Distracted Mind

The original bad boy of the Reformation, Martin Luther, had a saying: “Sin Boldly.” Strange saying for one of the founders of the Protestant movement, but it’s a good one. Sin like you mean it and repent because your soul depends on it. Don’t do anything half-assed and don’t be safe.

This doesn’t just apply to sin–it applies to everything in life. Live large, take chances and don’t be afraid to stand up for what’s right. Being wrong is ok too, just be ready to change when you realize you’ve erred. Don’t confuse this with the John Wayne type of “Make my Day” macho christianity James Dobson and his ilk are trying to sell though–this is eyes open, fully conscious spirituality that’s not afraid to admit mistakes.

The Evangelical Lutheran church is doing this today, addressing the roles of homosexual christians in the church. They’re not traveling unexplored territory–the United Church of Christ has accepted homosexual christians for a long time and the Episcopalians have done so for years as well. What they are doing is bucking the increasing trend of hatred and bigotry within christianity. They’re finally welcoming people who were born different, want the same things out of life and want to worship God. That seems like a natural step, but sadly it isn’t one that the church has been brave enough to take until now.

I can’t tell you how many times the church has voted against accepting homosexual members as they are, in committed relationships. They were afraid of the outrage (cue pearl clutching) of their more “conservative” membership. They hurt a lot of people and alienated a lot of christians in their continuing decision to reject gays and lesbians from the clergy and from being “real” Lutherans. I can tell you that the ELCA’s continuing decision wounded my own family considerably and turned my own sister away from the church and from christianity. It also had a very large part in my boycott of organized religion.

I’ve thought for a long time that the ELCA has drifted far away from Luther’s original proclamation to sin boldly.
Luther was not one to shrink from adversity — he stood up to the Catholic Church, left a monastic life for brave new territory as a heretic, and married Katherine. Katherine was no wallflower either: she repeatedly ran away from convent life, once running away in a herring barrel with several other sister nuns, getting the hell out of a life she didn’t want. These were the founders of the church that would eventually play it safe? I wish I could have been there for the vote (which took place on my sister’s birthday, coincidentally), just to stand up and holler “What took you so long?” The ELCA played it safe for too long–at least they finally woke up.

Neither Martin nor Katherine lived safe lives. They took risks, and the risks weren’t always calculated. I look at both of them as true heroes, albeit deeply flawed ones, like every other human being. They believed that living, really living, is not always safe. Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t glamorous and the consequences ain’t always pretty, but at least you can take solace in knowing that what your beliefs aren’t being compromised.

The thing that I admire about Luther, in spite of his many flaws, is that he played David to the Catholic church’s Goliath. He nailed those proclamations to the cathedral door, knowing that he would be branded a heretic. That wasn’t a light weight charge in those days–it could have meant his death. Luther did it anyway, taking organized christianity and setting it on its side. The ELCA is doing that again, even in the face of a schism within the denomination. Just as Christ accepted people from all walks of life, so will the ELCA. If they keep going in this direction, the ELCA might persuade me to go back to a Lutheran church on Sundays. For now, I’ll just say it again: it’s about damn time.

So my last post was a few months ago–my father was starting to turn around, things were looking lighter. Too bad the light went out.

My dad died two days later, on March 20th. I got a call from my brother on the 19th saying that my father’s health off the ventilator was going south. Because he had a “Do Not Resuscitate” order, we didn’t take any heroic actions to keep him alive. Instead, the doctors taped a magnet over his defibrillator, took him off all medication except a few painkillers that eased his suffering. They kept him off the ventilator, made him comfortable, and we waited for the inevitable.

It was strange, watching my dad slip away. He had gone from the stern, quiet Scots-Irishman that I knew to a frail, shaking impersonation of my father. Still, when they took him off of the vent and all the other drugs, we saw glimmers of the old Dad. At one point, he shakily pulled my sister and me down to his level and whispered as loud as he could “Where did you guys find this joint?” It was as if he thought we had hoodwinked him into going to some seedy bar! Later on, when my mom, my aunt and uncle and my brother and his wife were sitting around talking in the hospice room about how my parents met and became engaged, my father woke up just in time to remind everyone exactly how much my mother’s engagement ring cost. It may have been the last time he was conscious.

I wasn’t there when he passed–it was at night, after I had taken the kids back to my parents’ house to sleep. My mother, my father’s brother and his wife, and my brother and his wife were all there. They said it was peaceful. I was there, however, for the following days of preparation, planning and grieving. It’s weird–I think the biggest emotion I felt the entire time was anger. Anger that my daughter would have to have her fifth birthday the day before her grandpa’s funeral, anger that I was so sick that I couldn’t sleep for all the coughing, angry at certain family members for letting my dad go on in his condition without considering his wishes. I was just a big seething bucket of pissiness. Tears didn’t really come until a lot later.

Really, the whole thing was surreal. Planning the funeral at the funeral home, finding out the different options for burial/cremation, having to go through all his old photos to find just the right ones to display at the wake (and it was a dry wake… damn Lutherans!). There are so many ways to spend money on a dead person and not many of them make much sense!

The viewing was, in a word, interesting. I’m not a fan of open caskets. With as frail as my father had been, combined with the wait for the viewing, it was something that will stay with me much longer than I’ll ever want. All I can say is that when I die I want music, booze and a box of my ashes spread over the Wicklow mountains, far from some sorry, lily scented funeral home. I want memories to be happy.

So why am I writing this over two months later? Many reasons, most of them don’t make sense. The biggest one is because I couldn’t put anything into words until now. There are so many things that have happened in the past few months, and so many more that are rendered sad now. The first Father’s Day without my dad, my daughter’s fifth birthday–the first one my father wasn’t there for. I called his cell phone to hear his voice one last time, only to be disappointed because the service had already been turned off. Good news is a little less so because there’s one less person to share it with. I measure things in how my dad would look at them. I see him in my son’s face every morning when he wakes up. I hear him laughing at my little family’s antics and I cry a little, then laugh a lot.

The past week and a half have been interesting, to say the least. My father, who had been admitted to the hospital at the beginning of March, went back into the hospital one day after his discharge with more heart problems. His defibrillator wouldn’t stop firing, leaving him exhausted and his body unable to cope with the stress.

He agreed to sedation and a ventilator in order to rest. He then developed pneumonia, which was leading to kidney failure. By last Thursday, things were looking bleak. My family drove to Columbus to see my dad, perhaps for the last time. We sat down (at least the part of my family that was stateside) and discussed options, what Dad would want, and how we needed to proceed. I watched my mother grieve for her husband while he lay in that hospital bed, getting weaker and weaker. I watched small glimmers of hope that seemed like poison, from doctors that gave seemingly conflicting information. I prayed, or at least tried to.

Then, on Saturday, things appeared to turn around. My father’s kidneys started acting like kidneys again. His blood pressure, which had been dangerously low while on two different types of medication to keep it raised, was starting to stabilize. His heart was pumping with a somewhat regular rhythm. Grief turned back into hope for my mother, who took each one of these events as a sign for the better. I, however, just didn’t know.

We’d prepared our minds for what we thought was the inevitable. My family was saying goodbye to our miracle man–the man that had died and come back to life a decade earlier. When he started responding to treatment, I didn’t know what to think. I had prepared myself so thoroughly for the possibility of his death that I refused to believe there was any alternative.

See, in situations like this, hope is a bitch. She reels you in with whispers that everything will be different this one time, that things are going to turn around. That everything will be even better than “Okay”. She hooks you and then she poisons you. Reality falls short of expectations. Hell, sometimes reality just takes one look at hope and laughs. These are the times I worry about–the times when hope lies. This is what I was afraid of with my father, so I refused to give in to the hope that he would recover.

Seeing my father in that bed, unconscious and frail, that man wasn’t the man that taught me how to fish, how to use a hammer, how to ride a bike. That man was a shell. I was furious with anyone who tried to say anything to the contrary. I told myself that my father wasn’t in that shell anymore, but now it seems he was. My father is being weaned off the ventilator today. Time will tell whether or not his body will tolerate being off the machine, but he is better enough to try it. The miracle man may just ride again.