If Only Our Souls Were People Too

Dear PJ,

2 months….60 days without you. Damn, it feels like so much longer. I talked to your wife for over two hours today. How she misses you. We both have these semblances of regret…because we didn’t say enough goodbyes. We didn’t know you’d be gone forever…

We didn’t know…

…but we’re pretty sure you did. You had this innate sense of the future and the brevity of it and how it might impact the people closest to you. You knew and you kept it a secret for the majority of your final months. You distanced yourself…was it an effort to protect us? I’d like to think we all just want one more day, one more heart to heart conversation…about the truth of the nature of things. You lived to shelter others. The most sacred aspect of your ministry was bereavement and yet you prohibited us from participating in it with you as your journey neared its end.

I’m slated to return to church this Sunday and I’m filled with dread. It feels like I’m forced to move forward now that a new person is standing in the shadow of your pulpit…putting his mouth to the chalice, singing your communion song. It shouldn’t be this way…and yet you knew it would be.

Didn’t anyone ever tell you secrets don’t make friends?

The best part of today came in the words of your wife. She told me how much you loved me. How much our friendship was valued by you. How I retain a priceless place in your family and with her specifically…because I saw you as you were and I miss you as much as she does. I’m honored by her words.

I miss you so much at times, it feels like my heart might implode from the weight of sadness. There’s nothing I hate more than being without you….and knowing come Sunday, you won’t be there. Sure, your “spirit” (or whatever the hell the church people call it will be there)…and no offense to your spirit, but it’s a poor man’s substitute for the real thing. If only our souls were people too. I’m pretty sure mine would enjoy the company of yours.

Empty

Dear PJ,

I hate dreaming about you. Last night I dreamt I was in your house for the first time since you died… Your bags from the hospital were still unpacked and sitting on the floor. It was like the place was frozen in sadness…missing you. I was asked to house sit once again…and normally I would stay in the room you shared with your wife…but this time, everything felt so empty.

That’s when I woke up…I literally sat up in my bed, confused…unable to recall where I was. Took a little more than a minute to calm my heart rate and recognize that I was safe…in my home…and then I remembered…that you are gone.

I still haven’t been back to church but I’ve been thinking about it for awhile. I almost went last Sunday…but I chickened out. I might actually follow through with it this week. I’m not looking forward to it. We’re approaching two months without you. Sometimes it feels like years…other times it feels like yesterday.

And like your house…I feel slightly empty without you in my life.

Thinking of You

Dear PJ,

1 month…a whole 30 days have lapsed in this After PJ life. Long ass 30 days… Tomorrow is your 26th wedding anniversary. Something tells me your spirit might linger a bit closer to your wife tomorrow. Makes me wonder if she will loathe this once special day because you aren’t near to celebrate. She will lie down in the bed she shared with you for 25 years, draw herself closer to your pillow and hope she can still catch a small amount of your scent to remind her that in some ways, you’re still here.

I’ve been painting a bit over the last few days. Painting is always a catch 22…the deeper I focus, the more my mind and heart wander to the places I shut off just to function during the day. It’s where I hold my secrets, my fears, and all the pain it’s just not suitable to express publicly. The paint holds my tears, the aches, the hope, and the grief. And in all of this…I think of you.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing you and the friendship we shared.

I love you.

Ho Ho Holy Shit It’s Christmas

Dear PJ,

My five blog readers must be sick of you by now.  You’re all I write about. All this melancholy reminiscing isn’t good for my image…or the dark circles under my eyes.

Tonight is the youth group’s progressive dinner. Last year it was my first big youth event to attend. I vaguely remember the first house…but I remember yours. We played a post-it game with Christmas-related words on our backs…had to ask yes/no questions to find our partner. TR was my partner and it was the open door to a friendship with him and his family. The warmth of your home, the smiles on your face as we laughed and enjoyed the holy season.

I’m skipping this year’s festivities. I had no idea they were visiting your house until I read it on Facebook. I don’t know that I could’ve walked through the door, seen your family pictures on the walls all the while knowing there’d never be another family portrait taken.

I miss being at church sometimes, I miss being part of something and I feel left out, though it is my own doing. I keep thinking about one of the last e-mails I received from you. You said you missed me but since time was moving so fast, you’d likely blink and I’d be right in front of you again. Now I’m the one wishing you were in front of me, standing in your kitchen, making one of your delicious pizzas.

Holy shit…it’s Christmas again…You’re missing out…and we’re missing you.

Why Couldn’t It Have ALL Been After Party?

PJ,

Yesterday was awful. Excruciating even.

I was a zombie at the church before the service…setting up for your Shiner/Bratwurst party… Couldn’t function. Could barely walk by the mini shrine of sunflowers, golf balls, and Shiner in the entry way. I just sat and stared at the deep gray sky outside the window, wishing you would walk through the door and give me an instruction or that I’d round the corner and you’d be sitting in your office chair…

They picked the coldest, windiest day for your funeral. I was looking for you in the sanctuary so I’d know how to approach you. I was looking so intently that I didn’t see you…right.in.front.of.me. I only caught a glimpse of the edge of the casket before I realized it was you and I saw the lines of gray in your skin and I stopped…and abruptly moved backwards in fear. And B caught me…and I cried like it was the first time I’d been told you were gone. I couldn’t get any closer. I froze.

I emerged briefly and out of the corner of my eye I saw your daughter running full force at me…she hugged me for so long, PJ…and she’s not a hugger. We just stood there together for a bit. I could tell that it hurt her to look at me…she sees our friendship when she sees me…she feels how much we have both lost. Her only word to describe this was “weird”…I couldn’t come up with anything better or different so I agreed. I love her so much. She is your creation, your counterpart…and in her eyes, I see you.

I listened as people eulogized you…and the bishop (your favorite person 😉 spoke his scripted words and I wondered if you hated it. They sang the communion song…it was terrible. I kept hearing your voice nestled between the lines. When I filed to the front for communion, I brushed the edge of your casket with my fingers…did you feel it? I wanted to say goodbye in some subtle way…

By the way, Lutherans conduct the longest damn funerals ever. EVER.

Your after party wasn’t really a party. They showed the slide show of all these pictures of your last 53 years. You were a handsome little devil. I must say, I dig the BeeGees hair. They showed the pictures of us from your daughter’s graduation party.

And so it begins…this new life without you…how I wish I still had your words of wisdom, your dry sense of humor to carry me through the rough patches.

I miss you.

Dear PJ

I keep thinking about the Holden Evening Prayer Service and this one particular song you used sing the echo to…

“Let my prayer rise up like incense before you…the lifting up of my hands as an offering to you…”

It was my favorite part of Advent…and now I wonder who will be singing it. It won’t be the same.

Advent, this peaceful, quiet, holy, almost mournful time of year…seems a bit appropriate now. So hard to fathom experiencing this, the turning of the season, Christmas…and everything else without you.

So what now? How do I sing this song…when all I hear in my head is your voice…

How am I going to walk into that church and not see you walking around the corner or sitting in your chair at your desk and not feel a gaping hole in my chest?

Wherever you are, I hope that you know/feel/see how much we all loved you and how much your actions enhanced our lives.

“O God, I call to you, come to me now; O hear my voice when I cry to you…”

Where I Am, You Are Welcome

How do we measure love? Are we capable of such a task? What quantifies as too much or too little?

We may not be able to define the exact moment we find ourselves lacking the receipt of affection, but we know what it feels like…empty, alone, isolating…the epitome of rejection.

Despite the recurrences of heartbreak, we continue to risk the outpouring of our hearts…in ardent passion and pursuit.

I am amazed by my need and longing to love people I’ve only met once or twice. It’s a compulsory action…as though I can’t quite escape or deny it. The love chooses me…and in turn…chooses you.

And I hope that when I meet you or see you or speak to you, you feel the love raining upon you. May you feel accepted, wanted, and encouraged. May you always know that you are safe in my presence. That where I am, you too, are welcome.

The Road Less Traveled…

This week I’m with my Outlaw Preacher brethren in a collective gathering, tucked in the forests of Tennessee.

This is a retreat, a pilgrimage for many, and hopefully by the conclusion of the week we’ll have found an avenue of restoration once we part from one another and return to our respective corners of the continent.

One truth that I’ve come to believe is that ministry…in any capacity, is difficult. No shit, ministry is tough.

It’s in the methods we choose to love each other, it’s the way we defend and represent Jesus to others, it’s the way we counsel the broken, and how we edify or abuse those around us. It’s the late night phone calls of people in need of rescue, the exhaustion of “compassion fatigue”…wanting to be all things to all people and recognizing we aren’t superheroes and we don’t have all the answers.

It’s learning and accepting that even ministers fuck up and say the wrong words…that we are NOT exempt from fault.

I won’t deny that I’m weary…that the strain of ministry and lack of self-care and respite has brought me to my knees in frustration.

I suppose what allows us to press on is the unmistakable need to continue to love holistically…and that in our darkest hour of uncertainty, we know we are not alone.

In the room around me are pastors, volunteers, social activists, authors, bloggers, live-tweeters…and they are lovely, bad ass individuals who love more passionately, give more generously than most…and I’m rather grateful to travel alongside them.