the next several days and weeks and years. My foundation, my source of confidence, joy, life and spiritual security, she was gone. Somehow, someone appeared in the corner of the room playing the harp. I was confused but most things didn’t make sense at the time, it was soothing at least. I kissed my mother’s forehead one last time and walked out. 

It has been two years since my mother died. I reflect on loss and pain, on life and joy it’s all so complex. The story of Job in the Bible talks about pain. The wild thing about Job is he never found any answers for his pain, on the pain scale he had a lot, but he found a way to live again, to thrive. He says, “I once heard of God (his friends talked about God, maybe there were legends and myths, stories of old that he heard), but now I have seen Him.” Job did not physically see God, but he saw peace and in peace he saw the work of God. I see peace to be love infusing the mind with the understanding that we are not alone, that there is an infinite hand that will hold us through this messed up life, because He loves us dearly. I do not write this to give a grand revelation or that I have found the answer to the journey of grief, I am still so confused. I write to express that this journey of life is painful, but we are not alone. This journey taught me a lot about empathy, how to understand pain and how to walk with others in this journey of pain and grief. It taught me more about God and His struggle as He also walks with us in this life of pain. He walks with us and it's as though He whispers, “You are not alone, soon I will take you home, where there is no crying, sadness, sickness or pain.” Pain gives moments I do not easily forget, but what is pain but a reminder that we do not belong.

 

Thoughts by the Gravesite

It was the evening before my wedding. My groomsmen were wrestling about the house and I sat on the large comfy couch laughing and texting a few last-minute arrangements to Kamron my best man. I was beginning to feel a bit nervous for the monumental event the next day, but haing my friends around made it more bearable. Momentarily, one of my groomsmen named Randy walked in and motioned for me to follow him out. "Moses, I don't know how to say this. Elliott has died." 

The first of my three summers working at camp was a radical experience. Everything was new, I had never worked or even attended summer camp before this time. Being in Michigan, I knew a handful of people but quickly made many new friends. As teen camp rolled around, I walked past a large grass field and saw a boy playing soccer. He was good. Precise foot work, quick skill, his talent was noticed instantly even from across the field. My friend Sergio (one of those guys who knows everyone and their great aunt) was standing next to me and said, “Yeah, that's Elliott, Elliott Ranzinger.” What a guy, the world is small, Elliott’s older brother had gone to my high school. As it turns out, the next summer rolled around and the girl that caught my eye (now my wife) was rooming with Elliott’s sister. They were best friends, and ultimately his sister was the maid of honor at my wedding. There are people who you meet once and never forget, that was Elliott.

I went to a small college near Chattanooga Tennessee. My senior year, he came to campus. We didn’t get to hangout much, but seeing him was always a joy. On a number of occasions, I would come to breakfast early in the morning, early being 7:30 a.m. I would see him eating by a window. After sitting down and chatting, I realized he was probably trying to have a nice meal with the young lady in front of him. But he was always gracious enough to hear me out and let me eat with him. Making time for a conversation ahead of a romantic pursuit says a lot about character.

At his memorial service, the pastor read from Elliott’s journal. He wrote,  “If we have not surrendered our lives to God and given Him control of our lives, the storm will follow us everywhere and will affect those around us. We can run from God, but we can’t hide from Him. Follow His call Elliott, and you will be truly happy and fulfilled.” Elliott embodied the idea that fulfillment does not come from the finite pursuits of life. The ultimate form of fulfilment comes from understanding and accepting the eternal. The eternal being the plans and purpose God destined for us to fulfill. There is a depth and fulfillment that comes from God guiding and controlling our lives. This is a deep and lasting relationship. Elliott knew about genuine relationships, he constantly inspired others through them.

The dripping rain provided a serene feeling as I sat next to his grave yesterday. It’s weird how rain, though gloomy and somewhat depressing can bring so much life. I sat under a tree that had started to bloom. White petals blanketed the green grass. Today would have been his birthday. I treasure the memories I have of him, his life, his words. His words inspire me to this day. Leaving his grave site, I was sad but reflective. The moment seemed to remind me, “Follow His call Moses, and you will be truly happy and fulfilled.”

I Want to Break Free

Homemade coleslaw flew in every direction. Little Johnny had some on his shirt, Sarah's shoe was covered, the aisle seemed to have a new color to it. I sat mortified, looking around in shock. What was supposed to be a discrete mission, became an absolute disaster. I had my blue Winnie-the-Pooh lunch box steady on my lap, but the tupperware container inside was harder to open then I imagined. When the lid wouldn't budge, I had to take it out and use all the force of my second grade self to open it. Snap! The noise alerted the entire classroom that I had indeed spilled my lunch. "What is that?" "That looks so gross!" "Ugh! It smells and it’s all over my clothes!" When I was a young boy, I attended public school, and for the most part the environment was not disagreeable. I made friends, played games on the playground, and maybe even learned a bit in class. However, I was always aware that I was different. As I remember it, there was not a vegetarian within one-hundred miles of that school. Except one family, my family. So there I was sitting in class, mortified at bringing my strange food to school and tremendously humiliated when my strange food became my classmates clothing.

I was always self-conscious about bringing food to school, but especially after that day. Years past and I grew older, but bringing homemade food to school did not become easier. Fast forward seventeen some years, life was radically different. I graduated college, married and started a new job. My first day of work was great, and even though a moderate amount of nervousness was present, what caused the most anxiety that day was pulling out my lunch. Still? Yes, sitting there twenty-three years of age I realized some things do not really change. Well, perhaps it was maturity, or the kindness of my coworkers, but eventually I started to find peace, even when I took food out of my lunch box.

I like to think of my struggle with people seeing my lunch as a metaphor or lesson to something deeper. We all have a "lunch box" experience that has radically impacted the course of our lives. As far as traumatic events go, my second grade lunch experience is fairly miniscule. Yet fear implored me to eat cafe food, buy pre-made lunches, anything but bring my own homemade food. I wonder why I so easily let fear control my life, especially when fear is wanting to keep me from living fully. I realized at the heart of this issue was a fear of what people think of me, a fear of not being accepted. I find myself striving to be molded into a routine so as not to incite the negative perceptions of those around. It's as though I am hungry for acceptance and love. I spend my life painting the picture of me I think people will accept best, and I want to break free.

The Bible says God died for us because He loves us (even though inherently we really do hate him). The Bible says in-spite of our decrepit human nature, He has made us His children and recipients of eternal purpose. This means someone cares for us regardless of what we fear people will see in us. Yes we spend a lot of time thinking of what people might think of us, but in a sense God does too. God cares so deeply about what humanity thinks of Him, that he gave up his life to paint the perfect picture of love for us to see. God knows what it's like to want acceptance and love, He is on a life mission to receive our acceptance and love of and for Him. This made me see that in the struggle to find acceptance, to be free from the fear of what people think of me, there is hope. There is hope because God can understand a part of that struggle too. Every step of the way, it’s like he is saying, "You are my child, you are loved, keep moving forward, take another step, I am with you, do not be afraid. I know your struggle to find acceptance, because I long for your acceptance too. I know your struggle for love, because I long for your love too."

I will always struggle with this, fearing what people think of me, striving for acceptance, but knowing who I am allows me to struggle in the right direction. I am a child of God, and I know that He has accepted me. The other day my coworker asked me to bring dinner roast for a thanksgiving lunch. Was I okay? Sure a bit anxious perhaps. Did I bring it? Definitely. The other day God came to show us who he is. He was a bit anxious perhaps, but He definitely made it abundantly clear, He loves us, his children, regardless of what we fear people see in us.

Immigrant Song

As the dust settles, white fluffy feathers float about the large building. A suffocating heat and stench make breathing almost unbearable. Low hanging lights illuminate the vast room, the house of many chickens. The noise was consuming, but this was their home. Stepping outside, the bright sun hurt the eyes. There was Opa, he had a way with these chickens as no one did, this was his life, his profession, his work. The work was hard, never ending, demanding every ounce of energy, yet his tenacious spirit was not easily broken. Persistence was his strong work-ethics best friend. After all, not only did he have thousands of chickens to take care of, he had seven children to feed, support and educate. Life was hard. (Isn’t it usually hard for someone in a new country.) A new language, culture, the whole way of life was radically different. He had immigrated to Canada, met my grandmother (Oma) and settled in a small southern Ontario town. Though life was not ideal and far from easy, they had each other, they had family. I fondly remember the simple times, driving several hours to see Oma and Opa. The old house, a large pond, Mennonites lived all around. We would make almond butter and applesauce, collect eggs and eat lots of food. Then curled up on Oma's lap, Opa would tell us stories. Stories of the far country that have since become legend in my mind. He would tell stories of the war, adventure, work and his pursuit of love. If I had not fallen asleep by this time, Oma would dust of her mandolin, tune the strings and we would sing some songs. These were songs in their mother tongue, old hymns, folk songs, songs that told stories. I could see in their eyes, memories being re-lived. These were songs of life, immigrant songs. Life had been hard, but now, they had a new one, a large family and a place to settle down and call home.

About two months ago, I was sitting down for lunch. I had some friends around, we were laughing and deep in conversation.  A text alert went off on my phone. The message was from my uncle, "Opa has unexpectedly died this morning." I put my fork down. I stared motionless at the wall ahead. "Moses, hey, Moses, you okay?" Brittney asked from her corner of the table. "Yeah. Just heard my grandpa died. Don't mean to be a mood kill, but thats what happened." I left lunch, went to my office and shut the door. For ten minutes I cried. Drying off my tears, I reflected on Opa's life, on the things he had learned and what he had taught me. In the end, while it was sad, he had lived a full life, full of memories, successes, defeats, triumphs and years. He taught me that with determination I can achieve my dreams. His hard work and persistent effort to succeed was inspirational. He inspired loyalty and a family that was always by his side. At the end of his life, he planted a garden, met with his children, told stories and rode a bike around the neighborhood without a helmet.

Wherever life takes me, I hope I can be a bit like Opa. Regardless of what life determines to be successful, will I take time to empower the community around me, work with abandon to drive the success of those I care about; will I find fulfillment in the things that matter most? Though Opa is gone, I know that his legacy will live on in my life. For two months I have struggled to process what his death means. I have found that there is joy in reliving the legacy of one I love. There is no more chicken barn, old story or immigrant song, just an allegory, a memory, a legacy worth reliving.

Bonding the Inanimate

As DJ in chief sitting shotgun, I naturally was deeply engrossed in my present duty. Pulling 1000 kilos of cement in a trailer behind our cruiser, we were going to build a foundation for a school in a nearby town, Chingoma. We traveled a dirt road outside the property of Riverside Farms; there was an electric fence to our right and trees and a hill to our left. Beyond the fence lay a vast plantation of banana trees. We had just picked up some kids and were bringing them to the nearby village. Cruising at a pretty decent speed for that kind of terrain (about 40km/hr), the ride was not out of the ordinary. Upon coming to this part of the road where everything was super sandy, I'm still looking at my phone trying to get a good tune to play. All of a sudden we start drifting, I thought, "nice, very nice, this is good." Then we just keep drifting pretty soon we are approaching a full 180. Im thinking, "okay maybe lets pull out of this." My friend driving, I could tell, was freaking out. He was struggling and doing everything he thought possible to get back in control of the now recalcitrant vehicle. But no control was given. I looked up to see that fence on our right approaching. And there we went. This was not a graceful message of cruiser and fence, no! We ploughed through that fence and all the electric line that was there. The bonding experience of both inanimate entities was amazing, we demolished the fence and kept flying forward. The cruiser started taking out banana trees left and right, well three big ones that is. Then, and only because the ground was raw mud, we came to a stop. I will not repeat my friends initial and only words to the situation...he then jumps out. The electric wires were caught all over the trailer and cruiser. It was a colossal mess. So I hoped in the drivers seat, put it in 4wheel drive and pull out, slowly. It was then that we realized the trailer had come unhitched and thus led to us not being able to control the vehicle. Sitting there I thought of how epic that just was and felt bad for the guy driving. But it was all good in the end. 

Sometimes life's greatest crashes or catastrophes are it's best lessons to cope with the present. 

Colour Peace

In moments of pure serenity, when the sun sinks slow, and the colours are bright; when the soft breeze cools and the painted grass is churned; when still waters run free to places unknown, it is these moments of purest peace where we see who we really are or who we really wish to be. Could it be that these moments were what we were made for? What we were originally made to thrive in? Moments of inner peace so intense, the soul knows nothing but this peace. It was in this moment that I sat, I watched.
A rustling noise had wrestled sleep from my mind. Sitting up and gazing through the tent screen revealed a sight I had longed to see. The great hippopotamus. Yes, Africa is full of hippos. But to see one in all its glory traversing the ground I traverse, that was my wish. And there in the peaceful stillness of the morning she stood. Leaving no thought to worry, she seemed to enjoy the early peace of morning light gently painting the grass she ate.
With the hippo being a mere ten yards or so from the tent, I did not dare move. I could only watch and soak in what was given. A moment of peace, this hippo had it. There was no concern for the upcoming day, no longing for a better life or wonder for food. As the sun edged the blackness of night away, the hippo gracefully slipped back into the stillness of the water. As though the life on dirt represented an abundance or hardship, she sought refuge in the stillness of the river-never to appear until dusk reigned again.
Peace? Where has it gone? A creature destitute of reason or any intelligence higher then how to eat and procreate, initiates a life more abundant with peace then I. Could it be that a world gone astray has given a peace that we think sufficient, and in turn we expel the true peace of the soul? Slipping into the still waters of the morning the hippo reflected the image of peace that to often slips from my mind into the peaceful waters of a forgotten past.

White Washed Tanks

Like a dark cloud looming over us, the day had come after six weeks. The anticipation had built the expectations to far exceed the task that was actually supposed to be accomplished. We had always heard whispers in the wind of this job, and now the day had arrived when the order came down-clean the water tanks. Clean the water tanks! Yes, this means that we would have to squeeze our bodies into multiple water tanks and clean them. 

I braced myself against the forrays of a drinking water deluge. Positioned for what possible harm may arrive, I peered into the inner blackness of the tank. After moments lasting eternal seconds, I jammed my entire person into the the cavernous tank, dropping into a deep four inch slim of river residue. 

Bucket by bucket, the mud was raised from the floor of the water tank. (If I had ever been tempted to disregard the warning to not drink the river water that came from these tanks, I now faced no such temptation.) Not only was the tank under the influence of a continuous layer of muck, the whole contraption had been baking in the ovens of hot African sun for many months. Without a doubt, the temperatures in that oversized water tub exceeded that of 110 degrees Fahrenheit. A combination of constant work and extreme temperature caused sweat to erupt from all available bodily pores. 

It was around this time when my friend who was helping me from the outside asked my opinion on scorpions. 

“Have you ever seen one?” 

“Yes. Why?”

“Is there one on the pipe right above your head?”

“What do you know, there is the most painful one in Zambia, right there above my head.”

“Yeah, it stung me.”

This was not the most ideal situation possible, yet no one died. Alas the whole incident caused the man to go to the clinic and we could no longer clean water tanks. 

Another simple day in the simple life of an African adventure. 

Sometimes I wonder if life is like cleaning water tanks. How many moments are spent cleaning those things which should clean us? Should not something change with the tanks? If we must clean our sources of cleanliness, then it may be time to find a new source.