GOOD FRIDAY

The following is a reflection I wrote for the Lenten Devotional our church publishes each year.  As we approach the fourth anniversary of my mother's death, I thought it fitting to share on this blog.

Friday, March 29, 2013	Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13-53:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 10:16-25 or Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:7-9; John 18:1-19:42

When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

John 19:30

The above verse took on new meaning for me during Holy Week of 2009 while my mother was dying. The words of Jesus as he hung on the cross were never more striking.

Good Friday doesn’t fall on the same date every year. But since 2009, I have looked at Good Friday quite differently.  My mother died on Good Friday, April 10, 2009.  It was a cataclysmic event for me. We hadn’t had a major death in our family for decades. My father died more than 50 years ago and we had lost grandparents, uncles and aunts--but never anyone this close in many years.

Though it has been four years since her death, the haunting memory of that scene in the hospital room is as vivid as if it were today.  I wasn't prepared for the breakdown I had when I saw the lifeless body of my mother lying in the hospital bed at Columbus Riverside Hospital. The strength that had sustained me during the ordeal of the preceding months, as we watched her decline, abandoned me at that moment and I cried like a baby. Though I had told myself I had no regrets, I longed desperately to talk to her one more time. I touched her cheeks and embraced her innocent-looking face as the tears gushed and my heart broke. The thought of her not being with us anymore was just too much to take. It is a feeling I don't think I'll ever experience ever again or want to.

But as I think back to that day, my sense of loss has been filled with hope. Each Good Friday, we are drawn to the scene of Mary watching her son hanging on the cross, his life slipping away. Anyone who has watched a loved one die can relate to her grief.  But what Mary didn’t know at the time was that in a matter of three days that grief would be replaced by the inexpressible joy of the Resurrection and the world would be endowed with the gift of salvation for all who believe in God’s son. 

Because of that first Good Friday, we can now gather at the foot of the cross each subsequent Good Friday, not to grieve, but to strengthen and renew our faith.  It was that cruel death that proved God’s undying love for us. And for that we say, “Thanks be to God!”

Rev. Abraham D. Allende

 

Divine Coincidence

^“If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.”
                                                  Romans 8:11

April 10 marks two years since my mother’s death.  The irony of this second anniversary is that it falls on the fifth Sunday of Lent in Year A and the lectionary readings all have to do with death, resurrection and hope.  We hear in the Old Testament reading from Ezekiel the fascinating story of the valley of the dry bones (Ez. 37:1 – 14).  The Psalm makes a passionate appeal to God, “Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD; O LORD hear my voice (Psalm 130).  The epistle is Paul’s letter to the Romans assuring us of the benefits of having God’s Spirit dwelling in us (Romans 8:6 – 11).  And the Gospel of John narrates Jesus’ raising of Lazarus (John 11:1 – 45).

In  my sermon today, I relived the emotion of that final day of my mother’s life.  It isn’t often that I make a sermon so personal but it was unavoidable as far as I was concerned.  To have not mentioned it would have made it just words.  We ended the liturgy today with “Abide With Me,” and it took every ounce of self-control to hold myself together. 

It is in times like these that I miss my mother so much.

A Grateful Gift

And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.

John 14:3

On Monday, August 30, 2010, I officiated my first funeral at The Lutheran Church of the Covenant.  It was an end to a stressful week in which I had at one point seven people hospitalized.  The lady whom I buried was 91 years old and had been in deteriorating health for quite some time.  I first visited her one month into my call at Covenant.  She wanted to meet so that, in her words, “I could go ahead and bury her.” 

But over the course of time we had wonderful visits and I grew quite fond of her.  As she lay in the hospital I reflected on my own mother and her final days.  Her two adult children were able to take her home, where she died early Thursday morning.  Both of them were admirably well composed throughout the dying, the arrangements, the viewing, the service at the church, and the committal at the cemetery. 

It was a fabulous service with four traditional hymns:  “Abide With Me,” “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me,” and “How Great Thou Art.”  Another parishioner also sang “The Navy Hymn” as a solo.  I preached from the 14th chapter of the Gospel of John, highlighting that as God’s people, we want to be where God is (see the text above).

It is in situations like this that I give thanks again to God for my mother because, in dying, she made me a better pastor.  She prepared me.  Going through that experience has helped me to accompany others in their grief.  I am not detached or indifferent to their emotions because I KNOW what they are going through.  My compassion is genuine and hopefully gives comfort to those who mourn.  It is a gift my mother has given me and it keeps on giving, to use a cliché.

I thank you again, Mother, for all you were and all you continue to be.

One Year

But if Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness.
                                                              Romans 8:10

April 10, 2010, marked one year since my mother died.  Unlike last year, it fell after Holy Week and it was also a Saturday.  (She died on Good Friday of 2009).

My wife, two of my sisters and my niece and her brood all visited the cemetery and after some time of standing around and reflecting, we held a brief commemoration service. 

Linda, my wife, and I headed home since I had an afternoon worship service.  It was a solemn ride.

It was good to get together as a family and remember.  One of Mom’s chief concerns was that we remain united as a family.  There has been some fragmentation over the course of the past 12 months, but I’m hoping that is a consequence of the grief that some of my siblings have still not resolved.  Relationships have been strained at times.  However, I sense they are getting better.

I have no poem with which to close.  But I am glad to have made this entry.  It has been a while. 

I still miss my mother.  I guess that’s something one never stops doing. 

Two Months

Now if Christ is proclaimed as raised from the dead, how can some of you say there is no resurrection of dead?  If there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and our faith has been in vain.

I Corinthians 14:12—14

Today, June 10, 2009, marks two months since my mother’s death.  Obviously today was a difficult day.  It was made even more difficult by the fact that I received a confirmation letter today that my ministry is being discontinued effective the 16th of June.  The sense of loss is overwhelming. 

There are other issues.  One of my sisters has stopped talking to me—for what reason, I don’t know.  I have called her several times but she doesn’t return the calls.  I know she is grieving, but so are all of us.  The reason for her silence is somewhat baffling.  I try not to dwell on it, but it is difficult, especially on days like today.

I found another Emily Dickinson poem that I’m including here.  It’s from a collection entitled Time and Eternity.  The poem is “The Last Night that She Lived”

The last night that she lived,
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made Nature different

We noticed smallest things,--
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as t’were.

That others could exist
While she must finish quite,
A jealousy for her arose
So nearly infinite.

We waited while she passed;
It was a narrow time,
Too jostled were our souls to speak,
At length the notice came.

She mentioned, and forgot;
Then lightly as a reed
Bent to the water, shivered, scarce,
Consented, and was dead.

And we, we placed the hair,
And drew the head erect;
And then an awful leisure was,
Our faith to regulate.

Blessed Memory

But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died.

I Thessalonians 4:13-14

Last Monday, May 18, I visited the cemetery for the first time since my Mother's funeral. I was on vacation, on my way to Illinois, but I wanted to spend some time visiting with Mom. It was a warm, sunny morning, quite a contrast from the rainy day when we buried her. My wife, Linda, and I spent some time admiring the breathtaking scenery. Mom is buried in a section called the Garden of Serenity, which is a very appropriate name for this section. It is toward to rear of the cemetery, away from the highway traffic. The grass is a lush green, and there are plenty of trees in the background. The area must have been a farm at one time, nonetheless, it is very tranquil and lends itself to having a conversation with a dear, departed loved one.

I happened to have in my glove compartment, several ceramic "coquís" which I had bought as souvenirs when we vacationed in Puerto Rico back in 2007. The coquí is a frog that is unique to Puerto Rico and not found anywhere else. I took two of them and placed them in the area where the headstone will eventually be, next to a plant my sisters had planted on Mother's Day.

It was a pleasant visit. I felt at ease in the presence of the freshly covered grave. The rich, brown dirt made it easy to distinguish, almost making me hope the grass never grows over, so as to keep its distinctiveness. Mom always liked to stand out, to be the center of attention. At this point in this area, she is. It is still so hard to imagine her not being around.

Numbness

So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.

John 16:22 (NRSV)

Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t bring myself about to write something on Mother’s Day, which was yesterday, May 10th. It was not only the first Mother’s Day without my mother, but it was also exactly one-month to the day that she died.

Surprisingly, I was pretty composed throughout my two worship services. Only once, when a parishioner who hadn’t seen me since the death approached me to express his condolences, did I come close to crying or being overcome by sadness. I did mention to the congregation that it had been one-month at the time that I wished them a Happy Mother’s Day.

The English congregation which I served yesterday, First Lutheran Church, had a breakfast for mothers before their service; while La Trinidad, my parish, had a luncheon after our worship. So I was bookended by reminders of celebrations I will no longer share with my own mother.
Years ago we used to take Mom out to dinner on this day. Eventually she became weary of the ritual and insisted on cooking for us, something which I considered ridiculous. A couple of times after I began my ministry and could no longer join them for dinner, she came to church to worship with us. It was as much a joy for me to have her see me in action, as it was a source of pride for her. I remember specifically three years ago that she met some of my parishioners for the first time and they were enthralled with her. Recently that couple returned after a long absence and almost immediately they asked about Mom. It was on Palm Sunday and I had to share with them the unfortunate news that she was in the last stages of life. They were deeply grieved to hear the information.

Two of my sisters went to visit the gravesite yesterday and spent some time talking to her and praying over her. My plan is to go next Sunday after I finish with my pastoral duties.
I guess numbness is the only way I can describe the way I feel at this time. It’s as if I’m merely going through the motions and barely getting things done. This is probably a dangerous admission to make for someone in my position, but there is no sense of enthusiasm, no feeling of enjoyment. My hope is to recapture that at some point, but when?

I close with a poem by César Vallejo, a peruvian poet, which somewhat approaches what I am feeling at this time. I found the English translation so I will publish both it and the Spanish.

Los heraldos negros

por César Vallejo.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes ... ¡Yo no sé!

Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,

la resaca de todo lo sufridose

empozara en el alma... Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son... Abren zanjas obscuras

en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.

Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;

o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,

de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.

Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones

de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre... Pobre... pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como

cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;

vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido

se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes... Yo no sé!

Black Messengers

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!

Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them

the undertow of all our sufferings

is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know!

There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows

in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,

They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas

or the dark heralds Death sends us.

They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,

of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.

Those bloody blows are the crepitation

of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door

And the man . . . poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes around, like

when patting calls us upon our shoulder;

he turns his crazed maddened eyes,

and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!