Happy Birthday, Mom.

I'm a man of words, both in vocation and avocation. I'm not saying that they are good words that get blended into sentences and paragraphs, but I write every week some 2000 words, plus or minus 10%. As Ray Mickan would say if someone complained about his price and wanting a discount, "Give 'em the up 20, off 10 price, Jon." So, beware complaining about the length of this piece. Since every book, article or sermon is just the dictionary reorganized, there is always something more to say.

But tonight, the words are like honey left outside in February, unwanting to flow, unwanting to lend sweetness, unwanting to flavor that which is beneath the surface. The words are congealed into a mass of silence. 

The silence rests in the threshold of tomorrow, as dawn hides from the eastern skyline, a future not promised yet hoped for, hoped for yet not quite like yesterday's tomorrow (which is today, for those keeping track), a future slightly less bright than just twenty three days ago. Twenty four days ago, I could tell myself that I would call Mom tomorrow. Twenty four days ago, I could expect a text asking about the weather, or our son, or the dog. Twenty four days ago, she would have told me about looking forward to seeing our daughter in just a few weeks for spring break. 

Twenty three days ago, today, the future hope of a phone call, or a text, or a visit was broken. Mom died, twenty four days shy of her 79th birthday tomorrow, March 5. 

When I was a kid, Mom let us watch The Muppet Show. "Its time to face the music," they sang," Fozzie, Kermit, Miss Piggie, et.al., joining Rolph on the piano. There were several Muppet movies as well. I think it was the first one, the OG, when, sitting around the campfire, Gonzo - in his sad, melancholy tone - sang:

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,

Almost unreal, yet, it's too soon to feel yet.

Close to my soul, and yet so far away.

I'm going to go back there someday.

Thats how I feel tonight, facing the music of parents gone. The death of a loved one is sadly familiar. We lost Dad almost 26 years ago, burying him a hundred yards from his bedroom window. Now, Mom, buried next to her husband, but 480 miles from my bedroom window. Close to my soul, yet so far away, indeed... 

In my vocation, I read and hear a lot of drivel people say and write about their loved ones who have died. "Pop is up there, fishing and drinking beer," or "Grannie is probably teaching Mary and Martha the right way to welcome a guest into a home, with sweet tea and butter cookies." Its romantic poppycock, mostly, written to try to soothe the ache, pretending that our idea of happiness or peace is what they are experiencing.

I'll be danged if I don't find myself wanting to do the same tonight. Thankfully, our theologian Gonzo does it so I dont have to embarrass myself:

Come and go with me, it's more fun to share,

We'll both be completely at home in midair.

We're flyin', not walkin', on featherless wings.

We can hold onto love like invisible strings.

It doesn't work that way, does it? At least, not the way Gonzo wants it to work. Oh, I know there will be a day of reunion, when we'll meet in midair when Jesus returns, neither flying nor walking but simply rejoicing and thanking God for the new birth that is ours in the new creation, the recreation, of all that was good and holy before the forbidden fruity crunch. 

I know that, and truly, I believe it. 

But tonight, just for tonight, Gonzo sings for me. Yeah, he lacks the weight of Paul and the hope of Isaiah and the confidence of Mary, but his sad, mournful tone fits me to a T. Much like the letter that Johnny Walker read - thank you, Asleep at the Wheel - with salubrious outpouring of empathy, the words hit hard tonight:

There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met.

Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?

You can just visit, but I plan to stay.

I'm going to go back there someday.

I'm going to go back there someday.

While cleaning out her office, I found a stack of printed pages. Looking through them, they looked rather familiar: copies of things I had written, church newsletter articles, blog posts, sermons, even a few poems and stories, all stacked ad though saving them for posterity. I left them there, in her office, unwilling to throw away what she saved but also proud that she thought them worth saving. 

If she were to see this, she would probably read it and with her gentle, exasperated tone say, "Now, Jon, why did you go and write that..." To which I might sing with Gonzo:

Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.

Is that a song there, and do I belong there?

I've never been there, but I know the way.

I'm going to go back there someday.

I don't know when I'll next see your graveside, Mom. It may be a while. I'll go back there, someday. 

But just in case something happens, and I don't make it, we'll see each other soon enough somewhere between heaven and space. 

Until then, happy birthday, Mom. Thanks for everything. We love and miss you. And  *Theological drivel warning* Give Dad a hug for me. 

Always, your son,

Jon

I'm Going to Go Back There Someday https://share.google/Qqk9qLEYcHeZPcwDY