Kiss My Ash Goodbye!

 

I am not a morbid person . . . especially when it comes to death.  As a minister I have dealt with more than my fair share of death.  I have officiated at a lot of funerals.  I have had family and friends die.  Beloved pets.  My wife is a hospice chaplain and regales me with nightly stories of how she is helping people transition from life to . . . well, death.  You can’t escape death if you read the newspapers, listen to the radio, or watch television . . . death is a nightly topic within those realms.  But I am not a morbid person who spends a lot of time focusing on death.

I am not certain, at this stage of my life, exactly what I think about death.  Sounds strange for a person who spent a lifetime comforting people as they died . . . supporting families who lost loved one . . . and, mourning for those within my family and friends who have died.  You would think that as a retired pastor I would have a few opinions about death and all that it involves . . . past, present, and future.  That is not to say that I don’t have thoughts and ideas about death . . . even my own death, but nothing is written in stone.  My thoughts and ideas are a myriad of just that—thoughts and ideas.

 

I have a friend who is now in his nineties.  Fascinating friend who loves old music, spooky stories, dry humor, tawdry references and puns, and loves to write.  He has several blogs, and one happens to be about death.  The blog is called Death Happens.  I appreciate his thoughts about death . . . he makes you think and he can be as random as me.  Of course, he has a BIG head start on me!

 

So, if I’m not morbid then why am I writing about death?  Well, because I woke up this morning hoping for an idea to write a blog about.  It seems death was what popped into my mind.  It was a song.  One of my favorite singer/songwriters is the late John Prine . . . has been since I was in high school way back when.  Please Don’t Bury Me came screaming through my mind loud and clear. I don’t think that it is an omen of some sort . . . a sign of things to come, but it did get me to thinking.  Death might be a fun topic to tackle.

 

Prine wrote the song way back in 1973 and it still resonates today.  The song is about waking up, slipping in the kitchen, hitting his head, and dying.  Upon getting to heaven, he is told what happened and what were the last words he said.  Basically, he declares that he does not want to be buried and instead that all of him is to be given away.  He must have been a medical donor long before it became a “thing” to do. The song is funny and puts a smile on the face.  If you love puns and dad jokes . . . well, you will love the song.  Here are the words:

 

Woke up this morning

Put on my slippers

Walked in the kitchen and died

And oh what a feeling!

When my soul went through the ceiling

And on up into heaven I did ride

When I got there they did say

John, it happened this way

You slipped upon the floor

And hit your head

And all the angels say

Just before you passed away

These were the very last words

That you said

 

Please don't bury me

Down in the cold cold ground

No, I'd druther have 'em cut me up

And pass me all around

Throw my brain in a hurricane

And the blind can have my eyes

And the deaf can take both of my ears

If they don't mind the size

 

Give my stomach to Milwaukee

If they run out of beer

Put my socks in a cedar box

Just get 'em out of here

Venus de Milo can have my arms

Look out! I've got your nose

Sell my heart to the Junkman

And give my love to Rose

 

But please don't bury me

Down in that cold, cold ground

No, I'd druther have 'em cut me up

And pass me all around

Throw my brain in a hurricane

And the blind can have my eyes

And the deaf can take both of my ears

If they don't mind the size

 

Give my feet to the footloose

Careless, fancy free

Give my knees to the needy

Don't pull that stuff on me

Hand me down my walking cane

It's a sin to tell a lie

Send my mouth way down south

And kiss my ass goodbye

 

But please don't bury me

Down in that cold cold ground

No, I'd druther have 'em cut me up

And pass me all around

Throw my brain in a hurricane

And the blind can have my eyes

And the deaf can take both of my ears

If they don't mind the size

 

You can listen to the song at this LINK.

 

When my parents died, they were cremated and buried in the mountains of North Carolina.  That was their wish.  I did both of their graveside services there on the top of a hill overlooking the Appalachian Mountains at the Methodist Church my mother attended growing up.  None of the family had any problem with that, though there were people in my life who thought this was terrible.  Terrible because where would my parents be come the rapture?  Come the biblical resurrection?  Their bodies would be gone.  In my mind it was not a problem.  God can do anything.  I imagine that for God cremation is sort of like a freeze-dried meal . . . add a little water and POOF! Everything is back to normal.  Sort of like cooking up a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

 

This was not a problem for the family.  It was not our issue.  Our parents were gone, and we celebrated them the best that we could.  And we miss them.  God will take care of the rest.  God’s ways are mysterious, but God cares for us despite our silliness.

 

My parents’ death got my siblings and I to thinking . . . more my siblings because none of them are married.  For the most part we are all we have and it is going to be up to us to make decisions whenever one or the other dies . . . decisions like what do you want us to do with you!  My sister and I have discussed this the most.  My brothers, they chose cremation.  In fact, our brother David was cremated a few years ago when he died.  I think that is the choice for our youngest brother.  And it is definitely the choice of my sister. 

 

Of course, what is supposed to be done with the cremains?

 

The brothers . . . they will be interred in the cemetery in North Carolina.  Makes sense since we have quite a few family plots there and very few family members to place in them.  My sister . . . well, she’s a tough cookie.  Her wishes are to be flushed down the toilet.  That is good enough for her.  I guess that makes sense when one considers how much time in our lives we spend upon that porcelain throne contemplating life.  Now if she doesn’t beat me to death’s door, she might not have much say in the whole thing.  I might do whatever I want.  She said that might not be a wise choice as she would haunt me forever.  The toilet might be it.

 

But the thing here is that the choice in the end is cremation.  As a person of faith that calls for stewardship . . . well that makes sense.  I have said it a million times (at least): “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”  Help out the mother earth.  Do the Johnny Appleseed thing . . . throw in a few seeds with my ashes.  I can handle it.  In fact, I am told that there are funeral homes and cemeteries that specialize in this sort of thing.  The body is buried with a tree and the tree grows as a memorial to the deceased.  Sounds like good stewardship.

 

Speaking of “good stewardship” I think that was the idea behind declaring oneself a “medical donor” on our driver’s license.  Upon death all of our vital organs are divvied up and sparse out to those who need them more than we do at that point.  Help save a life.  I am a “medical donor”.  I want whatever is useable in my body to be used by someone who can benefit from it.  Again, the idea of “good stewardship”.  And, like John Prine, I imagine that the choices are much as he described in his song. 

 

Then I want to be cremated.

 

I have never thought about what I want to have done with my cremains.  There are the plots in North Carolina, except I doubt if there would be annual trips back to the grave there by the family in Montana.  I could have my ashes spread over one of the many beautiful trails throughout the Absaroka and Beartooth mountains that the family has enjoyed over the years and will in the future.  I just don’t know.  Haven’t given it a whole bunch of thought.

 

One of the funeral directors I worked with for many years was always dumping ashes on the local golf course in the small town we were living in.  He did this even though the town eventually outlawed such acts with cremains.  That didn’t stop him, he did what his clients wanted.  Whenever he was playing a round of golf he would take a few handfuls here and there, throwing them as he drove around the course.  He figured that it was for the best because these people wanted to be where their people were . . . on the golf course, not in some cemetery.

 

Whatever the case, I am going the cremation route.  Plus, my sister is beginning to make sense to me.  Once I am gone what do I care?  I will be physically gone.  I can’t be put in the corner of the living room . . . something has to be done.  Being flushed might be the route to go.  At least whenever anyone sits upon the porcelain throne, they will be reminded of me.  After all, it is better to be remembered than forgotten.

What! That’s It?

 I was baptized on Saint Patrick’s Day in 1974.  This was supposed to be a significant event in my life . . .

I was probably four to five years behind my peers when I got baptized.  My family was not a church-going clan.  My mother had grown up in the United Methodist Church in the mountains of North Carolina.  My father was a Southern Baptist in the back country of Alabama.  Bu the time I came along they were non-church goers.  At the same time, they were not opposed to their children going to church.  Always having a religious curiosity, I finally scratched that itch when I was a sophomore in high school in Nebraska.  Some kid invited me to go to church with him and I went.

 

I would be dishonest if I said it was because I was a pious sort of kid—but I was not.  The friend was popular, and he told me there were a lot of cute girls at church.  Cute girls were enough to lure me through the doors of a church.  Evangelism is evangelism even if it is connected to hormones.

 

This was the first church I attended and got involved with through the youth group . . . and yes, there were a lot of cute girls.  With perfect 20/20 hindsight I know now that this church was an independent, evangelical church.  It was the sort of church that would keep singing the closing hymn—the altar call—repeatedly until someone dedicated or re-dedicated their lives to Jesus.  One Sunday as we were in the third lap around the closing hymn of Jesus, Calls Me, this friend—Paul, leaned over to me and said, “I can’t take another verse!”  Next thing I knew he was up the aisle rededicating his life to Jesus.  We got out in time for lunch.

 

I probably idolized and envied Paul.  He was the All-American, blue-eyed, pious, intelligent, athletic, gifted, and popular kid.  Everyone liked him.  Adults wished their kids were like him.  Parents trusted him with their daughters.  He carried a humongous bible and guitar wherever he went.  I clung to his every word.  I want to be like Paul.

 

Paul had been baptized.  Planned on being a minister.  When he described his baptism . . . well, it was biblical.  He told me how he came up from the waters of baptism and that heaven broke out . . . angels were singing . . . and a dove descended.  The only thing missing was the heavenly decree: “This is my son with whom I am well pleased.”

 Sounded good to me!

 

One Sunday, during the first verse of the altar call, I trucked right up to the pastor and confessed y love of Jesus and proclaimed that I was ready to be baptized.

 

Thus, it came to be.  Me and a couple of others were to be baptized on Saint Patrick’s Day at a neighboring church since our church did not have a baptistry.  The day came and I was given a white gown to wear.  With great anticipation I awaited my turn to be dunked for Jesus.  Great expectations floated through my mind.  I wanted to see the heavens open.  I wanted to hear the heavenly chorus sing.  The dove to descend.  I want it because Paul had it.  I wanted to be like Paul.

 

Then it happened.  The pastor reached out and helped me into the baptistry.  The water was cold.  No one had told me to wear anything other than my underwear under the white gown.  It was cold and the deeper I got into the water the colder it got.  But that wasn’t the worse problem.  No, the gown kept floating up to the top of the water exposing my underwear to the faithful who were gathered.  Up went the gown and down I would push it—over and over.  I was too embarrassed to be cold.

 

Next thing I knew the pastor had his arm around my waist and was covering my mouth with a handkerchief.  He asked, “Do you take Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”  To which I replied through a muffled voice, “Mmmmmm.” The next thing I knew I was underwater.  The pastor caught me off-guard.  He held me tight as my legs splayed about rising with my gown.

 

The pastor held me under the water for what seemed to be an eternity.  He held me under long enough to proclaim, “I baptize you, John Martin Keener, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The old has died and the new has been born in the Living Water! Amen!”  I was thankful that my name was short.  Any longer and I might have made the pastor a liar.

 

Up from the water the pastor raised me.  I was baptized.  I was saved.  I waited.  There was no heavenly clouds—nope, just the late afternoon sun shining through the stain glassed windows of the church.  There was no heavenly chorus—no angels singing.  Nope the only sound was the water running off of me and back into the baptistry and the sound of my younger brother crying.  He was certain that the pastor had killed me—drowned me after he heard about death.  And there was no heavenly dove—not even a stinking pigeon.  That was it.

 

I was devastated.  Baptism was a flop.  It was nothing like I expected.  All I was was soaking wet . . . cold . . . and dripping under a white gown that exposed my Fruit of the Looms to the whole congregation.  To everyone else, I was baptized.  I was saved.

 

Nothing much changed.  I still went to church.  I still participated in youth group.  Hey, the cute girls were still there even though the heavenly choirs and doves weren’t.  God motivates us to be faithful in many different ways.

 

Through the years I have thought of my baptism in the light of many I have performed as a minister.  I see baptism differently and understand it differently.  My commitment to God came many years before I was officially dunked for Jesus.  At some point in my younger years, long before an interest in cute girls, I had a sense of the Holy in my life—a sense of presence that was life.  It was not in a sanctuary (though I have felt it there) or in the ritual of worship or even in baptism.  It was all around me like the air that we breathe.  It was in creation—the sunrise and sunset, the twinkly night sky, in the critters and flowers.  It was in those I encountered—family, friends, relatives, and strangers—especially strangers.  It wasn’t in a moment, but a lifetime of living.  It is something that has always been there just waiting to be acknowledged.

 

Baptism is a reminder—not to those who are baptized, but to those who are witnessing it.  Baptism reminds those watching to remember . . . to remember their own spiritual journeys, spiritual adventures, and that they are never alone.  There are those who came before, those who are present, and those who are yet to come.  There is the Holy who is always there.  Through baptism we are reminded that we are in this together.  Together we will make it.

 

Baptism comes in all shapes, forms, and sizes.  Mine just happened to be in the Anabaptist tradition—though on the evangelical side.  Whatever the case, I jumped through the hoop.  Yeah, I am still disappointed all these years later.  I really wanted to hear the heavenly choirs, see the heaven ripped open, and a dove to descend.  All I got was wet.  God understood.  I’m still here . . . still in awe.  Baptism is constant.  I get the point.

The Problem with Papa

Long, long ago . . . in another time and place . . . maybe another galaxy or dimension . . .  a piercing bright light shattered and splintered the darkness.  Out of the chaos and dust there emerged a ghostly figure . . . crawling from the rubble . . . coughing . . . hacking.  Slowly emerging from a time nearly forgotten . . . Papa!

That’s not quite the genesis story of how I became a grandparent.  I can blame that on the science of biology.  It is my children’s fault.  Several of them went off, got married, and started having children.  Suddenly I was a grandparent . . . and with each new child that was born I was thrown deeper into the realm of grandparenting.  It was as simple as that—simple biology.  I blame this all on my children, but then again, I guess the wife and I had our part to contribute.    After all, we brought them into the world.  Actually, it’s all Adam and Eve’s fault.  They should have left the forbidden fruit alone!

 

Papa is what my grandchildren call me.  It wasn’t the name I would have chosen to call myself.  It was predestined.  The grandkids call their grandmother—my wife—Nana.  Nana picked her name.  She also picked my name.  I was hoping for a more fearsome name . . . a name which would command respect . . . something along the lines of “Grand Supreme Being Who Command Fear and Respect”.  But, no!  I got Papa!  It’s a tough moniker to live up to but it seems to work for everyone else.

 

Well, maybe not everyone else.  I’m sure my children and their spouses have had a few names for me that are not printable.  I have learned that that comes with the “grandpa” territory.  It no longer matters to me as long as they don’t forget to call me to the dinner table.

 

Being a “Papa” is tough.  Things have changed since I was a kid.  What once was the “norm” or the “acceptable” has changed.  Grandparents are under the microscope and are constantly being scrutinized.  Our children—as parents—have become our adversaries once they crown us with grandparenthood.  They don’t trust us.  I don’t get it—they’re still alive!  We got them this far, surely, we can do the same for our grandchildren.

 

But things have changed.  These changes have made being a grandparent tough.  The rules have changed.

I would never do anything that would harm my grandchildren.  I love them too much to ever hurt them.  Apparently, some of my grandparenting is quite questionable.

 

As a kid I loved to ride my bicycle.  It was a source of freedom and adventure.  I’d jump on my bicycle barefoot and start pedaling away . . . heavens forbid!  My children would die if I ever allowed my grandkids to do that!  It’s not safe!  My grandchildren “armor” up—shoes, knee pads, elbow pads, and helmets.  Nearly every inch of their bodies is padded and protected.  They make medieval knights proud.

 

I don’t get it.  I never armored up—not even shoes.  And look . . . I’m still here.  True, the tips of my toes are missing from being stuck in the spokes of the tires or dragging along the ground.  A helmet . . . the only helmets we had were either something from World War II stolen from our grandparents or some cheap football helmet.  Either one would be killed for sneaking it out of the house or look stupid like a nerd.  No one wanted to look like a nerd.  There is no greater death than being a nerd.

 

Another one that throws me and has me scrambling are water bottles.  All my kids and grandkids have personal water bottles.  Those water bottles go wherever they go.  They even got me one that I always forget.  As a kid we drank out of the water hose . . . and it didn’t matter whose hose it was . . . it was all fair game. Ours or the neighbor’s—it was all open for use.  We always drank our of each other’s drinks.  Little did we know about the lead in hoses or the germs from others.  Heck, no!  We swapped spit.  Except with the opposite sex.  We knew about cooties.  No one wanted cooties.  Quess what . . . I’m still here!

 

As a kid did a lot of things that were fun, and I’d love for my grandkids to experience them too.  Today, I’m told that those things aren’t safe.  That they are dangerous.  Yet, I’m here.  I am alive.  I survived.  I survived riding bikes without body armor.  I drank from hoses, shared the same cup and drinking fountains as my friends.  Rode in cars without seatbelts, car or booster seats.  I jumped off the roof of the house.  Climbed trees and really big rocks.  Walked to school—up hill both ways—in all sorts of weather by myself.  Played with toys that you would need a license to play with today—yard darts, bb guns, sling shots, firecrackers.

 

And I’m still here.

 

What grandparent wouldn’t want his or her grandchildren to experience the joy of their grandparents’ childhood?  Therein lies the problem.  It’s a different time and age.  Things have changed.  More is known.  But it was fun!  I want to be that “fun” grandparent—that fun Papa—who lets the kids play.  Again, that is the problem.  It is not quite the way our kids see it.

 

I imagine that whenever Papa comes for a visit that my kids increase their insurance on the grandkids.  They hide all the sharp things like scissors because I might run with them.  They put away all the hoses.  Flatten the tires on the bikes.  And they lecture the grandkids that Papa is old . . . that he is crazy . . . so beware!  He’ll get you in trouble.

 

They’re right!

 

Grandparents are there to do just that—have fun.  To have fun with their grandchildren.  To set them free even if it is only for a short time.  To push the envelope.  To give their parents reasons to roll their eyes, have their hearts pound with anxiousness.  To laugh.  To play.  To have a good time.  And the grandkids are the partners in crime.  That is what grandparents do much to the chagrin of their parents.

 

I survived, so will they.  That’s the problem with grandparents.  It’s a stage they go through.  As my mother used to say, “This, too, shall pass.”  She should know . . . she was a grandparent.

 

Retirement . . . I Guess

 It has been three weeks since I retired and left the pulpit.  Three weeks!

I saw a definition of “retirement”.  “Retirement,” it said, “is the withdrawal from one’s position or occupation or from one’s active working life.”  In my situation I did the former not the latter.  I have withdrawn from my position/occupation as a minister.  Of course, one cannot escape the “call” of God.  Once God put God’s fingerprint on one’s life there is no running from it.  Ministry is not a job—it is a lifestyle.  Actually, it is a way of life . . . the way one lives.

 

I never felt I wore the title “reverend” well.  Throughout my forty-some years as I observed my peers in the ministry, I spent a lot of time in awe and jealousy.  I never seemed to fit the mold . . . never seemed to “fit in”.  I am not a great speaker.  I didn’t dress ministerial.  My humor was a little off—too much teasing.  Teasing is one of my ways of showing love.  If I ever stop teasing—watch out!  I never felt “holy” enough.  I think laughter should be a part of worship.  Worship without laughter is not worship.  God has a sense of humor . . . after all God called me to a life of ministry for over 40 years.  I just never felt like I was a part of the club.

 

That’s not the reason I retired from the ministry.  I retired because it was time.  I hit the magical number of 65 years old.  That’s the gold standard for our culture—except for the Social Security Administration.  For them they keep the “age of retirement” on a revolving and constantly changing wheel that they seem to spin every other day.  According to them I’ve got a least another decade to go!  Despite their guidance, I retired.  Retired because it was time to explore the fork in the road and see where the adventure takes me.  I want to do that while I still can.  Besides, it feels right.  Forty-some years of organized ministry is enough.  Now it is onward to disorganized ministry.  Seems to fit me better.  Life among the “sinners”.

 

So, its been three weeks.

 

Of course, the biggest question I have been asked since retiring is “where you going to go to church?”  Well, I have retired in a small community  where I have served the church for 15 years.  There are six “official” communities of faith in a town of about 600 people.  Figure about a third of those people attend church—according to research . . . that’s a small group to find a place to fade into the woodwork.  The introvert in me isn’t too keen on that idea.  The evangelistic fervor for those faithful is a competition I was not built for.  I’m tired of the competition.  It’s not faith.  It’s not living as Jesus intended it to be.

 

I want no part of it.  Because of that there really is no church in the community I desire to be a part of.  Also, the communities of faith in town lean towards the conservative side . . . politically and religiously.  I can handle that.  What I can’t handle is the homogeneous expectation to be the same.  In such an environment there is no room for growth.  God designed us to grow.  Growing never stops.  To grow one needs discussion, conversation, exploration, and adventure.  It does not need rigid doctrine and dogma.

 

I do not think I can find that in our community among the active faithful.  Their intentions seem virtuous on the outside, but they all want the same thing—carbon copies of themselves.  As I said, I don’t fit into molds too easily.  I would disappoint them or frustrate them.  So . . . right now I have joined that 70 percent who do not worship in a place of organized religion.  I’m wading into the waters of sinners according to my evangelical peers.  Oh, the gravity of it all!  But after three weeks I still see myself as a person of faith.  That fingerprint of God is still squarely upon me.

 

Now remember . . . I have “withdrawn from a position and occupation” as a public minister.  I am still working full-time at the area university.  I love and enjoy my job at the university and after 15 years there it still does not feel like work.  Besides Social Security is holding ransom my full payment until I hit the ripe old age, they will allow me to retire.  Since I can’t beat them at their game, I must play their game.  Ah . . . the politics of aging! 

 

When that day comes, we can talk about retirement.  Until then I’ve just hung up my “official” garb in the closet and I am enjoying the freedom it has afforded me to be me.  That feels good . . . even after only three weeks.

 

That’s it.  That’s the best answer I can give at this point in my journey.  Come back in a week and I’ll probably have a different answer.  In the meantime, I am enjoying my free time on the weekends.  I have gotten to spend time with family—especially my grandchildren.  I have done some critter creeping and photography.  Dabbled in returning to writing my blog.  Attended a pow wow.  And done a ton of “honey do” lists making the wife happy.  As you know, if Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.  Even in retirement.

 

Yup, three weeks!