August 31, 2011

It was the final day of August, 2011. Chris and Laura were proud of how lightly they had packed, but the 1995 Ford Explorer was stuffed. There was scarcely room to toss in dog beds and a pair of small dachshunds to ride along to the kennel. While the two ladies were still in the house, I stood in the garage and looked at the car and thought about this day. When her older sister had left for college four years earlier I first ran the numbers. What had once seemed an infinite number of nights to share with younger daughter Christina had then been whittled down to 1,460. It wasn’t as if I was still reading her a bedtime story or sharing a bedtime prayer each night, but a sad and maybe even urgent feeling came over me when the number of nights started to be countable. It wasn’t long until it was 365 nights and then 30 nights and finally…zero. We were driving Chris off to start her college education at the University of Minnesota–Duluth. Even with the car packed and waiting, Chris didn’t really get out of bed until 9 a.m. I wondered if it was just her late-night summer routine still in effect, or if there was a bit of lingering in the familiar bed of her youth. Maybe she subconsciously cherished another few minutes before a day that would mark growing up. I gave her a hug when I saw her. She was beautiful–her warm smile flickered and her flowing wavy brown hair was pinned up wildly. Chris had grown into a lovely young woman, inside and out, and I noted how she fit perfectly under my arm as I wrapped it around her. There were no tears or regrets in her eyes as we packed the last things and started down the road. Laura and I would be back in two days. It would be a lot longer for Chris.

Lunch turned out to be the most emotional time for me. We drove to Edina in the Minneapolis suburbs to pick up big sister Elizabeth at her new job in a large engineering firm. It had been less than two weeks since she started work, and Laura and I were immensely proud of her. Elizabeth had gone from unemployed college graduate with multiple odd jobs to choosing between two full-time offers with benefits. I had heard other parents talk about the pride they felt when their kids found work after college, but this was an unexpected feeling for me. Elizabeth had only weeks before moved into a downtown apartment and disappeared from daily view. On receiving our text message that the car was full, she agreed to meet us in her work parking lot. When she rounded the corner alone in her car, I couldn’t help but break into a smile. When I opened the car door and saw her sitting there in her business clothes, lovely blond hair, earrings, nail polish, twinkling eyes, I just laughed and gave her a kiss. I suddenly found myself short of words. We drove to a local restaurant and sat down in a booth surrounded by hustle and bustle. Somewhere in the moments while we waited for the meal to be served I felt that feeling when it is suddenly hard to swallow, and I was glad I wasn’t trying to speak. I just looked across the table and saw two beautiful young women smiling and laughing and glowing with joy. I looked to my left and saw the young lady with whom I had once fallen in love, now beautiful and radiant in her own middle age, also laughing. Each of these women had blessed me beyond my wildest dreams or hopes and beyond anything a man could ever deserve. Each had accepted my love at the same time that each taught me how to love.

Each had become the very story of my life.

The emptiness that would be left by losing any of them was unfathomable. I realized that this was the last lunch we’d ever really have as the family we had been for the past 18 years. With those thoughts, though I kept them to myself, the lunch took on a deeply poignant feeling. I almost experienced the time as if I were watching it in a movie. We dropped off Elizabeth at work and I hugged her and watched her walk back into her office. This was meant to be a very emotional trip.

The last dinner with Christina was in a quiet Duluth restaurant. The last evening with her in our hotel was punctuated by constant repeats of the Duluth harbor foghorn. Her last morning with us was spent rolling carts of possessions, then negotiating with a new roommate, then previewing college classroom locations, then connecting technology, then glancing at our watches, then sharing hugs. The tears finally got the better of Laura who had come to realize that her younger daughter had also become her best friend.

Many of the essays in this collection were written about my girls, and all of them were written for my girls. Laura and I now live alone (except for Geordie and Rupert and Kyle the bunny). We cleaned two empty bedrooms and shut off air conditioning vents into spaces where nobody sleeps. Sinks and showers now stay clean. Nobody comes and goes after 11 PM.

I miss our girls terribly already.

I couldn’t be prouder of them. I pray for them constantly. I’m still trying to hold onto them as I let them go. I feel them with me when I hug Laura.

When I look into Laura’s eyes I see them there too.

I’ve anticipated these days for years, with joy, with dread, with pride, with tears, with thanksgiving. Now I know why.

Ricky Topp

Ricky Topp was a childhood friend of mine. We grew up together and got in trouble together a few times. We went our separate ways, but would see each other at high school reunions and always shared a hug and some kind words.

Ricky Topp died this weekend. He was 50 just like me.

During his struggles with brain cancer I prayed for him. One year ago I wrote him a letter. In some ways it was very personal, just for Rick. In other ways it is the letter that I want to write to every person I have ever met. That's why I've decided to share the letter here, with greatest respect and appreciation for the life of Ricky Topp, and thanksgiving for how his life and death bring focus to the most important questions we will ever ask.



Rick Topp, 5747 Roosevelt St. Middleton, WI 53562

August, 2010

Hey Rick-

It was nice to see you at the reunion last summer, and then to be able to talk to you on the cell phone from McDermid’s driveway this summer. You know I appreciated your honesty at the reunion, and you were one of the people who touched me by sharing some of the hard things along with the good stuff. People pretend too much. I saw some tears at the reunion, and they were real.

I was sorry to hear from Jon about your surgery and treatments. I’ve never had brain surgery but have had 3 cancer surgeries and chemo and radiation three times over the years, including radiation to my head and a big bald spot to prove it. My cancer is not cured but I am living with it. It is no picnic and I understand that.

I am enclosing a separate letter. That may seem weird, but I wanted to do it that way. You don’t need to open the separate letter now, though you can whenever you want.

When people face cancer, it can be an important thing because it reminds us that this life doesn’t last forever. From the moment we are born we are in the process of dying. Some die too young, some die too old, but we all will die. I will, you will. We pray for each other to live longer and get better, but in the end there will be an end.

I think you know that I am a Christian. I became a Christian when we were juniors in high school. Choosing to be a Christian has changed my whole life.

Some people are ready to die and are not afraid of what they will say when they meet God at the moment of death. Maybe you are one of those people. If so, then I am very happy for you and we’ll leave it that I will continue to pray for your recovery so you can live a long and happy life before you do meet him. You don’t need the other letter.

But maybe you are one of the many people who aren’t so sure what they are going to say when they meet God at death. Maybe you have doubts about heaven and how to relate to God now and when we meet him. If you have doubts or fears, that is why I wrote the letter in the other envelope. If you get to that point of fear or concern about the future, read it. I wrote it because I love you. Even though we’ve been separated by many years and by many miles, we grew up together and I care about you.


Jim Maher

==============================================

separate envelope:

Rick, most people think they can earn their way to heaven by being good. I hear it all the time. That’s not what the Bible teaches, but it’s what most people think. “If I follow the golden rule, or try to do my best, I can live with God forever.” “Bad” people go to hell, right?

I was amazed to find that Jesus taught something very different, and the New Testament makes it clear. Nobody is good enough to go to heaven. NOBODY. Wow. Saint Paul writes in the Bible (Romans 3:23) “There is nobody who is righteous, not even one. For all have sinned and fall short of God’s glory.” He writes in Romans 6:23 “For what we deserve is death, but the GIFT of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ.” What is that all about?

The Bible teaches that God is perfectly good, and he has planned a way to live with us forever, but it requires that we become perfectly good too. That is impossible for us to achieve by trying. God proved it by giving us the 10 commandments, and all of us have broken many of them many times. If breaking even one of them once makes us imperfect, then we’re hosed and none of us can get to heaven.

No, God made a plan so that we can be perfect and holy like him. We can have this forgiveness and perfection even though we are bumbling sinful humans. We can meet God now, and we can meet him in heaven someday, and we can be confident that we will be accepted. How? Not because we deserve it or are “good enough.” No, it is because we can receive God’s forgiveness as a gift.

The Bible teaches that Jesus didn’t suffer and die on the cross by accident or because of a tragedy. Jesus was God on earth, and he died on purpose for you and for me. He died as a perfect sacrifice in my place and in your place. He died on the cross to receive the punishment that you and I deserve. He took God’s punishment in our place, his one perfect life paying the price for all the imperfect lives that have ever been lived. John 3:16 in the Bible (what you see at football games) says that “God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that whoever believes in him would not die, but have everlasting life.”

So what do we have to do to be forgiven and receive this gift? The Bible says that it isn’t automatic, but we just have to ask. I did it when I was a junior in high school. If you haven’t done it yet, you can do it right now, and then learn more by beginning to read the Bible (try starting with the book of John in the New Testament). You can pray a simple prayer just by talking to God. I think I prayed something like “God, I know now that I could never be good enough to live with you in heaven. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m sorry that I have fallen so far short of your commands. But I am so happy that I now understand that you made a way for me to be forgiven forever so I can live with you in my heart now and live with you in heaven forever. I accept the gift of Jesus Christ, and his death for me on the cross. Lord Jesus, come into my heart as my savior and my Lord.”

Rick, if you have questions about that, or if you decide to pray that prayer, feel free to call me to tell me. I’m at 507-261-0345.

Your friend, Jim Maher




In fondest memory of my friend, Ricky Topp
8.20.11

Genuine

Transparency. It’s an easy word to say. It’s a hard word to live. One of the greatest threats to Christianity in general, and to marriage in particular, is the hypocrisy that comes from pretending one thing when we know something else is true. Transparency and integrity are opposites of hypocrisy. Admitting the truth about our lives, our motivations, our sins, and our victories, begins the endless process of sanctification—being made holy, step by step.

Laura and I have been married for 28 years. The quest for transparency is a theme of our marriage.

Some years ago we lived in a different city and were part of a small group Bible study with several other couples from that church. We did our best to be honest about our joys and struggles, and presumed the same from the other couples. We were therefore stunned to learn several years later that one of the couples had split, and that they had been privately dealing with an issue of infidelity all during the time we had been meeting together. Rather than share the issue and allow us to pray and assist, they had chosen to wear the mask of marital perfection, preferring pride to humility. This revelation frustrated and angered us. Life is too short to play games with each other. Isn’t this real life we’re living? Isn’t our faith about real life? Doesn’t Jesus Christ know the truth about us anyway? Doesn’t a relationship with Christ mean forgiveness, openness, and real power for real living? Because of this experience, Laura and I committed ourselves to being transparent and modeling transparency to others whenever we are in relationships and small groups seeking spiritual maturity.

Are Laura and I perfect in our transparency? No. We still suffer from pride. We would prefer that people believe our marriage to be flawless and unchallenged. We need grace to model humility and transparency to friends, even to our daughters…especially to our daughters.

Transparency can require discretion. Telling the truth is important, but sharing sensitive struggles and challenges may require one or a few confidential partners willing to provide accountability and loving perspective. We have found that such partners need not even be in our own church fellowship. It can be freeing to share struggles with a loving friend or advisor or mentor who is far removed from our situation. Their prayers and counsel can make transparency possible even in the most challenging matters.

So let us be the kind of church that encourages honesty in all things. Let our marriages model this kind of transparency, through God’s grace.


Reprinted from Autumn Ridge Church Ridgelines, summer, 2011

Dad

My dad turns 78 later this year. He and my mom made the trip from Madison to Rochester this weekend. They accepted our invitation to attend the combined graduation celebrations for their two granddaughters who have now finished high school and college. I had several opportunities to watch my father from across the table or across the room. As I looked into his blue eyes and listened to his kind words, I found myself reflecting on memories that had left permanent marks on my life. These are among the countless ways that my dad will forever be part of me, besides the DNA segments he left in every one of my cells.

My dad taught me to make models. Plastic or balsa wood, cars or airplanes, modern or vintage, he showed me what I needed to know. Dad had grown up on a farm and learned to fly light planes. He was good at teaching. Two model memories have stuck with me all these years. As a young boy, my dad bought me a model car. It was a metal model of a classic Ford convertible. There were plenty of parts and long instructions. It seemed daunting for a little kid like me. Even more amazing, the kit called for the parts to be assembled once to assure that everything fit and was accounted for, then the kit was disassembled and the parts were painted and put back together again. This was my first memorable lesson in patience. After supper we would spend time together on the model. Even when we had it together, I understood that all the screws were coming back out and the pieces were returned to the table for painting. When the car was finally done, it was beautiful. That model became an object lesson—doing something right may mean starting over, sometimes on purpose.

It was another model that taught me a different life lesson, and it was again my dad who was responsible. I was older and working alone in the basement on a large model glider, gluing wing spars and ribs over flat plans covered with saran wrap. After hours of work on one large wing I experienced that sinking feeling when I realized that I had used a thin balsa strip for the leading edge. The plans called for a thicker, sturdier wood piece but I missed that detail. Every one of the two dozen ribs was now improperly glued in place. I stared at the error. Eventually I called my dad to come downstairs and I confessed the problem. He looked at the wing and he looked at the plan and he looked at me.

“The wing will probably hold up alright even with the wrong piece. Nobody else will probably ever be able to figure out that there is a problem” he said. “But you will always know that there was a mistake and it could have been done better.”

There was no accusation or shaming in his words—just the observations of a wise father. When he had walked back up the basement stairs, I picked up my X-ACTO knife and carefully trimmed away all the glue, spending another hour replacing the leading edge strip with the proper strong wood piece.

I have told that story dozens of times to PhD students through the years.

As I watched my dad across the room at the busy graduation reception, I sensed that he felt out of place. He knew practically nobody in the house. I wanted to stroll over and talk with him, but I was surrounded by my friends and the parents of my daughter’s classmates. I contented myself with glancing at my dad every few minutes.

It reminded me of a memory from many years before when I had been able to observe my dad without him knowing it. Dad’s career was as a geology professor at the University of Wisconsin- Madison. When I decided to attend college there, I knew that my biology major would probably never make me a student in one of my dad’s classes. In spite of that, my curiosity ended up getting the better of me. Early in my second year I decided to sneak into one of dad’s lectures to see what it was like. Dad taught an introductory geology course (he jokingly called it “rocks for jocks”) and there were probably 200 students in the lecture hall. This gave me good cover, and I snuck in and sat in back. For the next 50 minutes I was completely stunned. My mild-mannered and quiet father was an entirely different character in front of an undergraduate class. He was quick-witted, dramatic, funny, probing, engaging—a dynamo on a stage. In fact, he was a ham. At one point in the lecture I found myself sliding down in my seat, wanting to be sure that he didn’t see me in the back. I had the terrible feeling that the magic would end if he found that he was being watched by a spy from his own family.

I never thought about my dad the same way after that day I saw him teach. I came to realize that he had a gift, probably from his mother’s side, and he had shared that gift with us kids. I often find myself thinking of him in those quiet moments just before I deliver a lecture or an invited presentation.

A poignant and meaningful echo of this stealth lecture experience came years later when the three of us kids learned that dad was retiring and would be delivering the very last college lecture of his career. We drove to Madison from different locations across the country, and agreed not to let dad know that we would attend the lecture. It was the same hall where I had snuck in to watch my father teach many years before. My brother and sister joined me outside the room, knowing that my dad would pass by before class began. We talked about our childhood memories, and we tried not to appear too out of place among the waiting students with ipods and cell phones. It was well worth the trip when we saw my dad’s eyes open wide in amazement as we stood up to hug him in the hall before class. He had no idea we were going to attend. We sat in back of the crowded lecture and listened to dad go over the review material for the final exam. At one point in the class he climbed up to stand on top of the lecture table to make a point. My sister gave me a glance of disbelief, but I just winked to her—I had seen this kind of behavior once before, a long time ago. Near the end of the lecture my dad paused and looked out at the hall full of students. To them it probably seemed like just one more in an endless series of college classes at a major state university.

“Before we finish, I wanted to take a moment to thank my three children for coming to surprise me today.” He gestured in our direction. “It means a great deal to me that they are here, because this is my very last lecture before retirement.”

As the students looked in our direction, my first instinct was to slide down in my seat, as I had done once years before, not wanting to be detected. Instead, I smiled proudly as the class broke into applause for my father.

My dad and mom waved as they drove out of the driveway after the graduation party this weekend. He’ll be 78 this winter. In some ways we spend precious little time together.

In other ways I realize that we’re never really apart.

5.30.11