PostScipt from Afar

FRO GENE AND LINDA ATKISSON (former missionaries to Central Asia)

Dear Judy,

These thoughts are what flows out of my Heart about my beloved friend, Hans. My few paltry and inadequate words can not begin to express what my heart holds and feels at this time.

It is difficult, for me, to remain standing on my creaky, wobbly wharf in time when such a Friend as Hans Puts Out to Sea. As the tide of his mortality recedes low, my emotions rise up, protesting against his departure.

My heart and soul cries No! Not yet! It is too soon! Hans...wait...I wanted more time with you! I had yet envisioned a time of more visiting, laughter with you, eating together. MORE of setting in intimate conversation with you...descending more deeply into the Bible via your gifted mind. What I had desired to do, with you, at a time ahead. With you and your beloved Judy.

But...time. "Time and tide waits on no man." Time and mortality bound in an inexorarable flow, and always outward.

I could say many things about Han's influence on me,...how and why I came to respect and admire him. His influence on my thinking, the way I approach thought, the understanding of how our whole beings are so completely rooted in the person and will of God was significant beyond my conscious grasp. And there was no dichotomy between Han's relational and intellectual knowledge of The Lord Jesus Christ. Hans was one of the first Christian believers, that I knew personally, who challenged, and imparted content to me where I needed it most. With Hans, I took real steps toward not being afraid to Think, to be cautious of partitions erected between "heart" and "mind", to evaluate and not to be afraid of the hard labour of discernment. He not only overflowed with the truth that we have a foundation to stand and build on, but especially of WHO that Truth is.

If I could be in your presence today, what would flow from heart about Hans is about who he was. The way he was. Inside. His real impact on me was in, and from that element of his person and spirit which, in all of our intellectualizing, will remain forever a mystery. As I release Hans,it is his friendship, the touch of Godly love..the fact that such a man of the stature of Hans Weerstra would befriend and extend himself to one such as I, and so genuinely and sincerely.

Hans, as the receding tide pulls your barque into the rising sea of your great passage, the void you leave is filled with the memory of your love and grace. I grieve for my own loss, but it is swallowed up rejoicing that your Passage is into the Dawn of Life, Himself.

I grieve. I rejoice. I give Thanks for the life and friendship of Hans Weerstra.

His friend, and brother,

Gene Atkisson













Arvid and Nilda Avery (missionaries to China)

We have been praying for you and hearing your heart beat from here. Hans, we miss not being there with you; we just miss both of you so much.... Your life Hans has been so woven into our lives, our kids, so many people...truly we are a blessed people because of you... We love you Hans and Judy.... Judy, I wish I was there for you (Nilda)... I was able to read your blog once on a secure line....Gd truly is building us into His own house...How I miss being with you Judy!!! Christine wrote and told us that the presence of the Lord was so there!!! That truly your home is an abbey...Gd rests on His people.....We continue to wait to hear what the Lord speaks to you Hans...Is it here or home with Christ?......May the fullness of His grace shine ever brighter in you all....Love, Nilda and Arvid


















Dale Walker (Heart for the World Vineyard)
A truly a great and special warrior has been raised into the arms of his beloved king... well done, good and faithful one, I am so proud of the race you ran, surely these words he heard his master say. Few men have seen with God's eyes the vision and passion He has for all peoples everywhere to know his Son. Hans painted the picture for me of God's heart for the world that challenged, enlightened, and equipped me to pursue God's heart for the nations these past 20 years. I had the unbelievable privilege to meet weekly with he and Judy in their home and receive the Perspective course in a mentoring relationship with them. That experience helped me fall in love with God's heart for the nations the way that they carried and communicated that from their heart into mine. I feel so privileged to be a witness to the fruitfulness and greatness of his life. I pray for Judy and the family God's comfort and God's joy to celebrate Hans' glorious homecoming and the unspeakable glory he is now experiencing with His Lord, his love and treasure-Jesus!












From David Morrison, (former Vineyard Pastor Eastside)

“Blessed is the man whose strength is in You, Whose heart is set on pilgrimage.”
-Psalm 84:5


I will always remember Hans as a man on pilgrimage. These kinds of people are rarities—most people are comfortable with settling in and building social and theological cities with tidy lawns and enclosed walls. Not Hans. He consistently had a heart that pressed ever inward into the heart of Jesus and ever outward from his own cultural beginnings and personal experience. This was most demonstrated in his love of the scriptures. He taught not as the teachers of his day, but as one who had an unseen authority. I believe the source of this internal authority came from the fact that he at some time in his life made the decision to be an eternal student of God and his word, and never as one who “had arrived.” He taught as one who was in a constant state of learning and wonder himself. He was most alive and passionate when he was engaged in studying and teaching. Jesus described such people best: ““Therefore every scribe instructed concerning the kingdom of heaven is like a householder who brings out of his treasure things new and old” (Matthew 13:52). Hans was a “new scribe” in the kingdom of God.

Hans could have chosen a purely academic route as a missiologist, and no one would have a criticism for such a career. But as a pilgrim, Hans had a vision of a “better land.” he chose to brave the unknown seas of foreign mission and local communal ministry. Hans was what I call a “hiddenite.” He was one of those people who serve the Lord not from the motivation of public praise, but for love of the master who most often calls us to that secret place—the desert of obscurity. He truly was one of those “beloved wanderers,” of whom the scriptures say “the world was not worthy.” His wandering is done and he’s found that homeland for which he was holding out. There’s only one family in heaven and earth according to St. Paul, and so we sing the same song. And we sing with Hans and all the saints assembled:
“…We will meet in the golden city, in the New Jerusalem
All our pain and all our tears will be no more.
We will stand with the hosts of heaven and cry, ‘Holy is the Lamb’,
We will worship and adore You ever more…”
Hans, I thank God for your pilgrimage—all of it. I celebrate your life that was, and I mourn the life that’s no longer here. I rejoice in your life that is now: as you are refashioned into that ancient beauty and that original blessing of God’s image. I look forward to a continuation of our profound conversations in the New Creation.

In the Beloved with you,
-David Morrison







Jake Knorpp (Vineyard N.E now live in Missouri)

Hans was the person who introduced Renee and I to the importance of missions. He and Judy taught "Perspectives on the World Christian Movement" at Vineyard Northeast where I went to church. He awakened in me an understanding of how God has moved throughout history to show His love to people groups of all nationalities. Hans' life embodied the desire of God to reach souls who have not yet known the love God has for them. It was truly a pleasure to learn this from him and to come over to his and Judy's house and hang out in the atrium. For a rural Missouri boy, these were unique cultural experiences! These times were especially exciting because they were the backdrop for Renee and I to get to know each other!

Hans, and also Judy, hold a special place in our hearts not only because of their faith and spiritual influence, but also because of their matchmaking prowess! I'm thankful for their insight and wisdom in encouraging us to get to know each other.

I'm sure he will be greatly missed by thousands of people that have known him and have been helped by his love and willingness to be faithful to the Lord. I'm also sure that he is now enjoying the company of thousands of people that he touched along his journey on earth! I know that I am one of them and greatly look forward to seeing him again!


By Jennifer Ferraro

The Morning After

There were a lot of nervous moments before the ceremony. At a grave site funeral you are doing most of the planning yourself. There is no professional clergy doing it for you or even leading you through it. We chose just individuals to speak and pray and I gave the Word of God as hope for the soul. But the elders were there to bury him, Pastors Warren Hoyt lead the opening prayer, Rev. Bill Cobb closed, Pastor Gary Wilcox sang and Rev. Rick Miiliron, Rev. Bill Francis, Brother Greg Steel and many other beloved ministry leaders were present to lay his body down. But most of all his beloved students and friends were there to weep and rejoice over his life and death. Of course many were present in spirit, since they are serving overseas and they sent letters which I will post today. In addition, all six of the kids sang a special song together. Probably the first time that this has happened when all six were together since 1986. Doug and Julianne played guitar and the others sang about the Golden City where all our tears are wiped away.  

But what about God, where was He? Where was my best friend? Who would God send forth to hold my hand? It was a slim Chinese woman who is a professor at the University and her sweet and wonderful husband. She gripped it with an iron hold. I did rather feel like a wilted tulip from time to time. But her strength was like the wire that is wrapped around a fragile flower so that its beauty is not diminished. God's love today was like tendrils of curls around a beautiful face—just ever so slightly working, endearing each face to me, making me grateful for the body of Christ. Each face so dear to Jesus.  

There were many present moments but the one which really gripped me was at the very beginning. The service began with the song "Emmanuel,God with Us" which is a slow song in a minor key. Then the casket was removed from the hearse. The sons draped it with a white pall that carried the emblem of the resurrection. As they moved forward, the wind blew the edges of the pall and it looked alive in the Spirit to me. Everyone stood. It was a moment of honor for Hans, my beloved. My beloved who received no honor while he was awake was finally honored as a meek and obedient servant. What greater praise?

My second favorite moment was the spontaneous eruption of Han's grandchildren, all of them, including all the children from the Abbey, who laid tulips on the casket. All of them were mourning as well. Though it was a windy day, not one of the them was lost. We opted to for the lowering of the casket which clearly reveals the sorrow of death. 

As I pull away from the memory I see more and more of God's hand in it. My two favorite servants, Robert and Jennifer Ferraro worked feverishly both day and night to prepare the banquet hall, transforming it into a garden of tulips. The food was made by the beloved saints of God, ministering unto Jesus. Did they know? I wonder. But it is the truth. They were bringing food to strengthen His body and He receives the honor. 

The saddest moments to me were when my grandaughter Emmie broke down (twice) and sobbed. Her cheerful acceptance  of her Grandfather's death was washed away by grief. Nothing would comfort her and her lament washed our own fragile reserve away as well. She wanted him back, now. With prayer and time she calmed down. 

Afterwards we returned home for just a time of unwinding, all of us emotionally spent. Back came the jeans and tennis shoes that we all "live in." We ate and talked late into the night. 

But today is today. Two sons have already left. Three left to go. One remains. And our quiver is empty again. What will the future bring? There is a great work to do. I feel a greater sense of responsibility I have not felt before. The heaviness of the mantle of Christ. Go..make disciples...in My name. 

A Surprise Ending

On Monday evening Hans died. (I use those words precisely because they are so harsh. They stab me in the heart every time I say them, but they point me to the gravity of sin.) Were it not for the work of Jesus on the Cross, death would be an intolerable agony, but because of the Cross something wonderful has happened.

Om Tuesday, through the ordinary course of the day, I found myself alone. I had wanted some time to process the events of the week, but I hadn't intended to be left completely alone. I was. The quietness of the house was overwhelming. Hans' bedroom was empty, hospice having removed everything. I began the sobering chore of cleaning up. I brought into the room, which used to be his office before his sickness— the heavy armoir that doubled as a bookcase. I brought in a desk, side table, lamps, rug, pictures and two new side chairs. I sent up pictures of all the kids on desk tops and shelves. Then I began organizing his closet—all his shoes, clothes and unmentionables. I found all his hats (8 or 9) and displayed all of them on top of the armoir. His favorite books, tie, and computer where set in place. It was beautiful! It was serene. Hans' office was back.

As I walked back to my room, I felt strangely calm and very loved. The emptiness I had so long dreaded and feared  had disappeared and in its place was Hans' love for me. Beneath that love was the love of God. To my surprise I found that God had not taken all of my husband, He left in place the love we have shared for so long. I didn't feel "widowed" (which means separated); nor did I feel uncovered, or any of the things I feared. Hans lives in my heart, as he always has. Nothing was different in essence.  Love is more than geography. He is merely in another room. We are only separated by a veil and that veil shall be removed when my mortality puts on immortality as he has done.


What a lovely surprise. Only God can do these things. The chaplain of hospice called me today and asked how I was doing. I told him all that had happened. He said, "It is the Lord!" Those who do not have the Resurrection in them do not experience this. We have this Resurrection—It is the Lord!

The Morning Talks

My loneliness is most severe in the early hours of the morning. This is when Hans usually brought us coffee in the bedroom and we would begin our talks for the day. He would have already been up for hours and would be ready to share out of his treasure chest. I would be barely waking up. It was this way for the last 28 years of our life together. Until February 27th...when he no longer rose early..but slept in order to preserve his energy. 

The desert air is too cold to go out into the courtyard and sit. I am alone. But I have you dear Jesus. You will have to be my companion today. You can tell Hans that I am doing well because You are with me, helping me. And my friends and family are with me and comforting me. I know that he will be worried about my mind and my heart too. Please tell him I am ok..though a bit lost this morning. 

Please tell him that I am sorry for the pain, and that I couldn't help him more. Please also tell him how many people loved him and hurt with us as well. All of our lovely students and friends have been with us on this journey of life and now death.

I face the day, but I don't know how or why or where to begin..I am single again and I can't bear the terrible loneliness that looms ahead of me. But I will just put foot in front of the other and begin. 

Other Eyes and Other Voices

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like  speck of white clouds just where the sea and the sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?" 

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port. 

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone," There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying!

Henry Van Dyke

Meet Me at the Gates Honey!

Hans' bags are packed. He is ready to go. Now he waits for His ride—the wings of eagles.

He is taking with him the following items: a) His reading glasses, two pens and his prayer journal clipboard. b) The cowbell in case he needs me for something, tea, coffee, etc., c) a small flashlight to see in the dark, d) His prayer shawl made by his brother's church e) a bible.

I cannot bear to part with his mealy watch, ring or his "grandpa" pocket watch. To bury it would be to bury my heart along side. Neither can I part with his good reading glasses. I am sending the old pair.

He will be wearing white linen pants, a white embroidered shirt made of pure linen and brown leather sandals and his Cross. He will have on new underwear.


I said goodbye this morning. I said, "bye honey. Meet me at the gates ok?"

I am watching his chest as he breathes. He is in a coma. One of these will be his last. 

Well Done Good and Faithful Servant!

In one of the many of the books I have read about the life of Henri Nouwen, including his own writings, he made the strange statement, "My only regret is that I never became the man I wanted to be." I was stunned when I read that statement because of the tremendous impact he had on the Christian world through his writings. The depth of his understanding into the ways of God were surely products of his life with God, I thought. 

For years I have suffered with this riddle. How could it be that the man who has ministered to so many, and in so many ways, have considered himself a failure? Today I understand. It was because he never resolved or was able to become "the man he thought he should have been." How many of us do this also? We have an image of ourselves of the way "men ought to be" and if that never comes to pass, then we have failed. But in truth, we have failed ourselves, not God. It is this false expectation that I believe tormented Nouwen all his life. 

In a way, that is similar to Hans' own story.  In the fifties, the expectations were that every minister was supposed to be like Billy Graham, or every general was to be an Eisenhower, every artist a Rembrandt, every missionary a William Carey or David Brainerd. You know how it goes. But Nouwen's case displays our erroneous thinking, for truly God used Nouwen even if he never became the man he was supposed to be. 

What more can you ask for? Nouwen may have disappointed himself, but he never disappointed us. It's hard to reconcile because Nouwen wasn't after fame, or a legacy, he was after being satisfied with his own version of humanity. I think Hans finally got it too. When he was brought low, he realized that his contributions to the Kingdom were immense and real and would not burn in the end. That his life's work would remain and bear much fruit. Their names are everywhere and their work is inspired by the gifts he imparted to them. Did he ever become the gregarious, sanguine personality he wanted to be?  I think he became much more in the end, because he was true to his experiences and his perceptions of the world which brought forth a unique character and expression of a man, not the cookie cutter men we see today unfortunately.

I think I fell under his view that he had something left to do because of those expectations. And I asked everyone to pray for me. I could not release him until I was sure of this fact that his work was finished. Your prayers were answered today in solving the riddle of Henri Nouwen's strange statement. Hans' chores are done, he can go home. He leaves a legacy of fruitful warriors and established saints on the home front, which is more than most can say. God uses us in the most unsuspecting ways, and leaves untapped those things we think He should have done. 

Hans' qualities are innumerable and I shall tell you on the day we meet face to face. I shall sing over him as the good servant— who will soon enter into the joy of His Lord. 

His chores are done....

Friday I found out that the will we prepared for Hans is not valid until it is registered. The offices of the county clerk were closed for Good Friday. I asked Hans to stick around until Monday. . . had some last minute things to do. This morning he is still waiting for me to finish my chores so that he can finish his. 

His breathing is labored and his bottom lip quivers from side to side constantly. He cannot open his eyes for more than a second. Other than his mouth, he remains motionless. 

I have a lot to say about this ending. I have the mind of the Lord for his eulogy which I shall give on Wed. or Thurs. the day we lay his body down in the earth. 

Please check back today for more.

Gradual Grace

Easter began on a quiet Sunday morning, the tomb itself having been emptied at sunrise. The dawning of a new day. No one knew it yet, they were asleep in their sorrows. Long before we know what is happening God has already ordained that His works shall be accomplished and we are the recipients of this gradual grace. The women rose early, still deep in grief, silenced by the stark events of the preceding days. It had been a violent and brutal week. Nothing was expected today, except more grief. 

That is how I feel today. Even though it is Sunday, in my world, there are only grays...no lilies yet. Hans has significantly changed from even yesterday, His face is more drawn than ever before. I can see Dr. MacGravan at the Gates, waiting for Hans. They will talk about church growth and the new generation of Americans and what they need to grasp the mantle in these difficult days. I wonder how Hans will look.

All this would be great if I could be assured that Hans' work on earth was finished. It has not been my operative assumption. I cannot rest myself until I know this. It may be me that is keeping him here. I don't want Hans for myself anymore, I want to know if He has finished His work for Jesus. Our lives have never been about "us" and they are not so now. So pray for me, that Jesus would settle this mystery in my heart. 

The morning has just begun I will let you know as the day proceeds. The air is cool and soon I will be alone...please petition the Lord...as you celebrate His day.

Talitha Cum!

The morning does bring its much needed strength. Evenings are the devil's haunt. My heart is strangely calm after a paralyzing night of grief and mourning. I was anxious and could not lay down. Medication did not help me, but made it worse. Only worship songs could overcome the restless and frantic soul. Even just a simple song about God made my heart grow quiet and allowed me to finally drift to sleep. 

I thought that when I walked into H's room this morning that he would open his eyes and be normal again—that he would open his arms and I would once again crawl into that sacred space reserved just for me. But no, there was only the wailing of arms and blank stares. I forget that the medication is not responsible, it is the brain mets. I still believe that this scenario of an instanteous healing will somehow happen. Hope never fails. The gift of God. 

I am beginning to write Han's eulogy today. It is a difficult process and takes me around the world as I meditate on the last thirty years. The changes, the challenges, the growth of two people who couldn't have been more different—the handiwork of God. God loves impossible challenges. 

Today is Saturday, Holy Saturday. Jesus is interred in the tomb, the stone has been placed, it feels like death. The stone is immovable and a good sign for man that he cannot undo what has been done. Inside its  inhabitants have been trapped, and if they are alive, death soon overtakes them. Sealed is their fate. That is what death looks like to us. Even the word "tomb" has that all embracing feeling of steel and lead. Thud. The end of light. 

But where is Jesus? This man who says He is the Light of the world? Can we count on Him after all? He is overcoming our enemies: "For when he ascended he took many captives." Trailing behind his conqueror's steed were Death, Sin, the Devil." Having taken captivity captive,  he gave the church gifts. Hans was one of those gifts. 

This morning my faith arises for a brief moment. I lift Hans' head and tell him that we are going to fight Death. We will not give in to it willy nilly. I have seen many many miracles and I know that Jesus has power. In the past, I have only had to ask and it was done. I talk to Hans and tell him that he must resist this gruesome pull to give in. His eyes open and they look clear for a moment. I pray asking Jesus to remove the brain mets. I ask forgiveness for trusting in the brain radiation. I am angry at Dr. Gupta. For her resolute and demanding spirit. I too can be resolute and demanding. And every fiber of my being wants to rebuke her foolish unbelieving atheistic heart and whip her soundly with  my prophetic finger and perhaps placing it ultimately up her nose. Oh Elijah, where is your chariot and where is your mantle when your people need you? How can we ever stand in the face of such exotic specimens of unbelief? We are the meek of the earth. Come fire of God and spit upon the earth! Only one coal from your precious mouth will set the hemispheres aflame. Rise up oh God, you are not asleep in the grave! We do not worship You as the sleeping God, or the sleeping prophet...no You are the great I AM. 

Am I going crazy now? A part of me whispers that I am foolish and desperate. "Nothing will happen." Of course not, I am not strong enough to sustain this level of belief. 

The whole thing brings me back to Jesus' saying, "This is a hard teaching, can you accept it?" What is the teaching? What am I supposed to be learning? if only I knew. But I will not know until it is over. And tomorrow is Resurrection Sunday. 

This morning my family is climbing Mt. Christo Rey, Christ the King. In honor of the King, I am dressing up today and I am dressing Hans in a nice shirt and slacks. Even if it kills me.


And this morning we will have coffee and eggs. And I am still talking to a living soul. Who on some level still understands. 

And a Sword Shall Pierce Your Heart!

Today played out not unlike the day  for Mary the mother of Jesus, this gruesome Friday. Athough the scenes are different, the story is the same, the impending loss of a loved one in a way that is horrendous and inexplicable, yet with a sense that is irrevocable. The day for Mary began with the news that Jesus had been arrested the night before and in the wee hours of the morning He had been taken to both Caiaphas and Herod. By dawn He had arrived at Pilate's agency and by now the crowds had grown violent and unpredictable. Mary, powerlessness to be able to draw near to Jesus,  became frantic with fear. She would catch glimpses of Him through the crowds, but circumstances kept Him just out of her reach. What she really wanted was to catch him up in her arms as she did when He was five and whisk Him away from harm. She wanted to rescue Him, to save Him. Her pain ran deep in my veins today.

Circumstances played out in such a way in my life today as well.  I could not spend every moment with Hans. The times I did, were spent changing sheets or giving medications. My heart longed to just sit and die of grief alongside him. Today I could not be a Martha, I was Mary and every moment away from him left me yearning to be near him— to rescue him, to deliver him, to beg God once again to save Him and to save me too. Through the myriad of things that occurred today, all of them served as horrible instruments of torment, whipping me away from the love of my life. But so it was. Nothing could be done. The sword had pierced my heart as surely as it had pierced Mary's. 

Then there were the moments that I had to change Hans' clothes. Laying naked before me, it surely looked like the body of Christ having been taken down from the cross, also naked, though severely beaten. Hans' lifeless legs a mere rack now for his skin to hang upon, a flat stomach and his privates shrunken in anticipation of death. Jesus must have looked like this to the women who attended his burial. Their hearts also must have been broken, it was a sacred moment...so awful and so full of awe. 

Unless my heavenly bridgeroom comes soon, my husband shall surely die. My prayers are formed and designed to break God's heart and convince Him to have pity on us. How can he say no? Knowing that my embrace is faulty, I shamelessly say that I don't care if it is. This is not a peaceful death. There is no such thing as a peaceful death. This is death, it is cruel, savage, and immensely impersonal—life being sucked out of a living soul. It is disgraceful and monstrous. 

I may never recover from this. Please don't tell me that I will either. I will see you as cruel, for I do not want to recover. 

As  I swab Hans' mouth with water I get pictures in my mind of Jesus on the Cross. "I thirst." I know what that sounded like. With a rough and swollen tongue it sounds like hell coming from within the bowels. 


Even in a deep sleep Han's mouth turns eagerly for a drop of something which will remove the agony of dryness. I swab liquid on a huge block of hardened tissue which used to be a soft moist piece of flesh. Now it is dry and hard and I am reminded of the literature which describes the body after embalming. Dry. Brittle. I am told, "It lasts forever." This tongue will not last forever, it is already in a state of disintegration...dust  to dust. 

I swab the tongue, bringing it back to life drop by drop. I realized that Jesus could have used someone to bring him "sips" of water on a sponge from time to time. Instead he was given wine vinegar. 

I am watching my husband waste away. He moans loudly now and then, sounding like a lion in pain. Yet he is in no pain. Yet everything hurts. I want to scoop him in my arms, but he is too big and too delusional to interpret my actions. I am devastated once again. I tell myself this is the natural process of life, but it is not. It is the abnormal, the cost of sin, the devastating consequence of disobedience. 

I find myself silently praying, please God, please God, please God. What pleases You God? Whatever thy will...desires...let it be done. 

Much later the thought occurred to me that Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Samuel, David, and Daniel died like this. Strangely it comforts me.

Horizon and Smudge

There is a window in Hans' room overlooking a freshly mowed backyard. It is beautiful outside at 6AM. It is cool and green and reminds me so terribly of Cloudcroft and my beautiful state of Washington. I have the window open on the right side for the first time all year. Through the right pane I can see the view even clearer, for the window itself is caked with the white minerals of El Paso water. I had not noticed the smudge before since I automatically look at the horizon, past the smudge to the yard itself. But once the window is opened, I can see more perfectly. This is an analogy of the prophet and the apostle and how they work together. The apostle sees the horizon and the prophet sees the smudge in the immediate context. They can both "see" but they lack the sharpness that ensues when both of them attend to the same problem. 

Hans and I have been such a couple, horizon and smudge, that has been our calling. We are also reformers and people have misunderstood us because of that. We are never happy with the status quo, why? Because the Spirit of God is jealous for the glory of the Son and wants His glory seen as perfectly as we see the backyard when the smudge has been removed from the window. Giving light to disciples automatically makes them reformers as well. They will exhibit a sort of a "grope and crawl" dimension to their personalities. All reformers do this. What is wrong, what is wrong, they will constantly ask, like a premier chef trying to identify the unknown spice in a dish. He will not stop until he has solved the mystery. 

Neither one of us were like this when we first married. We were true missionaries, hearts on fire to spread the healing balm of Gilead. But seminary exposed us to "strange spices" and  the gifts of grope and crawl emerged within the belly of our ministry. Things were being said that were "strange" and coming from "professionals" and fellow Christians. A bonfire was lit within us. A prophet is not needed unless two things occur: one—a complacency sets in within the people of God—a coldness toward the reality of God's word where the commandments of God are no longer taken seriously and where there is no fear of God. The second is where heresy is occurring and the word is twisted and distorted for fame or profit. Those two usually go together. Heresy of any kind distorts God's personality and obscures the way of salvation. Hence it is very serious crime. 

But today the man with long view is dying. His last words indicate that he is still doing his job however. He constantly talks about the church, the need to disciple, the end times and the cautionary exhortation of a Father leaving his children behind. Clearly he is worried that the glory of the kingdom will be unrecognizable to the lost. I am sad. 

Today is Maundy Thursday. The word Maundy comes from the word "mandate" referring to the  commandment given at the last supper by Jesus. "A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you." This  commandment followed the washing of their feet as an object lesson to explain the significance of his action. (John 13:34). 

People have been here all week washing our feet. I have been like Peter. Oh no, Lord, let me wash your feet. Jesus' answer was a hard saying, "If I do not wash your feet you have no part with me." We must not close ourselves off in our pain, though that is the human thing to do. Creatures do it. But we are not creatures. We are dependent souls who humble themselves in adoration of their Lord who gave us an example by which to live. It is not creaturely to do what He did for us. 

It is hard for me to have so much love poured upon me/us. I am also a servant and unaccustomed to being served. It does bring healing in some mystical way. We are all so emotionally drained that food brings the much needed solace we so desperately need. It is almost like the body brings food for the body to heal itself. They have also washed our feet with their tears. I don't know why the Holy Spirit has descended on us so much, I suppose it is because the death of his saints is precious in His eyes. 


But there is more today than the washing of the feet. There is abandonment, betrayal, violence and corruption perpetrated upon the Son of God, innocent one, and lover of humanity. His soul is exceedingly sorrowful. 

It is also the day in which my soul is exceedingly sorrowful even unto death. Every step I take is like walking in concrete shoes. My journey to Golgotha is barely beginning this day. My heart overflows with tears, more and more they escape my tight control. I had not thought death was such a cruel taskmaster. But he picks at me at every fiber of my being. I cannot do enough for Hans yet he barely knows who I am...the lack of oxygen has left him confused and dazed. 

Regrets are beginning to line up at the front door of my heart. I have not heard from God of late, though I know He is with us. I consider it a compliment, his silence, yet I am not in a mood to be flattered this eve. 

Now death seems real and imminent. Thursday possibly Friday. Happy day for Hans, sad one for us.  True to his own soul, Hans still has the long view...his eyes fixed upon the Kingdom of God while I behold the smudge. 

The Hooded Stranger

Prayer: I don't know if I am praying or not anymore. Someone asked me how I am praying and I said, "I'm not." But is that true? I am in deep thought and communion with God but is that prayer? It reminds me of taking a picture of someone and decreasing the range between the eye of the camera and the person's nose, until the nose becomes the entire picture and then, bang, you are enveloped in nose, you are in the nose, and finally you are the nose. That's how I feel right now, that either I am not praying at all, or I have become prayer. It is far more likely that I have just become a nose. 

If I try to speak to God in prayer I become mute. There is nothing more I can ask or say. My heart just numbly says, "Thou knowest." This takes me back to the first week after the diagnosis was made. Hans was sleeping and I was alone in my office. In a rare moment of spiritual clarity, I felt the windows of heaven fully open to me and that the Holy Spirit has especially prepared me for an encounter with God. I was fully drenched in my pain. I knew I had God's full attention. 


I began by saying tremulously, "I can't do this." What I meant was—"I can't say goodbye, I can't go on alone, I can't do this event right now. Please don't make me go through this." I had never said this to God before. Regardless of the things He has asked me to do, I have never denied Him. He has asked me to do many hard things but somehow  I knew this one would take the cake. 


It had already been several months since Hans had been fully active in the ministry. He had been growing increasingly tired and was spending more and more time in prayer. The loss of his spiritual presence was devastating to me. Now I had to work more than ever, with less resources than ever. A true recipe for burn out.

At the diagnosis, I immediately turned to the Lord. I didn't talk to anyone, or write anything or even pray vocally. I turned my face to the wall. I was stunned by the news, it was so off  the path. This could not be happening. 

So that evening, a moment of grace appeared before me. I said, "Lord it is me." I wondered if it made any difference that it was me that was standing before Him." When I say "me" I mean something special by that. It carries the idea of a special relationship of the quality of King David and God, or an Arthur with his Lancelot—a relationship already tested and proven, and consummated, if you will, by suffering and the shedding of blood. I have been His oracle, His mouthpiece. So I was not a neophyte in coming before God's throne. "Does it make any difference that it is me asking" was also based on the statistical evidence that few have been healed of cancer (or at least only a few have been documented.) 

In that moment, I saw a vignette occurring, perhaps it was a vision. From where I was standing I could see that I was in God's throne room, the seat of judgement. It was enormous. There were many pillars of fire, marble see through floors and the four living creatures were standing immediately before Him and behind them were choirs of angels. It was no small event. I was under the throne. It was my turn to speak. As I walked out with knees shaking, I saw that I was a sparrow. I was as small as a sparrow standing before an immense, immense throne. I could see no person on the throne, nor any face but somehow I knew that He was there. 

I was shocked by my appearance and immediately I thought, "So this is what I am to him. This is how small I am in both appearance and kind. I am the smallest and least significant thing in this place." Nevertheless, I was there with a mission and I did not shrink back, even though I was just a sparrow. It was then I noticed that I was dragging another sparrow with me. He was dead. I looked pitiful, a small plain sparrow dragging around another dead sparrow. I realized how awful my situation, how lowly, and how brazen to come before the throne and ask for this extremely trivial thing. I said to God, "This is my husband, Jack. Lord, nobody wants this man, but I do. He means everything to me. Can you save him?"  The bird hung loose from my beak where I was carrying him. I could see myself from God's eyes, and it was the saddest picture ever. How could He not have pity?

At once I realized that He had only answered my question, "Does it make any difference that it is me, Lord?" It had made a difference, but not as I had thought. I was allowed entrance to the judgement seat, a full hearing, but my substance was only that of a sparrow when compared to the God-head. So on one hand, I was truly a small thing but at the same time, I could have a hearing as if I were a big thing. I didn't really care if I was a sparrow or not, I would deal with that revelation later, but what mattered to me was the dead bird in my mouth. Would God (the Father) restore him? Was God the Father willing to breathe life again into this old dead bird again?

The scene closed and I came back to the office where I been seated. My heart was strangely calm. Just appearing before God has an enormous effect on the soul. The vision ended before the answer came. 

What happened next was a series of doctors appointments, the end of a 7 year home church, the sale of our ministry center, the loss of our friends, most of all—the enormous loss of not preaching or teaching the Word of God. Abbey life was over. We moved to a new house in the valley (again) and life went on to a new normal. 

In one evening in prayer, I was reading the story of Zacharias and the vision of the angel appearing before him while ministering at the altar. I read without much interest really, but as I turned to close the book, a hand touched my arm indicating not be in such a hurry. Spiritual energy activated the next two verses and applied them to my heart as truth, "Do not be afraid, your petition has been heard." 

What had been my petition? That I not go through the grieving process? That He postpone death for Hans a few years? That God heal my sparrow husband? The issue remains lost at sea. Something has been answered but I know not what. 

When sharing this story with my son, Ryan, he respectfully asked me, "Mom, what if Dad isn't healed, what will that do to your theology, your faith?" As I sat there quietly waiting for help from God to answer this, nothing came. So finally I responded, "I don't know..I will be shocked I think." It was a sorry-a___'  answer if you get my drift. But that evening the Holy Spirit, in a reproving tone said to me, "God is not a man that He should lie." 

I lay this before you as both a witness and as a hope. Will you speak to God about this mystery? I have based many important life decisions on less than this evidence of God's leading. None have ever failed. But could this be the first? Was this just imaginings from the state of grief and shock?

Nothing I see through my physical eyes indicates that God will heal him or that he is being healed. Nothing the doctors have said has led me to believe any outcome other than death is possible. My heart only holds the voice of the angel. And perhaps I do not really know what death is. Is that possible? Perhaps Han's ship arriving on the other side is really the answer. I still don't know I am ashamed to admit. Only Jesus still says to me, 

Have you been with me so long and still you do not know me?

And the stranger walked beside them and they did not recognize him, until the breaking of the bread. 

"Please don't freak out Honey."

My husband's spirit is "passing away" and I can do nothing. I want to roll back the clock and I cannot. For us, time is immutable, no time traveling, just linear moments on a circular clock. (That's really odd.)  Not so, of course, with God. He is the master of the sabbath, the seventh day. He separated the seventh day and made it holy. He divided that day from all others by dedicating it to Himself as a memorial. And so too, he can stop time and make the sun stand still. But we cannot. 

I remember last year after his chemo treatments were finished, his beard had fallen out, his hair and eyebrows too. He was wearing the death mask. Fear rushed through me like the torrents of Niagara. Those feelings are unlike anything I have ever experienced—the composite of every horror movie you have ever seen. Frequently these feelings would come upon me.  As desperate as a drowning man is for air,  I imagined myself even gluing plant moss or brown paper bags on his face to restore him back to "old Hans" so that I could breathe again. That is when I began to suspect that Hans had a more fundamental role in my life than I had imagined. What does God do anyway when He makes us one? It is understanding this separation process deeply that has helped me to understand what the death of His son must have been like for God the Father. Our separation pain is commensurate with the love we shared and our love was so flawed. One can only imagine what perfect love must have experienced at the Cross. Oh my God, how I wish I could comfort You now. 

Hans had a troubled night last night. A new symptom has appeared. I felt that same fear come upon me. This time I was able to say, "This next phase is expected." The disease plateaus and then descends. Plateaus and descends. It is helpful to me to know this. I am prepared, I think! (How ridiculous is that statement?) There are expected stages, the last of course is his mind, silence and then eternal quiet. 

His confusion is increasing and he cannot deeply rest. He must be having visions or memories. He talks, plans and builds in his dreams. But it leaves him worried and confused about the state of his mind. The nurses are bringing more medication for him. Soon he will sleeping all the time. Each one of these sedatives puts him to sleep. He can no longer raise himself to go to the bathroom. It was only a few days of urinals, bedpans, but now we are nearing the next phase. He does not go at all. All systems are preparing for take off. 

The hospital bed came, along with the dream team, to take down his full sized sleigh bed. We moved rugs and tables and lamps, and you oh so know that I was making it beautiful so as to be conducive to healing. I believe in beauty and symmetry. Flowers and fragrances are essential to life, especially if ever, at the end of life. But what impressed me was that everyone was full of joy. Several visitors came while we were rearranging his room, hospice was silently working as always. Later Patty and Michelle sang over Hans. I am astounded at how often people sing over Hans. My sister came with the most beautiful song from the Sunday service and sang with me and Jules. The room, though beautiful, has that same look that appeared in Dr. McGavran's living room that day so many years ago. Hans actually looks like Dr. M who actually looks like Dr. Francis Schaeffer.  The hospital bed has been a blessing in so many ways. It has opened up access to H. on all sides and we can all pester him with our love at any time. But the troubling part of the hospital bed is that is waist high, narrow and usually draped in white. It reminds me of an altar, which reminds me of ....

The day is half over and we are in the midst of living. It is good too...because we are not alone.

And Moses hit the rock..

Don't you love these rocks in the background. I am reminded by their strength that the drama of my life is on the front template, but in the background is the Rock, the Rock on which we stand. The depth and weight of these stones points to a power that outweighs them all not only in weight but in glory. 

Truth is like these boulders. They are immovable, and if you hit the rock head on, thinking that you shall win, you will lose. For the rock is the underpinning of reality, not only in the Person of Jesus Christ but in the words that He has spoken.  My rebellious generation learned this in what we called "the school of  hard knocks." We thought somehow that we could bend it to suit our purposes. Instead we were crushed. 

When I tend toward the maudlin in my reverie of life with and without Hans, I hit the rock. It brings me back to a central truth in Christianity— that I am seated with Christ in heavenly places and that it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me. 

And the implication of this is that even death has to be theologically understood. Our view of death cannot be too big, nor can it be too small. For if death is too big in our minds we  exalt it over the Son of God who overcame.  If our view is too small, then we dishonor the one who has died. For we are not just a creature of creation, we are also the crown of creation, made in His image and with the capacity for loving and knowing God. 

So even in death, our own or someone else's, the Spirit must teach us. He must teach us  how to  interpret its meaning.  Death is not the 4th person of the Trinity, nor is it just "passing away."  It is serious, but not absolute nor immutable. It can be loosed, as Lazarus was loosed in his decomposed state. Death was overturned, and put in its rightful place by the Lord of Lords and the King of Kings, who alone possesses the keys to life and death.

My theology forms my mind and controls my feelings. If I am incoherent with grief on the day of his funeral, I have elevated Death beyond its powers, if I minimize the event by denying the stages of grief then I have made Death too small, and have not dealt with the tragedy of loss and separation and have dishonored the one who has died. 

But on that day, not only will there be a burial of a precious brother, but there will be the burial of the "we", and of the "marriage." The bonds of marriage will be loosed and it will be Jesus Himself who unties the knot. I too am going through a ceremonial process, though I had not known it. I will be divested of my marriage robes and redressed in a widow's robe. That robe is different. And henceforth I will be viewed differently. I will see myself differently and I will be different.  


And everything I write will have Hans' indelible mark upon it. 

The Dandelions of Life

Today is the beginning of Holy Week. I count down these days with greater meaning than in any other part of the year, even Christmas. There is something so majestic about this weeks memorial that it is hard to overcome with any other event. 

This week in the theater of my mind, (in a private showing) I see the final week of Jesus' life beginning with a last visit to Mary, Martha and Lazarus. He meets with them for a quiet night of fellowship. It is the last time He will see them. It is also the last night before His most intense ministry period. After tonight we will see a different Jesus. Not the reflective Jesus, the contemplative man, but a warrior confirmed in His heart to do the Father's will whose face is set toward Jerusalem. But this evening He is at rest with his friends, the "calm" before the storm.  I wonder what they will speak about? Will it be hard for him not to weep? Do they know what lies just ahead? He has not kept it a secret from them, so they know. Tonight He can rest and let the saints minister to Him. It is easy to be yourself and even to cry in the arms of safe friends. There there are no secrets and it is to those to whom you reveal your most vulnerable self. Mary chose to anoint, Martha served and Lazarus reclined. But it was easy for them? No, I don't think so.  For it is hard to accept your teacher's vulnerabilities and his/her more human face. You wonder if you are up for the task. The anointing is a heavy thing for a disciple to carry and that is precisely what happens in friendships like these: between pupil and teacher, between the powerful and the powerless, between parent and child or between the giver and the receiver.  They are so grateful and you are so grateful and everyone is humbled by the tenderness of heart and emotion. What will they speak about that night? Will they share memories? Will they talk about the event? Will Jesus be a receiver tonight or a giver? It is a hard moment. 

Furthermore, what is spoken of in your last week of  life together as a family?  What more can be said if one has loved well and deeply throughout the relationship?   There are no unfinished "bits of business" which to attend. There is nothing missing or broken. Even disappointments have long been wrapped up in the greater mantle of the will of God. I think  they were immensely and profoundly grateful.  Grateful for having known Jesus, and for having been taken in as friends, as students, as disciples and frankly as part of the intimate circle of friends. All their days, in retrospect, will, from this moment on, be seen as holy, as good, as a gift from God. If there were tears, they would have been tears of thanksgiving, of praise to the Father of all. I think there would have been a lot of touching, a rubbing arms and a grasping of hands. Words fail us, as they should, at this time. Only small deeds of love can really display what is felt. Mary brought her alabaster jar of oil. Perhaps someone else might bring a small basket of cat food, or a tin of pecan muffins. The more wealthy would bring exotic fruits, olives, legumes, cheeses and wines. 

Love at this point is beyond words. Love is transmitted in clumsy gestures, words that trail off, cliches that bore everyone and everyone is ok with that because everyone knows that words are not enough. They are too small to contain the bastion of love and gratefulness one feels for having been a part of someone's life. But something must be taken to the to the last supper. No one comes empty handed. A child comes with some plastic toys, a teenager with a candy bar, another comes with arms of tulips while others bring helpful ointments. 

In the morning, the Father of lights, strengthens them all for the journey ahead. Jesus understands where He is going.  He understands what it means to be in Jerusalem, this Passover, this year. His hour has come. But his "hour" is not easy, it is painful and it is wicked. The powers and principalities have their way and torment Jesus with their blasphemous hidden words.  Even among friends the evil one has been working. Judas has still not grasped who Jesus really is. He is the work of the flesh in a holy environment. And such as these can never see the real drama. The week continues, battered by the forces of darkness in play, and yet Jesus says not a word.  Jesus' thoughts are not focused on this world anymore, they are focused on heaven. More and more He sees the outstretched arms that await Him at the end of His passion. 

This week in Jesus' life  is  so intense because so much happened in such a small time. So many players, so many emotions, so many levels of meaning and apprehension. What must  Joanna and the other Marys have been feeling? One can only imagine what the disciples were going through. It took Jesus three years to prepare them for this one moment in their lives. And they still weren't ready. But who can be ready for death? It is to peek into the tomb as only a few can do and it is a fearful thing to face death for a friend. The flesh hates the head gates of Death and Hades. Only in the Spirit can you take away its horror. And so some watch from a distance, others run head long. The "Peters" of this world clumsily stumble upon the sacred scene of death, others, more like John, hang out at the cave's entrance.

This week our own life oddly parallels the Lord's last week. There is a whittling down of time ahead of us. The days are passing, and we will never recover them. They are gone from us. We mourn for these dandelions of life that are blown away by the wind. The mundane things, the tedious things which cause us to melt down under the weight of their non-being. The ordinary things of which life is composed generally. Not big exploits but just the getting by things. We mourn for the ordinary. 


There is also the known face of death ahead. Not the Roman guards this time, but those agents in the body which are enemies, what I call the soldiers of the fall—death, disease, despair and destruction. 

And the evil one behind it all does not know that Sunday is coming...as the song goes...and we will rise from the dead into life everlasting. Jesus has the last word, "Talitha Cumi."