Paul Chambers

I was talking with a dear friend the other day about something father O talked of very much. beloved John said the greatest privilege in life was to lead someone to to die well. he often told a very moving story of how he led a dear lady to the other shore, the other side – always lamenting, in that intoxicating accent of his, that there were plenty of midwives who help us into this world, but there are very few who help us into the next.

it reminded me of a beautiful story of another broken giant i was lucky enough to call friend… i miss them both

am guessing heaven smells of fire water and cigars…

         Every month Daryl’s youth group went to Beverly Manor to put on a church service for old people who lived there. Daryl didn’t like to go, but he felt obligated. That’s what Jesus would do, Daryl thought, even though Jesus didn’t have old-folks homes in his day. Lucky him!

Though Daryl had gone to five services at the Manor, he never really did anything. He just stood at the back of the room and held the hand of an old man. The man’s name was Oliver, and he seldom spoke. He must have been in his late eighties or nineties. Most of the time he slept through the service. Daryl liked the old guy, though. He used to wake him up and talk to him, even though Oliver never seemed like he was listening. When Daryl would get ready to leave, though, Oliver seemed to know and would squeeze Daryl’s hand. Daryl never told anyone about this, but each time he started to leave and felt Oliver squeeze his hand, he would lean down and whisper in his ear, “I’m sorry, Oliver, I have to go; but I love you and I’ll be back next month. I promise,”

On the sixth visit to the Manor, Daryl was looking forward to seeing Oliver again. But Oliver wasn’t around. As the service began, Daryl became concerned. He said to the head nurse, “I don’t see Oliver here today. is he okay?”

The nurse asked Daryl to follow her to Room 13, where Oliver lay in bed, looking frail and near death. Oliver’s eyes were closed and his breathing irregular. Daryl walked over and grabbed Oliver’s hand. He had never seen anyone dying before, and he had a difficult time holding back the tears. Daryl sat with Oliver for an hour. When daryl started to leave, he knew he might not see Oliver again. Oliver squeezed his hand. Oliver knew, too. Daryl said what he always said: “I’m sorry, Oliver, I have to go, but I love you.”

When Daryl walked out of the room, a young woman was standing there waiting for him. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Oliver’s granddaughter. he’s dying you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Daryl said.

“I wanted to meet you,” she said. “See I came to see my grandfather when the doctors said he was dying. They said he couldn’t talk, but he could always talk to me. Last week he woke up and said to me, ‘Please say goodbye to Jesus for me.’ I told him he would be with Jesus soon. he looked at me with the most alert eyes I’ve ever seen and said, “I know, but he comes to see me every month, and he might not know I’ve gone.’ I asked the nurse if she had any idea what he meant, and she told me that you came once a month and held his hand. I wanted to thank you for him…and me – and, well, I imagine Jesus is very glad to have been mistaken for you.”

Oliver died in his sleep that evening

Mother Teresa once said: We can do no great things, only small things with great love.

I did not have to ask my heart what it wanted

because of all the desires I have ever known,

just one did I cling to for it is the essence of all desire;

to know beauty.

a little boy used to visit his granddad….this was the doorway to magic….at the top of a winding staircase was a wardrobe, a wardrobe so big he would lose himself in it.  i don’t know where the witch came from, who cares, but the boys name was Lewis….CS Lewis

magical kingdoms seemed so effortless when we were kids, but now?

how do you pick up the threads of an old life?

how do you go on, when in your heart

there are some things that time cannot mend?

some hurts go too deep….

Sometimes things grow so dark there is no warmth in the sun…and i fear i have nothing to give, and i have so much to lose here in this lonely place called 4.00am…

still looking for the sails…..came across this, one of the many reasons my soul cannot find peace in the early hours of this morning…

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn’t supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it’s harder every time. You’ll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You’ll fight with your best friend. You’ll blame a new love for things an old one did. You’ll cry because time is passing too fast, and you’ll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you’ve never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you’ll never get back. Don’t be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin. 
~anonymous~

A rabbi once asked his students how they could tell when night had ended and day was on its way back.

‘Is it when you can see an animal in the distance, and can tell whether it is a sheep or a dog?’

‘No,’ answered the rabbi.

‘Is it when you can look at a tree in the distance, and tell whether it is a fig tree or a pear tree?’

‘No.’

‘Well then,’ the students demanded, ‘when is it?’

‘It is when you look into the face of another human being, and see that he or she is your brother or sister. Because if you cannot do that, then no matter what the time is, it is still night.’

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

My Granddad was my delight and…

Seventeen years ago today we lost him.
A presence bigger and more full led him by the hand
to a different world.
‘Bid your troubled hearts be still’ we were told.
Meant well, but the void was too wide, the loss too deep.
His company was gone
My granddad finally could fight no longer and slipped 
into a land where the grass, they say, is soft and green,
and the trees are tall and honey-filled.

The tears fell and fell and fell.
They fall now as I remember him with such affection.
His warmth and strength was infectious and so reassuring,
his faith so steadfast that I still reel back, it humbles
me so.
For years he hacked out the coal faces of South Yorkshire, 
deep under ground with his bare hands.
Hands that were big and strong,
even in my later years as an adult mine were dwarfed
when he held them.

Then there was the playful mischievous side to Rex Chambers.
My father told me that he once emptied a carriage of a train
bound for Boscombe, convinced that it indeed wasn’t, 
only to realise his mistake but to be too embarrassed 
to admit to his error of judgement and so leave the majority
of the train bound for Middlesbrough instead!

Long before my time I have been told of occasions 
where on holiday with the extended family
he would disappear without explanation for quite some time,
only to return to the beach with a supercilious grin on his face,
armed to the hilt with fish and chips for everyone…

I won’t go into his cooking experiments with ingredients 
such as pigs trotters, bulls testicles and sheep’s brain!
I remember the man who worked from the early hours of the morning
until he fell asleep in his chair late at night.
I remember the man who could barely breath when he walked 5 yards
later in years having breathed in so much coal dust from the pit.
I remember the tears of frustration when he knew 
his once strong body was beginning to really fail him.
I remember the man who on his deathbed asked his sister to 
‘sing with him a while’ – the old rugged cross if my memory serves me well.

I remember a warm and strong man,
A trickster who enjoyed colouring outside the lines
And seventeen years ago today we said ‘see you soon lovely man,
see you soon…

It’s enough to drive a man crazy; it’ll break a man’s faith
It’s enough to make him wonder if he’s ever been sane 
When he’s bleating for comfort from Thy staff and Thy rod 
And the heaven’s only answer is the silence of God 

It’ll shake a man’s timbers when he loses his heart 
When he has to remember what broke him apart 
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not 
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God 

And if a man has got to listen to the voices of the mob 
Who are reeling in the throes of all the happiness they’ve got 
When they tell you all their troubles have been nailed up to that cross
Then what about the times when even followers get lost? 
‘Cause we all get lost sometimes… 

There’s a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll 
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold 
And He’s kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone 
All His friends are sleeping and He’s weeping all alone 

And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot 
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought 
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God 
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not 
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not 
In the holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God 
(Andrew Peterson from the album ‘Love and Thunder’)