Death,
that
elusive enemy,
that greedy grabber,
has taken a dear old friend.
Saturday I
received an email from Dick Matthews (so I thought). The title of the email was
I fought the
fight, I finished the race!
The message
written by his son Jim
told the story of the journey to his final breath.
“In a room filled with love for him,
with
singing and prayers,
he finished the race with dignity and peace.”
Let me tell you about the man whom I called Dad. He was a father to the fatherless, a comforter
to the wounded, a giant who gave of himself to help others. He and his wife have touched the lives of many, many people.
My encounter with him began in 1975. I was attending a small Bible College
and he was on the faculty. I had bottled-up
grief from the death of my mom, was headed toward estrangement with my father
and step-mother; I assumed with an unacknowledged arrogance that I was “just
fine”. One day he called me into his
office and began to gently probe, asking honest questions. The howling pain in response to a few simple
questions made it apparent to both of us that Things Were Not Okay.
So began
the work of opening scabbed-over wounds, clearing through the debris of myths
and the pus of wrong-thinking. Gently, so
gently he ministered to my spirit. With great care he inflicted pain, working
slowly to remove the infected parts and clean up the areas surrounding them. He
prayed, he ranted, he explained, he cried – in short, he was both a surgeon
wielding the knife and a chaplain holding my hand.
Dick and
Mary (Dad and Mom) invited me to live in their home after my year of studies
was completed. Only God knows what I was
protected from by having a Dad and Mom to come home to, instead of being a 19
year old girl on my own in LA. That year
living with the Matthews was like a super-vitamin D treatment for the soul. The daily drizzle of their love, the solid
comfort of living in a tension-free home, the sore stomach muscles from deep
belly laughter around the dinner table – all of this gave me a security and
stability which helped to shape the course of my life. I grew and flourished in the rich nourishing
culture of family life.
I had the
perfect opportunity to witness those snarky interactions that take place in the
privacy of the home; except that Dad and Mom were extremely deficient in
snarkiness. My antennae were up for
signs of disingenuousness, especially in their interactions with their own children. Their son and three daughters love them and
to this day are loyal and devoted. One
tradition I’ve always admired is their annual vacation together with their
grown kids. In the midst of Christian
ministry they worked at keeping their family priorities.
At some
undefined point our relationship developed to dear, old friends. With the advent of email, we took up the loose
ends of friendship and began knitting, so to speak. He would send his son’s powerful writing; I
responded. I sent one of my son’s essays;
he responded. He mailed me his
autobiography; I sent him weekly emails. We shared photos. He encouraged me, sent me quotes, and asked me
questions. I have a folder full of these
lovely traces of our friendship, pieces of the quilt we were knitting. Dad had a phrase that he loved to repeat: “Lord,
have mercy.” Kyrie
eleison. God's mercy has indeed been manifest throughout his life.
Christ’s resurrection
heralded
an eternal rest
both for the spirit
and for the body.
On that day we shall
rest and see,
see and love,
love and praise—
for this is to be
the end without the
end
of all our living,
that Kingdom without
end,
the real goal of our
present life.
~ Augustine
I will praise my dear Redeemer,
His triumphant pow'r I'll tell,
How the victory He giveth
Over sin, and death, and hell.
~ James McGranahan
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