The Curse of Remembering (and those who don’t)

 Today is a very special day for me.  It seems to be a date; however, that no one else remembers. Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember dates & numbers & anniversaries & special occasions so well. Maybe then it wouldn’t bother me so much when those I care about, who also care about me, don’t remember or even acknowledge the same occasion or date that carries such significance and meaning to me. But it does bother me. It hurts. It hurts deeply. Because of what it represents and means…to me. Sounds selfish, doesn’t it?  Truth be known, it is. It is selfish of me to expect others to understand & recognize the significance of something that carries such incredible weight in my life. I want others to remember. I sound like a four year old ranting about everyone’s world not centering around me on this day.  I admit it. I’m selfish. And have been since this special occasion that finds itself 33 years and running today.  But I find no balance. And short of making it known (as I ultimately I do every year towards the end of each June 18th) no one will. If that weren’t enough, this date almost always falls on or right around a date that’s acknowledged and remembered and celebrated by millions upon millions - Father’s Day. You see the year that this initial special occasion occurred in 1989, it WAS Father’s Day - making it extra special even still.  Fast forward 33 years til today, and I face Father’s Day again, which is normally delightful and celebratory and fun with my family as I get showered with blessings of love for being a father, hopefully a good one. But this year’s Father’s Day will be different. Why, you ask?  Simple. On top of all my struggle with the curse of remembering and others not, this year is the first Father’s Day I’ll experience all this without my earthly father. And that makes the pain almost unbearable. I don’t know how I’ll make it through my first Father’s Day sermon tomorrow as a Senior Pastor without my dad. It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem fair. And it hurts a lot. I pray I can make it through.  

And that anniversary I remember today & will struggle through tomorrow - it’s the day I yielded my life publicly to God’s call to be a minister. 

Ultimately I know it’s not about me. Ultimately I know it doesn’t matter if everyone remembers or if no one does. Unfortunately I battle it every year - because, even though I don’t preach & serve & minister so others will look at & complement & encourage me in some form or fashion, it sure is nice and greatly appreciated when someone does. And when someone does, I’m thankful; and to a degree, reenergized. And until next year’s Father’s Day celebration on June 18, 2023 rolls around, the curse of remembering marches on. And so do I.  I love you dad. Happy First Father’s Day in heaven with the perfect Father. 

The Silence of Saturday

 “The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate and said, “Sir, we remember how that impostor said, while he was still alive, ‘After three days I will rise.’ Therefore order the tomb to be made secure until the third day, lest his disciples go and steal him away and tell the people, ‘He has risen from the dead,’ and the last fraud will be worse than the first.” Pilate said to them, “You have a guard of soldiers. Go, make it as secure as you can.” So they went and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone and setting a guard.”

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭27:62-66‬ ‭ESV‬‬

These five verses from one Gospel writer are the only recorded verses in the Bible referencing Saturday’s events between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. A secret meeting between Pilate and the religious leaders to create a fabricated alibi and to secure the tomb of a dead man.  Does that seem interesting to you?  The silence of Saturday.  No word from Mark, Luke or John. No word from any of the disciples. No word from God. Only the brief words of those plotting a plan in case the “imposter’s” plan actually came to fruition.  It almost seems like they believed more in the possibility of Jesus coming back to life than those who walked and talked with him every day for over three years. Why?  I think they planned because they actually feared that He would rise again. Why the silence of everyone else?  Maybe the God-Man’s supporters were afraid His death was permanent. Plus, Saturday was Sabbath. It was designed to be silent and solemn. Were they just resting for the Sabbath or resting from their running in fear for their lives. The silence of Saturday. Is this silence golden or troubling?  Does it add fear or precipitate the hope of Sunday?  Does it leave you thinking or at a loss for words?  Sometimes silence is golden. Other times, it’s deafening. And this, for me, is such a time. Loud, overwhelming silence. Hard to explain but never without purpose.  It’s Saturday. It’s the Sabbath. Jesus is still dead. God is still silent. But all silence must come to an end. And Sunday is coming with noise much louder than Saturday’s deafening silence. It won’t be long now. 

What’s Good about Good Friday?

 

The Good Friday date is one of the oldest Christian holidays, with some sources saying that it has been observed since 100 CE. It was associated with fasting during the early years of its observance and was associated with the crucifixion around the fourth century CE.

But why is it good?  What makes it good?  Why do we call it Good Friday?  It’s a day that celebrates death. It’s the day we remember the most vial and brutal execution in the history of mankind. How can that be good?  Good should represent what is moral and right. Good should look happy and clean and be the best life has to offer.  But Good Friday represents death, arguably the most brutal and ugly and graphic scene of death ever painted by the most vial of human hands.  I ask again, How can that be good?  

Well - let’s look at the Good Friday players to find some answers to this perplexity. 

The Pharisees, the Saducees, the Essenes and others designated religious leaders were the local establishment. They represented what organized religion looked like, but they did it with hatred and malice in their hearts. It was hatred that they considered good. For them, this was a Good Friday. The Ultimate Representative of Good - God, the God-Man, was dead; and that was good for them. 

The disciples, save for the Apostle John and Judas, had disappeared. They were gone. Disappeared into the darkness. All that they had seen and heard of Good was dead, and at best they were confused. At worst, hopeless.  

The crowd was crazy. Hysteria reigned that Good Friday morning. Crucify Him, Crucify Him they screamed. Insults. Mockery. Blasphemy. Cursing.  Hatred.  Taunting. All hurled at the God-Man. Good?  In their eyes, it was good. The death of Good, the Son of God, was complete. And that hatred was to them, very good. 

And then there was the Man, Jesus. The God-Man. The Hope for all creation. Innocence slain. He was dead. But why?  What makes it good that we would call the most heinous execution in the history of the world good?  What makes it good is the bigger picture, the bigger picture that Good could be accurately portrayed as beautiful in death - the death of perfection. Perfection is what was required for sin’s restitution and mankind’s salvation to be made and available.  Scripture says it this way:  “God made Him (Jesus) who knew no sin to become our sin so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.” (2 Corinthians 5:21). In other words, the Son became sin so the sinner could be saved.  And He did it for you...and me.  And He did it to make the ugliest, cruelest, most vile and heinous crime (and Friday) in human history good.  And so it is Good Friday.  Thank God - for without Friday, Sunday is not possible. 

A Tribute to Eddie

My heart is grieved today for the loss of Eddie Strother. He will be laid to rest today after his memorial service at 11 am today in Longview, TX at New Life BC. 

Eddie was not only a member of our family through marriage to my father-in-law’s sister. He was a friend. He was someone I looked up to as a child. We went to the same church. I knew him for over 40 years. He was a gentle giant, small in stature but strong in character and faith. He was a black belt. He was a bus captain at our church. Most of all, he was a dedicated, devoted father to three children, Kim, Kristy, & Clint. All three had unique needs. Eddie always went the extra mile to care for them, even to the very end.  Now someone else will have to care for them for the remainder of their lives. Eddie has already made those arrangements too, knowing he would not be able to indefinitely. Those kids, now adults, will struggle. Their mom long gone. Their stepmom, likewise, gone. Now their dad, their lifelong caretaker, is gone too. Pray for them please. Pray for them often. They will need what only God can provide to fill the void that they’ve never lived without - until now. Growing up with these kids at the same church and school, they used to be the butt of many jokes; told by people who didn’t understand them or really know them. May they now be beckoned for to the Father, the God of all comfort and wisdom and provision. 

I admired Eddie Strother. I’m saddened by his loss through death’s door. I’m grieved for his adult children as I can only imagine the deep hurt they will now experience from loss of such a love of and for a father, their father. I wish I could’ve physically been their today to tell them that I love them and how much I thought of their dad.  He sacrificed. He loved. unconditionally. Now his race is complete and his rest is eternal. For that, I rejoice. I thank God for a life well lived, not a perfect life, but a devoted one dedicated to what was, and is, most important - family and faith. I will miss you Eddie Strother. Thank you for your life. I am one who was indelibly impacted. 

Adoption Story Beginnings: The Day That Changed Everything

Adoption Story Beginnings:  The Day That Changed Everything

April 20, 2004 - the day that changed everything.  The Woods' nest was empty.  The cubbard was bare.  There was only my wife and me.  Hurting.  Helpless.  Hoping.  Praying.  Half a year short of 10 years of marriage.  The twins were in heaven.  Discouragement reigned.  But hope was not lost.  God was working.  We were foster adopt trained and equipped; and ready to have our home filled with children.  The phone rang.  On the other end was a message; but not the message we were expecting.  A child was available; but not a foster to adopt child.  An emergency placement, temporary in nature, was needed.  We had a choice.  We didn't really want children in our home who would potentially be leaving in a day or a week or month or a year.  We wanted children to come to our home to live, to stay, to be ours, forever.  But the message regarding this child, Selena Ann Salazar, wasn't that.  She needed a place to stay for an indefinite and undetermined amount of time.  We had a choice.  No guarantee, just a choice.  A choice to say, "Yes, we'll take her" or "No, not at this time - you'll have to find another place."  Four months earlier, God had brought me to a place of healing from a wound that had left four year old scars.
Four years prior in March 2000, we had a little girl enter our home to live.  Kelly was her name.  Three months shy of four years old, her mother had just died of cancer.  Her aunt knew she needed a home; and she knew of our desire to have children.  So we took her in to our home.  No paperwork.  No training.  Just a home filled with love looking for a child to give it to.  And we gave it to Kelly...for three months.  Then she was gone.  In God's providence and wisdom, He took her from our home and allowed her to go back to a less than favorable situation.  But that's another story for another post.
This story is about the power of one decision.  Four months earlier from the day of that monumental phone call, God had brought me to a place of healing.  A place of surrender.  A place where I had to let go of the hurt and pain.  Pain wrought out of loss.  Loss of Kelly.  Loss of Jonathan and Jenny, our beloved twins who left this earth August 16, 2002.  Loss of any other chance to have biological children.  I never wanted children again in my home that I had to risk losing at any level for circumstances out of my control.  But that December 2003 day, God rocked my world.  He said (my summary), "John, you don't have the right to say no when I give you the opportunity to provide love and care and hope and help meet the needs of a child or children, whether that's for one day, one week, one month, or a year or longer.  Those children, the least of these, are My children; and they face greater risk than you've ever had to face.  You can't let pain from the past keep you from providing life-changing love, My love, to a child that I choose to bring into your home."  After that December encounter with God, wrought out of time spent that morning reading Psalm 37, I literally held up my hands in surrender and said,  "God, whatever You want and whatever You ask from me, I'll obey.  I'll do it.  Considering the risk You took for me so that I could be Your child, I will take the risk of showing any child Your love that You allow to come into my home for whatever period of time.  My call is to be faithful to answer Your call; and if You call me to take a risk for a child, temporarily or with permanence, I will do it."  I took my wife to lunch and told her I was ready to pursue foster adopt training.  We did; and we received the phone call on that April 20, 2004.  And we said YES.  Thirteen years ago today, we said YES. We had no guarantee of any timetable that Selena Ann Salazar would be with us.  All we knew was that a place of refuge was needed for this little three month old, ten pound girl; and we had a home to provide for her.  And so we said, YES.  Our lives would never be the same.  
The next day, April 21, 2004, we headed one hour west of Breckenridge to Abilene to pick up little Selena.  And we picked her up as an emergency placement; but God already knew that she was a permanent placement, forever chosen before the beginning of time by her Creator, to be a part of the Woods' family.  And on that same day, April 21, 2004, when we picked up little Selena, we also found out that we had been chosen to be the parents of Brandon and Bradley, who were already adoptable.  So Selena came to live with us on April 21, 2004, and six weeks later Brandon and Bradley would come to live with us on June 1.  
And so on that Spring day thirteen years ago today, my wife and I had a decision to make.  It would be a life-changing decision.  A decision that would change our family dynamic.  And more importantly, a decision that would change the family tree for Selena Ann Salazar (now Brenna Michelle Woods) and Brandon Leandro Walker (now Brandon Mark Woods) and Bradley Ray Walker (now Bradley Michael Woods). One decision.  A decision carrying with it innumerable blessings - a decision that would reap salvation on so many levels.  Salvation for Brenna from a lifestyle and life cycle and history of prostitution, drugs, and separation from God.  And salvation for Brenna through a personal relationship with Jesus Christ July 25, 2013. Salvation for my boys from a sexual predator/offender and drugs and abandonment.  Salvation through a personal encounter with Jesus for each on July 17, 2008. SALVATION - ALL made possible because of a decision made thirteen years and a day ago to say YES.  Yes to God.  Yes to Life.  Yes to Brenna.  Yes to the journey of parenthood. And yes to freedom from the cycle of death, devastation and darkness for all three.
Thank you, my heavenly Father, for your wisdom and guidance to help us make the right decision.  Thank you for the life you've given Brenna and the joy that she is and that she brings to our family.  And thank you for the healing you brought to my life and heart from the pain of devastating loss so that I'd be open to Your leading on April 20, 2004 to say Yes to Your plan for my family.  Give others courage, I pray, to be willing to trust You and take a risk to do what is right and best; even when it doesn't make sense.  Thank you for being faithful.  Thank you for your salvation.  Thank you for being My forever Father.  I love you.  - John            

The Day After Maggie

Writing is cathartic for me.  It's part of how I work through the grieving process when I'm hurting and struggling with pain.  Phillip Yancey and Dr. Henry Brand wrote a book called Pain: The Gift Nobody Wants.  I certainly don't want it.  I don't know many people who do, or even consider pain to be a gift.  I agree that it is; but that's a blog entry for another day.  I love to write.  It helps me.  So one of the best ways for me to process my grief and hurt was to write about it.  So I did.  And I will continue to.  As much as has been posted and written regarding Maggie, its hard to believe its only been 19 hours since her passing.  It has become surreal already.  I don't want to be or seem over dramatic about this; but I have to write about it.  The hurt doesn't go away in a day or a week or even a month or year.  Honestly, it probably never goes away.  Does time heal all wounds?  Nope.  For some wounds, its certainly can be better than with other wounds or scars.  The sting of losing a dog as a family member and family pet will certainly lessen with time.   I was telling my children last night how its been five and a half years since we made this very same decision with our first Chihuahua Daisy.  We still miss her.  We still love her.  We still share cherished memories and stories about Daisy.  The sting is not so sharp.  It's not so painful.  It has gotten better.  And I believe it will with Maggie too - in time.  But for now, the stab of pain is still very fresh from the loss.  

I went to bed last night and got up this morning early and did what I always do.  I looked in the laundry room.  I've done it for so long that its almost become inherent.  The doorway to the laundry room is two steps from the doorway to my bedroom, so I have to pass by it often every day.  And when I do, I look.  And when I look, I'll remember.  Sometimes it will bring smiles.  Sometimes it will bring tears.  Sometimes I'll pause and linger and reminisce, captured by the moment and the memories of what that tiny little room represents and brings to memory.  Life.  Love.  Loss.  Other times I'll zip by that room on a mission like its not even there.  But it is.  And whether its a lingering glance or an lengthy look; I'll never it see it the same again.  It's clean now.  No more mess.  The smell of Maggie still persists.  But that, too, will fade.  The mess has moved.  It's no longer in the laundry room.  It has made its way to my backyard in the form of a hole that now holds my lifeless pet.  It's a muddy mess.  And so is my heart.  A big muddy mess.  I stepped outside last night on the porch before bed - to think, to leave tears, and to let Maggie know I still loved her.  Yep - I was talking to my deceased dog.  I know she's not there.  I know she can't hear me.  Heck - she couldn't hear me for years before yesterday.  Talking to hear - it wasn't for her benefit.  It was for mine.  And as I made my way this morning past the room to feed and let my Golden outside, I did it again.  I walked outside again, this time out to the grave as raindrops fell from the sky.  Tears fell.  Heart still broken.  Words expressed into the gloomy morning.  Healing happening - slowly, surely in the serenity of that moment.  That process, or some form of it, will probably go on for a while.  In the evening.  In the morning.  Yep.  Life will go on.  It always does.  Good and bad, rain or shine, come hell or high water.  Life will go on.  There's no timeout because of my pain.  Time keeps on ticking. And so I must move on too.  It will be a new normal for my family and me.  One without Maggie but with the sweet memories of her.  In some sense, life will go on and seem like business as usual.  In another sense, it will never be the same.  But we'll adjust, ask for God's continued help and guiding hand to lead us through this valley that will soon pass by, and be better for it.  

As I read my tribute to Maggie to my family last night, I was impressed and encouraged at the life lessons and the probing questions that it invoked in and from my children.  Questions about life and death and eternity and God's hand in and through it all.  There are lessons to learn.  There's always truth to glean.  God never wastes a hurt.  I believe that.  And I don't believe he'll waste this one.  He's at work in the Woods' family - in my children, in my wife, and in me.  And I'm grateful at how He'll use this season of pain to make us more like Himself.  I pray that He does, knowing that nothing that passes through His hand does so by accident.  I'm thankful for that - because I'm gonna need a lot of help.  For our good and for His glory.  This first day after Maggie is Yours, Lord.  And so am I.  And I need Your help today.  And so does my family.  You are in control, and I (we) trust You.  Amen.                 

For the Love of a Dog - A Tribute to Maggie

It seems kind of silly, doesn't it?  People get worked up over pets like they're important.  They are just pets after all, aren't they?  Cats.  Dogs.  They come.  They go.  You get another one.  It's that simple, right?  If only it could be.  But even if it could be, would we really want it that way?  Would I really want it that way?  Is the love of a dog as a family pet really that big of a deal?  Considering my current emotional status as I pen this blog, the answer is a resounding YES.  As my wife would say, I'm a hot mess right now.  I have been since yesterday - and at moments over the past few months - when I realized that the time was drawing near to say goodbye to Maggie.  She's been our little chubby, playful, energetic, scarfing up her food Chihuahua family pet for over 18 years.  I got her for Jennifer on Valentine's Day in 1999 right after she was born on December 23, 1998.  We've had 18 Christmases with Maggie as our family pet.  Four years before Maggie we got Daisy, a Chihuahua that came from my MeMaw's last litter of Chihuahua puppies that she raised.  Daisy was with us for over 16 years until her health declined to the point that mercy and compassion was in her best interest.  And we let her go on July 1, 2011.  Maggie was still a spry, energetic 12 year old Chihuahua with a lot of spring in her step remaining.  Now, her spring and her step are gone - long gone.  All that's left of our little Maggie is fleeting breaths, blind, painful, struggling steps due to the wear and tear of many years of arthritis, atrocious breath, and sleep in her warm doggy bed.  No more barking at 5 a.m. at the laundry room gate because she's hungry and ready to be fed and go potty.  No more messes.  No more peeing on the floor.  No more getting stuck behind the laundry room door or the dryer.  No more falling over when trying to potty.  Nope.  No more. The time has come for mercy and compassion and tender love to be exhibited by her family.  And  today, January 17, 2017, is that day.  Honestly, I wish it weren't.  I know its the right, humane, decent thing to do.  I know its in Maggie's best interest.  But I hate it.  Because I love this little dog.  I love her with all my heart.  My wife and I have never known our married life without Daisy or Maggie.  Today that will end.     

My wife and I sat down with our four kids at the table last night to talk through the reality, rhyme, and reason of this decision.  It was hard - really hard.  We let the kids share their feelings and emotion.  It was real.  It was raw.  It was beautiful.  They've never known their 17, 15, 13 or 11 years respectively without Maggie in our home and in their life.  We went around the table.  Each shared their love for Maggie.  Things they said included, "I don't want her to suffer any more."  "I love her but I don't want her to be in pain any more."  "I will miss her a lot."  And in her thirteen year old maturity, Brenna said, "I've been praying for Maggie every night (to get better).  I know this is the right thing to do.  I don't want to give her up, but I know that I can't be selfish and have her for myself."  Wow.  All my kids love our pets.  Brenna loves pets with passion - especially dogs.  She has really struggled in recent days regarding Maggie and what was soon to be the inevitable.  She was the last one to speak at the table of the four kids; and what she shared brought her mom and I relief and thankfulness.  She demonstrated an attitude of selflessness instead of selfishness.  I am proud of her, and all my kids, for being so understanding during this hard time in our family's life.  You see...the truth is that Maggie was family.  Sounds odd to say, but this dog that I and our family loved for eighteen years was more than just a pet.  Before Jennifer and I had children of our own, we had Daisy and Maggie.  They were, in a sense, our children.  We loved them and cared for them as our own.  I will miss Maggie.  I will miss the times when she howled while Brandon was practicing his trumpet.  I will miss her attacking the vacuum each time it was turned on.  I will miss her bossiness that she demonstrated when Belle (our Golden Retriever) thought she was in charge.  I will miss her loud, persistent 5 a.m. wake-up barking calls from the laundry room announcing that she was ready to eat and use the restroom.  I will miss you traveling in the front seat sitting and sleeping next to me on the long journey to MawMaw's house as you did innumerable times before.  And on and on and on. I.  WILL.  MISS.  HER.   
And now, as I finish this blog, it's evening; and Maggie is gone.  She no longer resides in this house; but she will always be a part of this home.  I can still smell her scent on my hoodie from holding her close this afternoon. She passed on around 2:30 p.m. this afternoon at Hometown Animal Care.  The hardest part - letting her go, literally.  I couldn't believe how hard it was to literally hand Maggie from my arms to that of the vet technician.  I didn't want to let her go.  I wanted to kiss her and hold her close as long as  I could.  Because I loved her.  She was well loved.  She was a great family member; and she will be greatly and dearly missed.  She now rests cozily, peacefully in our backyard in front of the Oak tree with lots of shade.  No more pain.  No more struggling.  Sick and suffering no more.  She's at rest.  Kind of sounds like heaven, don't you think?  Now I don't know if there'll be dogs in heaven or not; but I do know this:  I would love for Maggie to be there.  That's God's business.  I told my youngest daughter Bethany this afternoon as she said her final goodbye to Maggie, "She's at rest now.  She's at peace.  And she's in God's hands."  And she is.  And when I wake up in the morning, the first morning in 18 + years without Maggie, I'm sure I'll peek in the laundry room expecting to see Maggie curled up quietly and comfortably in her bed or needing help getting out from behind the door.  She won't be there.  I'll be listening for your early morning bark.  I know it will be silent.  And the silence will scream, and tears will be shed.  And I'll remember again just how much I love you Maggie.  And I'll make my way to the backyard, and walk out to that Oak tree where Maggie is resting and smile; for I know it was her time.  She had a good life.  We the Woods' family gave her our best love for 18 years.  Thank you God for allowing Maggie to be ours for so long.  Its been our privilege and pleasure.  The memories are sweet and bittersweet.  And thank you Maggie for giving your best to us.  We are better for it, and we love you.   
Love, John, Jennifer, Brandon, Bradley, Brenna, and Bethany