My Tribute To Larry Bierl

“I will remember you.  Will you remember me?  Don’t let life pass you by.  Weep not for the memories…”   I Will Remember You, (1995).  Recorded by:  Sarah McLachlan.  Composers:  Sarah McLachlan, Seamus Egan, Dave Merenda

Cover photo:  Anne Neville/Buffalo News

Life sure has its ways of reminding us how we should have corrected ourselves at some point and time.  The rear-view mirror can be a teaching tool.

I lived in Williamsville/Amherst, NY, a Buffalo suburb, from 2003-2008.  It’s approximately 5,300 in population.  I chose Williamsville because it was a beautiful, quaint little area, away from the city where I did a radio show.  The property taxes were higher, with the safe neighborhood, as well as the school district.  It was a superb place for my three girls.

Often times, while driving into the quiet, older downtown village of Williamsville for a dinner run, or a nice walk down to the Ellicott Creek waterfall in Glen Park, we would see a mysterious man walking the sidewalks.  He was quite the oddity for the setting of Williamsville’s more upper-crust reputation.  He was a homeless man, or so we assumed.  The majority of the homeless were seen in the city, not the norm for the Williamsville/Amherst section of Buffalo.  More than likely you would see him clad in camouflage coat & pants, or a pair of cargo khakis, hunting lace-up boots, and long heavy yarn scarves wrapped around his neck that hung down to his thighs.

One evening, while sitting in the car in a parking lot, waiting to pick-up my daughter from a musical rehearsal, I saw the man was nearby, digging through a trash bin outside a Wendy’s fast food location.  At closer glance, I observed the scarves with a better perspective.  The scarves were not scarves at all.  They were extremely long strands of thick, matted hair, appearing to be mufflers of wool.  These strands were not dreadlocks, with crafty braids of hair art, although many attempted a good spin by calling them dreadlocks.  They were as thick as a dock rope.  It was an amazing sight, and certainly highly unique.  It told part of this man’s narrative.

My oldest daughter, Tabitha, 16 at the time, worked part-time for Spot Coffee, a popular coffee and pastry bar.  He made a semi-daily stop there for a tall cup of straight java.  He was offered free coffees and food from most of the businesses in the village. or wherever he showed up, but he always paid when he could.  Empty bottles and cans were his prey.  It was a familiar scene, a plastic trash bag full of the soon-to-be recycled items, draped over his shoulder.  He had a zip-lock plastic bag of coins and dollar bills stashed in the thigh pocket of his pants.  Nobody ever saw him begging on the street corners.  However, the community members, not allowing judgement to overrule them, donated money to him coming and going.  One might wonder how the business owners and the police dealt with him.  I am proud to say, very kindly.  Everyone understood, this man was part of our community, living a life of his choosing.

More days than not, if you drove by Spot Coffee, you would see him sitting at one of the patio tables with coffee in hand, gazing off toward the horizon.  He seemed to live in his own world.  He was gentle, never causing trouble.  Although he was not one to enjoy talking much.  He would respond if spoken to.  My daughter has a big heart.  She made sure she spoke to him while serving him coffee, or whenever she was close enough on other occasions.

 Photo:  Carole Taylor & Buffalo News

Sometimes you could see him sitting outside a Burger King on a sidewalk bench, eating a burger.  Other times, he would be stuffing one into an old worn backpack.  It was not unusual for him to decline someone offering him fries to go with it.  My opportunity was one August afternoon as I jogged by the bench.  You guessed it.  I looked straight ahead listening to Fleetwood Mac on my headset, pretending I didn’t notice him.

Many have seen him walking the campus of the University of Buffalo, watching the pigeons.  There is a subway station there, on the south campus, where he often took shelter.  With that said, I think he simply enjoyed the peaceful surroundings of the campus, even under hostile weather.

After a year of living there, this man just became a fixture to me.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I no longer acknowledged his presence, but rather I expected to see him…somewhere.  What’s truly nagging at me is the fact he had a story and I didn’t know it.

Although he was an icon, even a staple in the area, most only heard rumors concerning who he really was.  Not many ever knew his name, including your’s truly.  One rumor painted the man on the street as an alcohol and drug addict.  Another rumor dubbed him as a military vet from the Vietnam conflict.  Because he often paid for his coffee and food, many believed he was covertly wealthy, wanting to experience the street life of the poor.  It’s funny how we can extract scenarios about someone when they are shrouded in mysteries.

One thing is for sure, he was a tough soul.  During the decades of street life, he braved some of the worst winter blasts Buffalo/Niagara had to offer, and they are many.

My middle daughter, Megan, still lives in Buffalo.  Recently I asked if she has spotted the roving man after all these years.  She said he stays pretty much in the Amherst/Williamsville suburbs, but nothing had seemed to change for him.

Last week, Megan posted an article from the Buffalo News newspaper.  During the horrid polar vortex weather system, which blew in sub-zero temps, and all that goes with it, Buffalo was hit extremely hard.

At the height of the storm, he had gone to one of his coffee hang-outs, a Tim Horton’s location, but it was closed due to the travel ban with the deep freeze encasing the region.  (It’s highly rare to see a Tim Horton’s closed due to weather.)  He then entered, for the very first time, the lobby at a nearby luxury hotel.  The manager of the restaurant and bar, offered him coffee and a chair, which he accepted.  Seeing that he was suffering from the penetrating polar winds, he was generously offered a room for the night.  He declined.  (Even if he had accepted, he would’ve abandoned the accommodations soon after.)  The manager then offered hot food, a warm hat, as well as another coat.  As it was his usual form, he declined.  After a small time of warmth,  the poor man began to make his way to the lobby door.  The staff begged him to stay longer, only to watch him nod as he made his frigid exit.

Lawrence “Larry” Bierl, age 67-69, was found the following morning, January 31st, just two blocks down from the hotel, on a bench at a three-sided plexiglass bus stop on Main Street.  Somewhere in the overnight, he had passed away from the wrath of the polar vortex.

Photo:  Sharon Cantillon/Buffalo News

The Buffalo News article had published a beautiful letter from Larry’s extended family.  Nobody was aware he had family at all.  His sister was the writer.  As the family revealed Larry’s story, I could hardly hold my mouth closed.  Larry held a master’s degree.  He was once in management of a well-known airline corporation.  He never was a vet.  He never was a drug addict, or alcohol abuser.  One day, in the mid 70’s, for no apparent reason, he walked away from his life as he knew it to be.  He traveled the country, often hitching rides with truckers and hopping trains, only to return to Buffalo to live as a homeless man.  The family did all they could to help him.  They tried for years to convince him to get help.  He declined.  After many years of tracking him, pushing him to get the much needed assistance he deserved, the family surrendered to his wishes.  Nobody in his family ever knew exactly what happened to his mind, or what derailed his life, but he lived with a mental illness.

After reading of his terrible death, along with his story, I must admit, I cried.  As I write this blog, my mind still hasn’t come to grips with how I feel, or how to process this.  Why?  Because I never spoke to Larry, although many I love had done so.  Not once did I ever offer him a meal, a bottle of water, or a new pair of shoes.  It came to mind to grab a gift card at a hair salon, or a clothing outlet, but I never did.  Clearly, God gave me opportunities, but apparently “I” was more important.

“…Love your neighbor as yourself.” – Jesus –  Mark 12:31a (NIV)

Sure, there were internal excuses.  They went something like this,  “The Buffalo City Mission downtown will take care of him.”  Here’s another,  “My neighbors will do it.”  Of course the most common,  “I don’t have the time on my schedule today.”  Ironically, I’ve volunteered at missions and shelters since I was a teenager.  You could’ve found me feeding the homeless at various soup kitchens, from time to time in my life.  But Larry….not one thing, not once.  Mentioning him on my radio show would’ve been acceptable.  I could’ve brought more awareness to Larry’s plight.  No, I didn’t open up at all.  I had the chance to make a difference in his day.  I did nothing of the sort.  Part of me never wants to hear rejection, even if it’s offering a pair of socks to a homeless one who may decline.  Well, that’s my lame excuse.  Frankly, my tears weren’t just for Larry, but they were also for my seemingly growing jaded outlook.  God forbid that my heart grows cold and hard with age.

Someone very wise once said, “Never cry for a life lost.  Rejoice because it happened.” (Paraphrased)  One sour soul might say Larry’s life was a wasted life, a waste of time, and a waste of space.  However, the hundreds that helped Larry, who gave of themselves through the decades, were enriched by the man.  Think about it.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.” – Jesus (Quoted in Acts 20:35 – NAS)

It might be wise to deice, or defog the rear-view mirror first, before going the extra mile.

The ice melts.  The sub-zero temps vanish.  But life…life makes its stamp.  Somewhere in Williamsville/Amherst, NY, if you go to a quiet place, you just might hear the whisper of Lawrence Bierl, “I was here.”

Remembering and serving, floods from the river of fuel for the race.

“Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; When you see the naked, to cover him; And not to hide yourself from your own flesh (and blood)?”  Isaiah 58:7 (NAS)

A Trinket Has Lots To Say

“Old man look at my life, I’m a lot like you were…” Old Man – 1972  By: Neil Young.

It’s true.  A trinket has lots to say.  I believe the older one gets, the more this truth stands out.  One of my old high school friends collects guitar picks, some from rock concerts of note from the past.  For you, it might be a bigger trinket like a 1960 Chevy Corvette.  If you were to visit my house and rummaged through some shelves and boxes, you will discover some valuable items.  Sure, they might not appear valuable to you, but for me, they are treasures.

In Greenville, Texas, just one house over, and across the street from my grandparents old home, lived an elderly couple.  I knew them as, Mr. & Mrs. Cook.  (All of the houses there were built in the 1840’s-1860’s.)  They were not just neighbors, but also friends from our church.   My mom tells me the old folks there in the house became like grandparents to her, along with her two brothers throughout the 1950’s.  Mrs. Cook was known to be very astute, a woman who could see clearly what was beneath the surface.  She had the right last name, too.  She was widely known for baking terrific pies.  All the kids on the block were welcomed at their house, mainly after school before parents arrived from work.

Mr. Cook, could usually be spotted sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch just watching the neighborhood grow.  I have one picture of him on his front porch, but at the moment I cannot locate it.  Vivid in my mind is a derby hat, round Teddy Roosevelt-style bottle-lens glasses, a cane and a wooden leg.  (The below is as close as I can come to generally representing him.)

Mr. Cook was a quirky, funny character with loads of stories to tell, usually with a punchline at the end.  The kids would gather on his porch knowing they would hear of adventures, heroes, as well as, the old witch who lived in the large, unkempt, overgrown house some three doors down.  (Actually, he might have been telling the truth.  She was a spooky old lady, who once shot at someone walking in front of her house on the sidewalk.)  His tales told of local ghosts to watch for, the old long-gone minor league Greenville baseball team, and how he lost his leg jumping off a mule wagon where his foot landed in a deep pothole in a dirt road.  As he told it, the leg snapped off and ran away from him in the woods, never to be seen again.  The norm would be that he would raise the cuff of his pant-leg, revealing his old wooden, rather rustic “limb”, so to speak.  There, in the shin area, was a missing oval-shaped knot in the timber.  He would invite the curious, wide-eyed kids, to knock three times on it to see if a squirrel lived inside.  As I’ve been told, he offered the little ones to take a look inside the hole to find the critter in his hollow leg.  Then he would dare them to stick a finger inside the hole just before the kids ran away from fright of the idea.  His belly laughter was loud, so was his good nature.  He loved to tease the neighborhood kids and they loved being teased.

In one of my previous posts, I have written of my mom who was barely 16 when I was born.  Mr. and Mrs. Cook often cared for her when her parents were at work during her pregnancy.  Mrs. Cook could’ve been easily mistaken for a midwife, right up to the day my mom went into labor.  They were at the hospital to greet me when I arrived.

Take a deep breath.  You may find this hard to believe, but you will just have to trust me on this.  Mr. and Mrs. Cook are part of my very first memories.  Although my memories come from my 3rd and 4th year of life, I have been told they often babysat me, gave gifts, including Mrs. Cook’s homemade clothing tailored just for me.  By the time I was 2 years old, we lived with my grandparents, but the Cooks were very much my 2nd grandparents.

As early as 3 years old, I have memories of playing on the front porch by his feet.  When I was 4 years old, I remember how he would grab his cane, walk me down the sidewalk and around the corner, to an old general store, about four houses down.  (Long since gone.)   To this very day, vivid is the limp, the cane’s sound as its tip touched the concrete of the sidewalk, as well as, his hard leather wingtips scuffing along the cracks of the pavement.  His caring, rough, large hand held mine as we walked slowly to the old general store.  He never let his handicap keep him from life.

Photo:  Pinterest

Mr. Cooper’s General Store was a small, old wooden frame, neighborhood store.  Way before large grocery stores were available for small towns, there were “neighborhood” stores and shops.  When the neighborhood was new, merchants would set-up shop near, or in the central area, of the houses built.  One hundred years later, there were some of these old stores still open for business for the very local patrons.  As I recall, we would walk into Mr. Cooper’s store, with burlap, sugar and the scent of old weathered wood wafting through the air.  Creaking sounds came with each step on the old planks of the floor.  There, on the counter-top, sat large thick jars of hard candies.  A ring would reverberate through the small business as the heavy lid was removed from the jar.  I wish I could recall the sound of his voice when he said, “Al, how ’bout that candy cane right there?  A broken cane won’t do.”  No doubt, I didn’t hesitate in confirming.  I do remember walking back to his house with a peppermint cane sticking out of my mouth.  You guessed it, each time we went, I expected to get a candy cane.

There was also a counter-top curio case filled with small items.  Among the shelves was a hodgepodge of assortments like, a children’s slingshot, Indian head nickel, small coin pouches, tiny glass dolls, etc.  One item that stuck out was a small black glass pepper-shaker, in the shape of a baby elephant, Dumbo-style, about 3″ tall.  (In retrospect, it must’ve been a mismatched item, as there wasn’t a salt shaker with it.)  At this point, my memory has faded.  However, a few years ago my mom presented it to me.  She had kept it in a box of little treasures for some 50 years.  She told me Mr. Cook had given the tiny elephant to me while he had taken me to Mr. Cooper’s store on an occasion.  Instantly, I recalled him picking it out for me.  Mr. Cooper placed it in a small paper bag with my candy cane.

As times and circumstances changed, sometime in 1964, my mom and I moved to a boarding house a few blocks away.  Yet, we still spent lots of time at my grandparent’s home, and always looked across the street to see if Mr. Cook was sitting out on his front porch.  His chair sat empty more often as time went by.  When he did appear on his porch, he always waved and yelled out a greeting of some kind.  Visiting him was always a highlight of that time period.

On May, 18th, 1965, Mr. Cook let go of this life.  It happened to be my 5th birthday.  In those days, it was customary to have a wake, with an open casket in the house of the deceased, for family and friends to visit and grieve together in familiar surroundings.  Food would be brought and shared, along with lots of conversation about the one honored.  My mom was heartbroken.  When we arrived at the house, after greeting Mrs. Cook, we approached the coffin.  It was my first experience with death.  Watching my mom cry, I told her something I had obviously been taught in Sunday School at our church.  Although I do not recall doing this, they tell me I looked up at her and said, “Don’t be sad, mom.  This is only the house Mr. Cook lived in.”  She tells me she squeezed my hand, chuckled, choked back the tears, and told me I was absolutely right.  We grieve, but not as those who have no hope.  It would be easy to say, that 5 year old was talking about the old structure, the house we were in, constructed of wood and paint.  However, I was taught well.  The body in the casket was only the cocoon, the shell, or the “house” Mr. Cook lived in.  The spirit of the elderly man we knew, with all his stories, laughter and kindness, had exited to live at the feet of his Creator.

Through the decades, we have seen multiple families move in and out of the old house on Jones Street.  There’s never been a time I didn’t want to walk up to the front porch, introduce myself so I could tell them of the magnificent couple who resided there.  There’s never been a time I didn’t look over at the old porch, imagining Mr. Cook sitting in his chair waving at me with a gigantic grin on his face.  There’s never been a time in my life when unwrapping a candy cane, I didn’t think of him.  Isn’t it odd how an item, or a place, can bring back visions of old love from long ago?

Today, a small trinket, that insignificant little glass elephant, sits on my bathroom shelf.  I see it several times a day.  It makes me smile.

As for Mrs. Cook, she was a strong, healthy woman.  There was no reason why she couldn’t have lived another 10 years or more.  From May 18th, to July 22nd, she lived alone in her house.  As you can see by the dates of their tombstone, she wasn’t without him for very long.

Over the Christmas holidays, I visited their graveside.  There are two flower vases, one for each side of the tombstone, not seen in the picture.  I went alone.  I stood there in the chilly Texas wind, spoke to him of my gratitude for helping to teach me, early in childhood, more of what love is.  Before walking away, I placed a peppermint candy cane in his vase.  I hope it’s still there.  More than that, I hope he was told what I did there.

A trinket has lots to say when filtered through fuel for the race.

“For none of us lives for ourselves alone, and none of us dies for ourselves alone.” – St. Paul – Romans 14:7 (NIV) 

Life, So They Say…

“Life, so they say, is just a game and we let it slip away…..Like the twilight in the road up ahead, they don’t see just where we’re goin’.” – Recorded by: Seals and Crofts (1973).  Composers:  James Harris/Janet Jackson/Terry Lewis.

Where do you think you’re goin’?  No, really.  Where?

Earlier this week I watched a very thought-provoking PBS documentary on various perspectives on life and death, especially death.  The perspectives came from a wide range of individuals with varying degrees of education, faith and science.  I was amazed at the vast differences concerning the leanings about death and the afterlife.  It turns out, we all agree on death.  It happens.  It’s unavoidable.  We know it’s real because we watch it happen here on earth every day.  We all agree, death is as natural as birth and life itself.  And then there comes the next step, that is also very natural, the afterlife of the spirit/soul.  That is where the tapestry becomes unraveled in the minds of humanity’s plethora of paths.  It’s fascinating how we, around the globe, concur on these things all the way until the muscle, called the heart, stops pumping.  Why is it that there we splinter into a wide field of thoughts?  Why is it that there we debate?  I’m pretty sure of the reason.

As a life-long follower of Jesus (Yeshua), I was introduced to the theology of life being eternal early-on in childhood.  I received the news from my mother first, followed by Sunday School in our church and so on.  I really don’t recall never having a faith in Jesus and His teachings.  Yet, at the same time, I was left hanging on God’s purpose in some aspects of the life of Jesus.

Here we are, in what many call, Holy Week.  It’s the week Jesus arrived in Jerusalem, at the beginning of Passover week, to shake things up for the religious establishment that had become so hypocritical and corrupt, even by secular standards.  He had been teaching (sometimes even talking…You’ll get that if you read it again.) throughout Israel for about three years, by this time.  A tremendous amount of the public had witnessed His miraculous acts and magnetic teachings of God’s grace, kindness and love.  It was new.  It was fresh.  It was brilliant in an authoritative way that was clearly noticeable.  It was liberating.  Forgiveness was His good news, regardless of wrongs recorded.

The religious hierarchy of the day were amazed at the throng following Him and said, “…Look, the whole world is following Him!” (John 12:19)  Of course, it wasn’t the “whole world” at the time, but to them, with the Passover holiday crowds, it seemed to be true.  Now, He came to the hub, the capital of Israel, to set the record straight concerning God’s intentions, along with God’s anger, at the corruption among the religious leadership who continued to twist the system of laws, and create needless judgment upon the poor and afflicted.  They didn’t like it, either.  So much so, they were conspiring to shut Him up for good.  By late Thursday night, right after the Passover feast was consumed, they had Him arrested.  A mock overnight secret trial (kangaroo court) followed with the decision to do what they could to have Him executed.  A few hours later, He was flogged, beaten, spat upon, beard yanked out by clumps, slapped, a cap made of thorns in mockery, etc.  (See the movie, The Passion Of The Christ for a better visual, but be ready.) He hung on a Roman cross the following morning for six hours until He expired.

His execution wasn’t a total surprise.  He told His followers many times He was going to lay down His life for the world He loved.  He went so far as to make it clear He wasn’t going to have His life “taken away,” but rather He was going to “give it away.”  A side note:  In the Garden of Gethsemane in Jerusalem, where He was arrested, He and the disciples were very familiar with the place.  Knowing they were coming to arrest Him, He refused to run.  There are exit steps in the back of the garden that remain to this day.  He could’ve made a way of escape easily and timely.  His mission from birth was to become the sacrifice for the sins of all humanity, the perfect lamb, God Himself had prepared, so to speak.  Since Genesis, sin had to be covered and an innocent animal — a life not guilty of the transgression — had to pay for the sin by its blood.  This is the way God would teach us how serious law-breaking would be, helping us understand what it means to Him.  Otherwise, we would be clueless.  Out of love for us, He chose to move on with the sacrifice, knowing full well the torture involved.  THAT, I understood.

Mainly, I had trouble with the Resurrection on the third day.  The purpose puzzled me.  After a slew of decades, wondering, then studying the scriptures concerning God’s redemptive blueprint, I finally got it.  At first, and still true for so many aspects of God’s designed timelines, it’s like an ant looking up at the Empire State Building in New York and wondering how it got there.  We have finite minds, unlike the I AM, the One Who Was, and Who Is and Who Is To Come.  How does a pencil look at the artist and say, “Hey, I know how you made me, everything you are doing and will do?”  If we think like the pencil, we are not too sharp and we certainly can’t erase our gargantuan ignorance.

Watching the PBS documentary, I was glued, soaking in what the agnostics had to say, as well as the atheists, the scientists and the faith-filled individuals.  Death is nothing more than an end of the flesh getting blood flow, brain matter becoming inactive, while the organs are instructed by the brain to shut down.  Done!  Off to the mortician slab, our remains go.  Or, are we (our spirits) actually done?

If you read my “Confronted By Death” post from Feb 13th, you will know, I too, am one of the few in the percentage of Americans who experienced a near-death, or flat-line death experience.  I LOVE the fact that the One I follow, Jesus of Nazareth, Israel, experienced the body losing life.  He is acquainted with suffering and depression.  He has been there, done that.  I LOVE His willingness to give His life, according to God’s plan, to bridge the separation of my imperfect life to His holiness.  Like a never fading dye, it was applied to my spirit.  I accepted the fact and received, or inherited, an afterlife with my Creator, not because I deserved it, but because He offered it freely as a gift.  I am so glad I took it and opened that gift certificate, as all who follow Him have done.  Yet, I remained stunned at the idea of a resurrection in the mix.  It seems like His sacrifice for us was enough wow factor to spread over the eras of history.  Why a resurrection?

Not only was it prophesied in the Old Testament that Messiah sent to us would come back from death, bringing back life with Him, but Jesus Himself also told His followers on several occasions to expect it.  In some biblical scenes, it’s almost as if He were saying, “Watch and learn.”  And they did.

Like John Lennon’s grave, his bones remain.  Buy a flight and find out that it’s the same story for John Kennedy, Elvis, Bruce Lee and Winston Churchill.  Their remains are still in a box.  You have the testimony of your loved ones who have passed away each time you go to their funeral or graveside.  The remains are just that…remains, but they speak out to you.  “Its” flesh has hardened and stiffened.  It begins to decompose the moment the heart stops.  If you touch the remains lying in the coffin, you will feel a coldness, like touching a cold aluminum flagpole in the winter.  Your loved one is not home, even so, they testify to the strength of death, and it’s so very apparent!  It is, at this point, where the divine contrast shines.

So again, why is the resurrection of Jesus so important?  He said it would happen, but why?

Instead of being the final nail in the coffin, the incredibly broken, nearly bloodless body of Jesus, once again breathing air with blood flowing without restraint to the organs and tissues, was part of a final piece of His testimony. The statement was loud, showing the world He was Who He said He was.  After the time I experienced death and resuscitation in 2013, I was damaged with ongoing disabilities due to organ shutdown, heart damage, lack of oxygen and hypothermia.  You just don’t bounce back to normal after death.  I do not have the power, the control, the on/off switch to death.  I do not have the strength, the ability, the know-how to fight death and tame it.  I can not will it away, negotiate with it, or slow it down.  Furthermore, I don’t have the energy to get myself up off the floor when life’s sledgehammer slays me, when the rug is pulled out, when the items of stability are removed, when the very base where all things stand is crushed.  But, I KNOW WHO CAN AND DOES!  That Sunday morning of significance displayed triumph over tragedy, death to darkness, hope for the hopeless and deliverance for the damned.  He created life, created organs and created lifespan.  He marked out the borders of life’s existence from outside of it, very much like the creator of that pencil.  The pencil-maker knows how it works, how it is to be sharpened and how short it will get with use, ALL CRAFTED FROM OUTSIDE THE PENCIL.  All, from conception to the grave, has been conquered by the One I hope on, live on and lean on.  The empty tomb reminds me of my spirit’s future.

PBS gets it.  Life here is a puff of smoke.  It’s here and gone.  Much like a Texas wildflower in the spring.  It blooms and it withers so quickly.  Life everlasting is immeasurable.  As He exited the tomb on that Sunday morning, He was telling all generations of imperfect humanity……. “I am the resurrection and the life.  The one who believes in me will live, even though they die…” (John 11:25) (NIV) 

Easter is always more satisfying when you have answers from a great amount of fuel for the race.         

 

Chaff

“Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea.  All we do crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see.  Dust in the wind.  All we are is dust in the wind.” – Recorded by:  Kansas, 1977.  Released, 1978.  Composer:  Kerry Livgren

They came somewhat covertly early last week, Tuesday morning to be exact.  Several masked scrappy-looking men, wearing gloves, dark glasses and baseball caps broke through, encroaching with the sunrise.  They quietly pulled up to the curb in a truck in the early morning while I remained defenseless in a deep sleep.  They brazenly, with all sense of one focused purpose, poured out of their truck, covered their faces with bandannas, and raided our property in broad daylight of the dawn.  It was horrifying.  The dreaded lawn-care crew invaded, started their mowers and latched themselves onto their leaf blowers without apology.

I never really liked spring in Texas.  Not that the blooms are less to look at than those in New York, but for other purposes.  Maybe it’s the pollen gifting sneezes, or the childhood memories of saying goodbye to classmates at the end of the school year.  Maybe it’s because the Texas heat , with deflating humidity, begins to melt your energy as early as April.  Either way, I could go from fall to winter then winter to fall with nothing in between, at least I think I could.  But here they were, marking the beginning of things to come as they chopped away at the lawn for the first time this season.

It’s funny the memories of yard work I have endured (and hated) over the years.  In the days of yore, I recall cranking up the old Craftsman mower from Sears (after my mom lit a fire under me) and went to it.  We were poor and couldn’t afford lots of lawn-care tools.  In fact, the mower I cut my teeth on didn’t have a grass-catcher bag attached.  The blades of discarded grass and weeds spewed out the side of the mower laying on the last row of newly sheered lawn where it remained.  As expected, in the end it disbursed by the wind.  What did stay, turned yellow and crunchy under the feet in the Texas sun.  It was what it was….chaff, so to speak.

Dust In The Wind was a huge hit when I was a senior in high school.  In fact, it became a classic and is highly regarded today as a treasure among the American songbook of the 70’s.  Kerry Livgren, of the group Kansas, and composer of the song, had become a Christian after years of spiritual searching and testing other theological and philosophical road-maps.  The other members of Kansas once said, back in the day, if you went to the back of the tour bus where Kerry was, they always were prepared to debate religion and philosophy.  In the lyric, you can hear his search for spiritual redemption and value.

As the decades go by, kids grow and exit stage left, grandchildren enter from stage right and health issues attend the golden way.  I can see, for me, school never seems to let out.  You get to a certain age where you have seen more in life than you will in the future.  I’m there.  One might ask; “Alan, just what have you observed?”   I’m glad you asked.

As the masked men tackled our lawn, wild flowers were hashed and slashed, weeds were mulched and clovers sliced and diced.  (Yes, even the four-leaf variety.)  When finished, all the tiny bits and pieces were blown away into the early morning March air, never to be rejoined to the stems left behind.

If you use your imagination, while sitting on a lawn chair with your cup of java, you can place your life among the shortened blades of grass.

I’ve learned that dreams are mowed over, products of your work gets cut down, property rusts, rots and falters.  Diplomas and certificates, confirming conquered majors and minors, turn yellow and fade.  Fellowship, itself, blows away as friends leave you in the dust, or physically move away.  Strength, once thought of as life’s nuts and bolts, weaken, losing its grip.  Have you noticed that even careers, businesses and opportunities, once thought as bedrock, fall under the active sickles?  Wealth, retirement or income can escape in a day as things change with a blistering gust from Wall Street.  Beloved pets come and go like Texas Bluebonnets in early spring.  Isn’t it true, even self-esteem withers when there’s a drought?  Reputations often are bagged and taken to the curb as public image can be weed-whacked.  Your closest relationships grow old or often sour under the beating rays of the sun.  Unfortunately, marriages often get mulched under the swinging blades of life.  Certainly, the very life of the famous, the proud, including kings and queens, are visited by the blades.  When a loved one is cut down, before the possessions are distributed and the bank account is dissolved, the life is remembered.  The lyric of George Harrison comes to mind in, “All Things Must Pass”.

“All things must pass.  None of life’s strings can last.  So I must be on my way and face another day.  All things must pass away.” – George Harrison (1970)

In the end, there is a great tractor that cuts wide and deep, ravaging everything under its path.  The chaff of such is tossed into the wind, or bundled for the herds waiting in an open pasture.  After the team of mowers and blowers have loaded up their trailer and all is raked and bagged, what remains?

Billy Graham would say, the only thing that truly lasts is your relationship with God through Jesus Christ.  Eternal, not temporal. Imperishable, not perishable.

The mower needs its gasoline just as we need ample supplies of fuel for the race.

“For, ‘All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field, the grass withers and the flowers fall.” -1 Peter 1:24 (NIV)

 

To Miles With Love

“There’s a feeling I get
When I look to the west
And my spirit is crying for leaving
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees
And the voices of those who standing looking
Ooh, it makes me wonder…”
Composers:  Jimmy Page and Robert Plant
“Stairway To Heaven” – Led Zeppelin, 1971

(In honor of my friend Miles.)

Out of the blue I heard you didn’t pull the cord
The parachute used to float through life has failed
They said you were sleeping, not spilled on the floor
Gigs hushed, mountains unscaled, now grief prevails

Gone are those sweet days of our youth’s resilience
You with your rock band and I with mine
Gone are the days of full volume, crushed to silence
Where are our shots of laughter and innocent times

You faced the horror, finding your mother passed
I knew we were too young to absorb or defend
So you turned to medicate softly to deaden the gash
The depths I did not see, the mask held to the end

Fun-loving years we gleaned, all things well considered
You covered the pain with amps, frets and strings
Watching from afar your heart and mind dismembered
In wild abandon, you fought through choking weeds

The winds of change split our paths, yours a thorny way
Decades of numbing drink with daily acid to drop
Sad, not finding you through the wars of chosen haze
Still, your talents carried you with art and prints to crop

Your love spread wings, giving shelter for those in your Victorian
They say you had a lofty heart, always aiding, always there
Yet, the demonic fuel did flow, like Pilate in his Praetorium
How were you able to be played, yet show Christ’s love and care

The great house has been stilled, and the guitars now hung
Your Corvettes are washed and waxed with no place to go
Shelves hold your empty bottles and your dealers stunned
Like dominoes, your inspired drunks, all lying in tight rows

As for me, I couldn’t sleep the night you so quietly left us
It all makes sense as I think back on the ache in dismay
Sometimes the burn of our past brands as we adjust
But, Miles, my best memory, that glorious night we prayed

How vital to select the correct nozzle, pumping fuel for the race.

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.  I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.” – Jesus – John 10:27-28 (NIV)

Confronted By Death – Feb 13, 2013

“There is a power keeping you alive, and it’s not us.” – Medical City of Plano’s chief respiratory doctor.

This will be different than any other article from my blog page.

At the risk of sounding overtly macabre, I must resist the fear of writing the following account.  I promised myself, God and others, I would write in detail, candor and accuracy of the event that took place five years ago this week.  Please know, the following details are indeed truthful in every way without embellishment, even though some aspects may be difficult to believe unless you know me well or if you were there.  I am one not known for tall tales of fantasies, or a demon under every rock.  My friends and family would assure you of this fact.  If you are from the medical industry, know that other members of the medical field are always amazed when they read my medical history.   Before God, the Living One, the Father of Israel in Whom I trust, all descriptions of the events from February 2013 written below are true and verifiably witnessed events.  The episode I am testifying changed my life on multi-levels that remain with me today.  It is my hope, you, or someone you know, might glean a newness, a sense of hope, a concrete foundation that we (you and I) are never alone.  The reality you will find from the entire reading of my story is that we (you and I) are greatly cared for out of undeserved love and favor.  Know this, going into the text beyond this line, YOU cannot, and never will, defeat death, nor can concentrated grit of fortitude.  Allow me to tell you my story.  Feel free to print this off for an easier read.

The Unexpected

For a few weeks at the beginning of 2013, my former wife (For this account, we will call her Joan.) and I were treating a boil on the back of my head at the base of the skull.  I was reluctant to see a doctor in that I was uninsured at the time.  So, for me, home remedies seemed to be the answer.  The boil grew delivering severe pain, a physical anguish I had not experienced up to that point in life.  One of the soothing routines was to soak the back of my head in a hot salt bath.  I did this often, every couple of days.  On February 10^th-12^th, a change became evident.  I began to slur my speech, even to the point of being non-intelligible at times.  My body and mind slipped into a stage of being lethargic.  I slept almost around the clock, at one point, 20 hours.  On the 12^th, I began to be violently ill.  That is the last thing I remember.

For a good year or two my marriage was also violently ill.  Divorce had already been considered.  The canyon dividing us was vast and bottomless.  Nightly, I slept in the closed master bedroom while Joan made her bed on the living room couch.  It was a joint decision.

Here, I believe it important to note that the following is from her account of the pre-hospitalization event.  It might be wise to include here that Joan probably had been drinking heavily that day.  It was common.

Around 2:00am, on February 13^th, Joan heard bath water running from the bathroom, just adjacent to the master bedroom.  Later, Joan admitted she reasoned I had awoke from sleeping around the clock and was prepping for another soak, so she turned over and went back to sleep.

Some six-seven hours later, at approximately 8:30-9:00 that morning, Joan opened the bedroom door only to find me missing.  She then walked to the master bathroom door, opened it and found me lying in a tub full of frigid water, with my face above the waterline, my eyes were open and fixed.  My skin was shell-colored.  I was unresponsive and ice cold to the touch.

For logic I cannot fully understand or explain, she delayed calling 911 for some unverifiable length of time.  In a moment of clarity, Joan called my mom, who lived some 60 miles away, telling her that I had gone to “another place” and described what she had discovered.  My mom recollects those maddening minutes.  Joan mentioned something to her about not having life insurance on me.  Being dismayed at the words, Mom pushed Joan to hang up and call 911 immediately.  While my mom was trying to cut through the confusing conversation, she had Joan place the phone to my ear as my mom yelled at me to awaken, but to no avail.  After several minutes, my mom pleaded with her again to call for an ambulance, and did so several times.  Joan then told her that I was naked in the tub and that I wouldn’t want the EMTs to see me in that condition.  She went on to say she wanted to take a shower first before calling.  (As a side note, the shower was built alongside the bathtub with only a glass wall separating the shower stall and tub.  While taking a shower she would have been looking down at my naked stone cold body.)  With a bit of fire in her tone, my mom finally convinced her to call for help.

Within the hour, I was rushed to the ER, to what is now called, Medical City of Plano in Plano, Texas.  No doubt the EMTs feverishly worked on my body in efforts to revive me.  I was told, many days later, by Dr. Betz, the ICU/CCU doctor in charge, they brought me in dead.

The ER staff was unable to fully revive me and placed me on life support.  At some hour overnight in that bathtub, my body suffered a full-organ shutdown with only minimal brain activity.  I was left comatose.  As common in situations like mine, the ER staff placed an internal thermometer into my torso revealing, at that hour, a core body temperature of 78 degrees!  (Few ever come back to tell of a 78 degree core body temperature.)  Not only had my organs stopped functioning, I was also suffering from hypothermia from being encased in cold bath water for several hours in mid February.  After the ER team consulted with several specialists it was decided that I was a lost cause and to consult my wife in the waiting room.

After discovering I had no directive or legal will, the ER doctor on duty, as well as a nurse, advised Joan of my dire condition explaining a respirator was keeping me breathing.  He went on to tell her they could try to treat me in my current condition, but that patients in my circumstance who survive are 1 out of 20.  He went on to mention there was no way to know how much brain damage had been levied.  The ER doctor made an attempt to have her choose a directive to pull the plug.  In the end, Joan signed a document requesting that they treat me in efforts to sustain my life.

The most common question I am asked surrounds the cause of the full-organ shutdown.  To be as accurate as I can, it remains a mystery.  There were a number of factors, all of which could have ended my life.  It may have originated from hypothermia after falling asleep in the bath, cardiac arrest, infection from the open boil, diabetic shock, kidney failure, etc.  All of the above could’ve happened first, but nothing can be chronologically pinpointed with all certainty.  All we can say is an internal domino effect occurred sometime in the overnight hours.

Sometimes being gone is better.

I am unsure the exact number of days I was in a coma.  I will say I had come out of a coma once for a significantly short time (which I will detail for you next week in a part II article) only to slip back into it for at least another day or two.  The impression from calculations, based upon friends and family who had visited my ICU/CCU room, I believe it was a four-day coma.

When I surfaced to consciousness, for the final time, I was aware I was in the hospital, but unaware of why or what had deposited me there.  It’s funny what can go through one’s head in that circumstance.  I recall being confused as to why my wrists and ankles were strapped down.  I was made aware right away that I was hooked up to loud machines and monitors all around the bed.  There were tubes and hoses going in and out of every orifice, and I mean EVERY orifice, with the exception of my ears.  In fact, besides the IVs and ports in various areas of my body, I also had one tube going into my rib-cage and another planted in the side of my neck.  I couldn’t inquire verbally, with breathing hose and feeding tube down my throat.  Other than a slight ability to nod and shake my head, as well as do a thumbs up in response, my body wouldn’t move on command.  Nurses and doctors were coming in and out like a swinging door, but rarely did anyone speak directly to me, as if I wasn’t there.

My immediate thought was I had been the victim of a car crash.  Curiosity spun my mental gymnastics every minute.  Joan walked in the room at some point telling me things at home would be different from now on.  My first thought was that she meant our relationship would be better now.  Interestingly, my fresh-from-a-coma brain went to the ailing, damaged relationship at home when she uttered those words.  In retrospect, I believe she was trying to say my health, my lifestyle had been compromised.

This new “awakening” was so hard for a plethora of reasons.  In contrast to the state I was in just prior to my days in a coma, the realities of a CCU room were close to torturous.  One of the almost unbearable treatments, still so prominent in my memory, was no liquid whatsoever passed my lips for almost three weeks due to the inability to swallow properly.  Hydration was applied through an IV and a feeding tube into my abdomen.  My tongue became like lizard skin.

While in a coma (or while separated from my body), I was at perfect peace, with a sense of flotation, never touching the ground.  There was no noise, no sound, only solitude.  There was no sense of the passing of time.  There was a lack of care for clocks and calendars.  There were no binding limitations, but rather a feeling of flying or floating at will, wherever I wanted to go.  Vivid ultra-brilliant colors of objects observed were beyond any shades I had ever witnessed in my lifetime.  Frankly, they were shockingly striking to the vision.  Here I will stop with my description that forever will be stamped in my memory.  Just allow me to say I had an experience beyond the reality of the bathtub and hospital bed.  It is incredibly personal and forever shall be.  Only a handful of close friends and family have been given my “beyond view” of that time.

There is a Power

I had 8 doctors working on me.  However, in the beginning while in ER, there was one doctor, the only doctor, who wanted to take on my case, to give me a chance of survival.  All others had felt I was for file 13.  This one courageous and selfless man was a kidney doctor, Dr. Sidiqui.  After I came out of the coma and began to show unanticipated signs of my body functioning, other specialists were assigned to me.  Regardless of the prognosis from a team of professionals, regardless of my 1 out of 20 chance of survival, regardless of how my body was still in resurrection mode, Dr. Sidiqui never gave up hope, always going the extra mile.  Although I was on sessions of dialysis, breathing treatments, oxygen mask and fluid pumps, I was improving very slowly.  I am unsure of when I developed sepsis in the bloodstream, but a debridement surgery of my head was performed where the infected boil was.  I also developed pneumonia in both lungs while in CCU.  After a time, I was helping to plan part of my own funeral with one of my daughters and a dear cousin.  Over the span of several months, I lost some 70+ pounds, much of it in muscle tissue.  I became anemic.  I started with zero body function but gained motor skills at a snail’s pace.  During physical and occupational therapy my body had to learn to swallow again, walk again, talk again and write again all because I had lost most of my motor skills, including various neurological autonomic functions.

Photo:  Stan, my physical therapist from Feb 2013

I spent three weeks in ICU/CCU then I was upgraded to a telemetry room for another three weeks.  One day I found myself listening to three doctors, including a couple of nurses, standing over me.  CCU is NOT a quiet place.  After having several staff members swing by my room, congratulating me on the rise from death, some of whom were telling me they were there when I was brought into the ER, the doctors were discussing what meds to remove, how much fluid to drain and what my prognosis was for each organ.  As the conversation wore down, my respiratory specialist, while looking at my thick chart said, “There’s a power keeping you alive, and it’s not us.”  He slammed the notebook closed and walked out in frustration.  I responded by saying it was the result of many people praying for me.  I will never forget that moment.  It was as if God needed me to hear what he had to say openly to bolster my personal faith.

As for Dr. Sidiqui, he explained the unfortunate truth was that my kidneys had not come back to life.  Simply put, I was at stage five kidney disease.  After leaving the hospital after six weeks, I was admitted to out-patient dialysis three or four times a week, four hours at a time.  This was devastating on my body.  I likened it to chemo treatments.  It left me weak and very ill for two days after each session.  At the same time, I had a Medvac attached to the base of my skull.  This was a suction hose going from the surgical area of the debridement of the boil, which was a 4”-5” square of raw flesh thinly covering that part of my skull, and leading to a briefcase-size unit I had to carry.  It was in efforts to keep the open wound free of particles and toxins which remained on my head 24/7 for several weeks.  Surprisingly, after several months of this harsh regiment, my kidneys began to come back.  In fact, the kidneys rose to a stage three status which discharged me from dialysis.  The nurses at the dialysis center were in shock.  Again, that alone is almost unheard of.  Today, I remain at stage three, leaving a 31% renal working capacity, managing functionality as best as I can.

Being an invalid at home was a new difficult challenge.  Dr. Sidiqui worked hard to place me in a much needed rehab hospital, but was unable.  Slowly, from June to the end of October of 2013, I worked on strength and endurance while using a walker.  October 31^st, I was admitted in an out-patient physical therapy program, at another hospital, which lasted through February of 2014.  Because of the fine work there at that facility, I was able to graduate from a walker, to a cane, to walking without assistance.

The personal tsunami of February 13, 2013 still has its waves around my house.  Some effects remain in the aftermath, but I am relatively well, considering the alternative, with a few lasting medical issues that are managed daily (too many to list here).  After all, it’s hard to come back from the dead.

To this day, medical personnel often will ask how I was able to stay alive with the ability to function.  Many answer their own question before I am able to get the words out.  “It must be for a divine purpose” or “God had His hand on you” or “You must believe in prayer”.  I say, all of the above.  As an ER respiratory nurse told me, when our time comes, we have very little to do with it.  Without power of our own, we seem to be like a flower plucked out of a meadow by a force outside of ourselves.  That is so true.  The shear realities, surrounding the fact that you are reading this from my own fingers on a keyboard, dictate that I did not survive because I am an exceptional individual or some righteous leader.  To be blunt, I deserved the opposite of life.  The hospital admitted I walked away beyond the scope of their medical technology, care and the modern medical mechanics available.  They called me “Miracle Man” during those last few weeks.  However, it is clear; the power did not come from me, nor from their medical abilities, but rather from the Creator of the body.  (More proof of this next week in a part II article.)

Some have asked how it all has changed me, other than physical.  My answer is easy.  I love more.  I tell my loved ones more.  I reach out more.  I am grateful more often with a greater measure.  I find I cry more at movies, TV shows, commercials, photos and songs.  How can you not have your life placed back in your lap, knowing you had nothing to do with it, and not be more sensitive in every way?  Furthermore, I don’t get all twisted up in anger at the level I once did concerning trivial, temporal stuff.  I came back realizing there’s too much in the world that doesn’t matter in the end, only eternals.  We are often fooled into thinking temporals matter as priority.

If you’re wondering about my medical bills from that year alone…over $1,000,000.00!

TAKE NOTE:

As mentioned earlier, my next blog, part II, entitled “A mysterious Visitor” will surround an astonishing slice of time in my CCU room that we could not explain away.  Frankly, that part of the story is far more important and stunning than anything I have written here.  Look for it on my page in a few days.  Once you read what I omitted in the account above, you might find it leads to the pump of fuel for the race.

“The thief comes only to steal, kill and destroy.  I came that you may have life and have it in fullness.” – Jesus –   John 10:10 (paraphrased)