JOYFUL SERVANTHOOD
I'm not feeling as happy and joyful as the little boy up above is, but his laughing face sure is contagious, isn't it? I wish Sandy and I were feeling that bubbly, but as most of you know, life has thrown its share of curve balls our way lately. Earlier this summer I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease, and that of course has come with its own minor (for now anyway) challenges. The defining event of our summer, though, was Sandy's dad's passing after a long and fruitful 93 years. Fraser's last few months were a long road of both blessing and hardship for the whole family, but especially for Sandy and her mom.
The hardship part is really a given in situations like this, as many of you know. The loss of a parent affects all of us differently, and it's never easy watching a loved one deteriorate and struggle right before your eyes, especially when there is so little you can do to lighten their load. It's always a watershed moment in a person's life. As I said, the hardship is a given, but it's the blessing part I want to write about today.
Fraser was not really Fraser for the last couple of years. Dementia gained an increasing hold on his mind and body, and over that time he was his usual quirky self, but in increasingly odd sorts of ways. He read without remembering, napped every couple of hours, and devoured more than his share of potato chips and Ensure, all while struggling more and more to get around physically. This was especially hard to watch because he was always such a physical presence in the world–constantly on the go: playing squash or working in the yard or picking up some household project. So by the time he was bed-bound in the hospital, he was just a shadow of his old self.
So by now I bet you're wondering where the blessing part comes in, aren't you? Well, it was just this. Back when he and his wife, Marilyn, were able to drive down to visit us, one of the things I enjoyed the most was giving them the freedom to just … rest. They've always been most themselves when visiting, encouraging, or serving others, and they did faithfully and tirelessly for all their lives. In fact, they did so so tirelessly that when they came to visit us they would sometimes just drift off to sleep reading the paper or sitting on the patio. I loved that we could provide that room and space for them, and that they felt comfortable enough to surrender to it, even if it was just for a couple days.
Over the last few months, as Fraser languished in the hospital, Sandy loved, honored, and served him faithfully hour after hour, day after day. She was a powerful inspiration to me, and a profound example of what it means to truly honor one's mother and father. Help, though, was hard to give. The most she or any of us could do was be diligent about tracking down doctors and nurses, feeding him, chatting with him (while he was still alert enough to do so), and well, just being there. I was reminded of the first couple chapters of Job, in which Job suffers the loss of nearly everything and everyone dear to him. His friends "met together to go and console and comfort him." Once they got to Job's house, "they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great" (Job 2:11b, 13).
Sometimes the greatest service we can render to someone we know who is suffering is just … being there. No effort to fix or explain or persuade or teach or even offer Scripture verses. Just sitting there, being there. I often think the book of Job should end right there, after chapter 2, because from that point on, Job's friends spend huge amounts of energy and breath and brainpower trying to "fix" Job.
As the weeks wore on, I remember saying to Sandy on one of our trips up north, "I'm not sure why I'm here. There's nothing really for me to do, and I'm not sure I'm helping in any meaningful sort of way." But she assured me that even sitting at home chatting with Marilyn or working on a jigsaw puzzle or even letting her make breakfast for me in the morning (a difficult thing to do, but she loves doing it so much that letting her do it can be its own act of service). Seeing my "doing nothing" as the service it truly was, helped me see my contribution entirely differently.
This sort of contribution deepened over the course of Fraser's last days in the hospital. I will always remember those days. We had lots of time to love him and serve him–and oddly it was even more satisfying when he was no longer conscious, at least not conscious in the usual sort of way. He had said that when he was young one of his favorite books was The Swiss Family Robinson. We found his old childhood copy, but Sandy bought a new one and we would take turns reading to him. There's nothing quite like the sense that you're doing something that's appreciated even though he wasn't able to say a word in response. And then there was feeding him spoonsful of thickened water (he had trouble swallowing), and swabbing his mouth every few minutes. There were the words of encouragement ("I know it's hard, Dad. We're all here for you. It's alright, you can let go whenever you're ready and follow Jesus. We'll be okay."). And the prayers we offered, mostly for him, but maybe now and then with him too. And then, of course, much of the time, just doing what Job's friends did in their best moments–sitting there, not saying a word. As hard as it was, I loved serving Fraser Kerr in these ways.
But here's the thing. Not one of us wants to be served in the way Sandy served her dad–not one of us. And yet, on the receiving end, sometimes the most loving thing we can do is simply let our friends love us and serve us. Sure, we can go too far and become selfish or narcissistic. But we need to surrender our pride and know that, as much as we love to serve, there will very likely come a time when we need to let others love us in this way–the trick is not demanding it, or expecting it, or feeling entitled to it, but letting go of our pride long enough to receive it.
A final thought here to help us avoid becoming that arrogant, entitled person. Ask yourself: In my day to day life am I becoming the kind of man or woman whom others would be pleased to serve, love, and honor, or does my life inspire nothing more than duty and drudgery? One day, when I find myself on my own death bed, conscious or not, will others delight to serve me as we served Fraser? Or will they merely do their grudging, maybe even resentful duty?
As Paul says in 2 Corinthians 9:6-7, "The point is this: the one who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and the one who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. Each of you must give as you have made up your mind, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver."
There's a lot to be said for the one who serves the old curmudgeon down the street joyfully and cheerfully. But I wonder: Am I leading the kind of life that makes me the kind of person others don't have to fight to love?
Be encouraged, friend, for God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth, who spoke all worlds into being, is both with you and for you.
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